It's a strange thing to be sitting in a waiting room, kind of bored, knowing my daughter is just down the hall with someone cutting open her skull and possibly removing parts of her brain.
This man that we met once. Talked to for fifteen minutes. Holds my daughter's life quite literally in his hands.
The last three weeks, since her diagnosis, have seemed like a year. It's taken forever. Mostly because all we had was a diagnosis, no information specific to her case. Then, last Thursday we finally met with the neurosurgeon. We learned what her situation was. We learned his plans. We scheduled the surgery for the soonest possible date. The last four days have flown by and dragged. You wouldn't think they could do both, but they did.
And now we are here.
Pre-op was a bit tense. Knowing it was just around the corner. Sam was quite anxious, which added to my anxiety. Then pre-op was done and we waited. It was about an hour and a half of waiting after pre-op was done. We got bored again.
Then someone walked in, told her it was time to go, and the fear returned.
And they took my baby away. Nineteen or not, she's still my baby.
I'm actually ridiculously calm. Except for this underlying anxiety that I feel every time my children leave my presence. Just kind of magnified.
I believe the surgeon is skilled and knows what he's doing. I believe things will go well. But there's still that part of me that holds a constant prayer in my heart that she will come back to me.
I wonder if that will ever go away or if I will just always have that small alert in my heart. No matter how old they get, I wonder if I will always have that sense that they are vulnerable to this big, bad world and I need to protect them.
I can't imagine doing this without faith. While I believe everything will go well and she will heal and finally feel better, there is a tiny chance that things could go not well. That she could have permanent damage of some kind, have a successful surgery but feel no relief, or even die. All of those things are possible. But I am still much more calm than not because of my faith.
I know that I am not the only one worried about her and watching out for her. I know that she was His child first. I know that no matter what happens, she will be okay. We will be okay. There is great comfort in knowing that.
But it doesn't mean I'm ready to give her up yet.
I imagine she'll come out and we'll have a rough go for a few days with a consistently upward curve of healing. I imagine that within a few months, the only evidence of today will be the six-inch scar up the back of her neck and skull. I imagine she'll be up and running, back to usual, before we think she should.
But right now a doctor has her head splayed open and is working on her brain. And we wait. And it's scary.