Surgery day
I’ve realized we don’t give kids enough credit. They are resilient. They are smart. They have a sense of what is happening around them, or what’s to come, even though they cannot explain it. Penn’s phobia to doctors was apparent well before she was admitted on April 30. Perhaps she was trying to tell us all along she would be surrounded by so many doctors one day and she wasn’t ready.
Penn cried the entire weekend as a steady stream of medical staff entered her ICU room. The gown and mask attire caused her a great deal of anxiety and stress. Blood was drawn regularly. Keppra, Dexamethasone, Hydromorphone were administered around the clock. Penn’s vitals were checked every hour.
Early Monday morning, we were transported from the ICU to the operating room waiting area. Penn was laying on my chest and she didn’t cry at all. She was still and calm, while Sheldon and I spoke to the anesthesiologist and the neurosurgeon. This was our final opportunity to go over the procedure and ask last minute questions. I believe at that moment she knew, deep down the gravity of the situation. The medical team granted me access to the operating room, as I carried and placed Penn onto the OR table. I told her I loved her and watched her go under. Before I knew it, I was outside the room, with a tight grip around her stuffed animals.
And so the waiting began. We were told surgery would take all day. Most likely 5 - 6 hours and not to be alarmed if it takes longer. They aimed to provide updates every two hours but delays were likely. At 11 am they called us to say they started later than expected, however, things were going smoothly. The neurosurgeon was happy with how things were progressing. That was the only update we received that day.
Surgery was completed in record time despite its complexity. Penn’s entire medical team was extraordinary. Penn was talking and coherent asking for Mommy while I made my way to the recovery area. When Penn was transported back to her ICU room, the resident emergency doctor immediately started his assessment. He asked Penn to blink her eyes, open and close her hands, stick out her tongue, and smile. She obeyed. At that moment I looked at the doctor and his eyes said it all. Is this really happening right now?! How is she doing so well after a high risk operation?? He didn’t have to say anything, but I knew that’s what he was trying to tell me. Prior to surgery, doctors advised us there was a good chance Penn would still be intubated and unconscious after her craniotomy. Penn had the grit and determination to prove those doctors wrong.
When I asked Penn which ice cream she prefers, Marcus or Village, she responded, “Marcus.” Her response was identical to her answers pre-surgery since both ice cream joints landed in our neighbourhood. Her memory and comprehension was intact. When Penn said, “Mommy, I’m brave, and come here I wanted to give you a kiss and a hug,” there wasn’t a dry eye in the ICU room. And that’s how we decided what our blog was going to be called. When we’re ready to share our story, it will be called Penn the brave.