Radioactive

The First Home Additions

In My Bloodstream: lisinopril, omeprozole
On The Stereo: Stay With Me, Sam Smith

This past week has been uneventful.  My big bonus has been that I had no doctor visits.  My head sluggishly continues, I think, to heal.  You can judge.

This week will not be different, with a blood draw early Thursday morning, being the sole medical appointment, or event.  I do appreciate any break I can get.

In the meantime, if you will indulge me, I will continue with some tidbits about time in our first home.  Mostly about growth.

Our priorities changed dramatically, with the addition to our family, of Maggie and Stephanie.   Both constantly needed our attention, and with both at young stages in their lives, our time seriously compressed.  There was little downtime.  Spontaneous activities gave way to weekly plans, in ink.  Parenthood, despite the drastic life change, is absolutely magical.  At least it was, and still is,  for us.  We both were deliriously happy, and every moment seemed incredible.  To create a child, feed her , play with her, and care for her every need, was unworldly.  Neither Kath nor me, ever thought that a child could mean so much.  And here we were.  Three.  And Maggie.  I cannot ever forget Maggie.

She quickly became Steph's guardian.  She loved her from the first moment we brought her home.  And did until the day she died.  Her maternal instincts and herding inbreeding, made Maggie the ideal and perfect complement for our baby.  She never let Steph out of her sight, and as gentle as she was, her protective intuition ensured Steph's safety.

Stephanie, however, after a few months of baby "normalcy", suddenly became a troubled baby.  She began to cry, hysterically, in fits and starts, and we first thought she might have a food allergy.   We had not expected this change of demeanor, and we were confounded and concerned.  She folded over in pain and kept us up night after night.  We visited our doctor, repeatedly, and he blamed her condition on an over-anxious mother, who he thought, was the genesis of the problem.  As this was her first child, he believed Kathy was simply too nervous, and her baby could sense that anxiety, and responded badly in kind.

I had just come home from playing tennis at our local community club, to find Kath almost hysterical, as Stephanie was screaming in pain.  We wrapped her up and headed for North York General Hospital, and the ER.

We were checked in immediately.  No doubt Stephanie's painful wailing and her inability to find her breath, and sputtering, might have influenced their decision to speed us through.

A sympathetic nurse took us into an examination room, where we waited only momentarily, until the doctor came in.  He began to give her an examination, and found blood in her stool.  This hospital did not have a pediatric wing, so he said he would call an ambulance to take us to Toronto Sick Children's Hospital, where we could receive proper care.  We said that we would take her, ourselves.  We thanked him, and off we went, with our baby screaming, her mother weeping, and me, just hanging on, trying to stay in control.  This was the hospital that had cared for me and housed me, for six months of my young life.

We were greeted by an intern, who was waiting at the door for us.  I left Kath and Stephanie in his care, and set off to park the car.

I returned, and was led to a room where a surgeon was already explaining that our baby was suffering from intussusception, a condition whereby the colon telescopes into itself,  causing  a terrible pain in her stomach.  The doctor said, with our permission, he would try a barium enema.  If that did not cause the colon to extend to its normal state, then she would need an operation to repair the damaged area.  We prayed that the first option would be the last.  Stephanie was  five months old.  And our first child.  We sat and waited.

After several hours, the doctor returned and told us that she should be alright.  The enema process looked to have worked.  They would keep her in their care for two days, to ensure that there was no recurrence. She was placed in a special unit with infants from all over the province, who were being treated for spina bifida.  Some were certainly newborns.  This was the saddest place.

The caregivers there, marveled at how well and healthy Stephanie looked.  We left.  Sad, and somehow thankful, that our problems were not the worst.  Not even close.

Kathy had felt that she was the worst mom ever.  Our doctor had, no doubt, shaken her confidence.  It was not good to hear from the surgeon, that Stephanie had a serious condition, but Kath felt relieved that her instincts were intact, and she was, indeed, the mother she sought to be.

We took her home two days later.  We just needed to be vigilant, and return if the symptoms returned.   They never did and we never did.  We returned, much happier, to our home, and to continue our lives.  All of us.

                                                               Mom and Stephanie

                                           Two years later, all was well in our little house.

 For those who have had a child, every tiny incident is important.  First word.  First step. First response.  Each one a minor miracle to parents.

Kath and I were in our living room, talking and reading.  Stephanie had gone to bed, upstairs, an hour earlier. She was now a healthy, happy two year old.   We heard the patter of her tiny feet in the hall.  We listened, believing she was unable to sleep, and heading down to be with us.  It fell quiet.  Then the toilet flushed.  And then silent, again.  She had successfully mastered the difficult art of a bathroom trip, by herself, for the first time.  Parents eat this stuff up.

Around the same time, a neighbor, Kay Kotani,  looked after Stephanie, while I worked and Kath was teaching.  Kay had twin girls, of a similar age, and they all played happily together.  It was an arrangement that was satisfactory to all.  Kay and her husband spoke passable English, which was far superior to our ability to speak Japanese.  We had none.  One weekend Kay told us that she and her family, were headed to the airport, to pick up her father, who was coming to visit them, for the first time.

He was the police chief of Tokyo, and according to Kay, that was a most prestigious position.  She was very proud of him, and she and her husband were quite nervous about caring for him during his stay.  Things had to be just right.  And they were gone to get him.

Our doorbell rang.  I answered it to find this massive Japanese man and an equally giant suitcase.   I deduced this just might be the father.  I invited him in and began to tell him that his daughter.... and then I realized he spoke no English.  He dragged his bag into the kitchen, leaving it upright in the middle of the floor.  Obviously, there had been a mixup in arrangements, and we were now custodians of Japan's top cop.

It was near dinner time and I presumed he would be exhausted from the flight.  I had a bottle of scotch in a cupboard, and thought he might like a cocktail while we waited.  I showed him the bottle, with some pantomime, asking if he cared for a glass.  He recognised  the offer, nodded yes, emphatically, and I delivered.  Kathy and I jabbered on, knowing we were not understood.  We could only hope that the Kotanis would eventually realize they had missed him, and he would find his way to their place.  He had shown us a slip of paper with Kay's address, when I greeted him at the door.  I suppose he showed it to a cabbie at the airport.  He was not able to tell me.  My best guess.

Kay, some considerable time later, came to our door, hoping we had seen her dad.  I showed her in.  Her father remained, as he had begun, sitting on his suitcase, in the middle of our kitchen.  Only now, about two hours later,  he could not stand up.  I believe travel time and exhaustion had done him in.  Also the bottle of scotch that he finished, solely, may have been contributory.  Yup.

Next week, a Mother's tribute. Tune in.

Comments are welcome at https://www.jrobinmullen@gmail.com