Foot Loose and Fancy Free

I know my title is completely off-color, but I promise, the master would have it no other way. He says he is going to have that phrase etched into his prosthesis. The master came through the surgery fine and is in good spirits. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for your prayers!! Here is how we've spent the last few days:
Thursday night, I had trouble sleeping. The master, on the other hand, slept like a baby--only better.
Friday morning we went to be fingerprinted for the adoption, then headed to the hospital. We were joined by twenty friends and family who came to pray and sit with the master and wait with me while he was in surgery. What a blessing! I was able to stay with him right up until the time they wheeled him into the surgical suite. I was teary eyed. He comforted me. The amputation took one hour and thirty minutes. The surgeon came out and said that everything had gone well, that they were able to take it below the knee, and he thought [the master] would be pleased with the outcome.
I go to weight watchers with the recovery nurse, so she let me come back to be with him. Coming out of anesthesia, he was cracking jokes, "L____, I'm starting to get cold foot about this operation." (Notice that he has already learned her name and managed to retain that information though barely cognizant.) I thought she was going to fall off her stool. Just before leaving recovery, the nurse drew the covers back, and I wasn't ready. I think if it had just been the sight of it it, I would have been o.k. But there was an odor, too. A medical, fleshy, fluid smell wafted up at the same time, and for a moment, I thought I might faint dead away. I managed to make it into the nearest bathroom and after a few deep breaths with my head between my knees I was able to return to his side. I hate that about myself. I hate that I'm such a weenie.
A steady stream of visitors came to his bedside Friday night and Saturday. Then Saturday evening the children came to see him. We had said goodbye to them on Friday morning, so they hadn't seen Daddy. The older three did very well. Ian's matter-of-fact comment was, "Daddy. Your leg is gone." Thanks for the update, son. Marina seemed the most troubled by it. Of course, she probably understood little of our prior explanations of what was about to transpire. She did much better today, offering me this synopsis:
"Daddy is in the hospital. The doctors took off his leg. But it is o.k., 'cause it is his bad leg. Now he will get a NEW leg. And he will run fast, fast, fast. And he will chase us. But he will not catch us. 'Cause we will run FASTER."
He is having some phantom pain, which he finds not only physically uncomfortable, but mentally unsettling as well. It is a strange thing for "toes" to itch and an "ankle" to ache that are gone. The physical therapist gave him a long paper tube and told him to gently tap his stump whenever he feels those sensations. He has to retrain his body to recognize where his leg ends now. Truly, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Anyway, I heard--several times in the night--light thumping and mutterings, "It's not there. It's not there."
Today, I've been in and out of the hospital. They changed his dressing and removed his drain tube. NOT FUN. But necessary for him to come home--which we hope will be tomorrow. I'm spending the night at the house with the babies and Sunnyside Kids re-opens early in the morning, so goodnight all.

What Is Up With Ian

Sorry to have put everyone on red alert. We are concerned, slightly alarmed, but not panicked. Over the last two to three weeks, Ian's sense of hearing has rapidly declined. Way past the point of normal fluid fluctuation. It took me a while to realize it, 'cause the kid ain't known for being what you'd call a careful listener. But Monday, I walked into his room and his back was to me. I started talking to him in a normal voice and there was no response. The house was quite (a rarity) and he was not reading. I stayed very still and began to speak louder and louder. Finally, I was yelling. Loudly. After a few shouts of his name, he turned and said, "Yes, ma'm?" I took him to the pediatrician on Thursday. For the hearing screen, he did not register any sounds in his left ear, and only two (out of five) in his right. She could not see any signs of abnormal fluid, but she would refer us to an Ear, Nose and Throat, whose tests could ascertain if there was fluid in the inner ear. So, this may sound funny, but please pray that there is a gallon of water in my son's inner ear. Make that two gallons--one for each ear.
We have a long history of hearing loss in my family. I don't think my grandfather heard more than 10 of the words I ever spoke to him. My dad is legally deaf and relies on lip reading. To show Ian how to do the hearing screening, I suggested that the nurse "test" me first. She did. I flunked, too. Though not nearly as bad as Ian. We've been concerned--at intervals--about Ian's hearing from the beginning. As a baby, he never cooed or babbled. We had tubes put in at nine months. His hearing was tested at that time, but I was never very confident in the testing. I think the tech was having a bad day. He slammed us in the booth, did two sound bleeps, opened the door and said, "He can hear." Duh. I knew that. What I'm not sure of is, "How much can he hear?" The ENT assured us that, after tubes, his vocalizations would pick up. They didn't. At 16 months, he still had 0 words. Not even, "Mama" or "Dada." No real sounds either. Of course, as a early childhood educator, I was FREAKING OUT!!! We had a battery of ECI screenings, with different therapists saying different things. One speech pathologist (who I knew and highly respected for her work in our district) diagnosed him with apraxia. She said that it might take years for him to master any spoken language, though his receptive language was high. We began sign language courses immediately at a Deaf Action Center. We also had ECI come out twice a week for speech therapy. He picked up on signs quickly, and at the height of our signing, had about 50 signs in his vocabulary. He loves for me to tell about everyone's first word. K's was "dog," Abby's was "doll," Marina's was "shoes." Then he says, with importance, "And my first SIGN was...." And he waits for me to supply the punch line, "cookie!" He digs it that his story is different from everyone else. Then about eight months in to ASL and therapy, he suddenly began to talk. Whew. We felt a huge weight was lifted. Especially since we were in the final stages of the adoption at that time, and needing to concentrate on integrating Marina in to the family, not mastering a new language. Ian began to speak so well and so much that we felt foolish for worrying in the first place. We started to wish that he would be quiet more often.
But now, I've really had to wonder again how much he has been hearing and how much he has been compensating. When he is looking at us, he is able to participate in the conversation. I honestly think he has been reading lips, like his Papa does. Do you think it is possible for a child that young to adapt in such a sophisticated manner? I also feel a huge amount of guilt for the times I've busted his bottom for not listening or paying attention. WHAT IF HE NEVER HEARD ME?
At the Su_____ house, we are brushing up on our ASL, hoping for a ENT appointment in the not-to-distant future, and praying for closure in the deaf/hearing mystery.
Remember: TWO GALLONS.

Back Home

I'm back. I probably would not have been able to hold out so long for my blog vacation, but circumstances intervened. Monday, Randy spiked a fever. He didn't seem to be that warm, and since I broke my last thermometer during the last wave of sickness, I just started treating it with tylenol every four hours. Then Tuesday afternoon he began to have muscle spasms. We know now that they were febrial seizures. My kids have never had those before. They are so scary to see. We panicked--of course! We rushed him to the emergency room and he was admitted. For two days he had CAT scans, EEG's, IV fluids, antibiotics...not fun. And the cribs in hospitals are cold metal cages. No way was he going to sleep in that prison cell. So me, the baby and the IV slept (shallowly and at intervals) on the hard fold out bed (read: shelf) for two nights. John took last night's shift. I was so exhausted. I was afraid I was heading for a migraine and then I wouldn't be any help to any body. In all that time, all they could tell us was that the CAT scan showed he had a sinus infection. But I've had a sinus infections for--well, for life--and they've never made me run a 104 fever. Then this morning the doctor comes in to check his heart rate and he has a rosy pink rash all over his torso. Ah hah, now we have a plausible diagnosis. He had Roseola. We also now know that he get febrial seizures, so we must watch his fevers closely and be a little more proactive than one baby dose of tylenol every four hours.
But we are all home now and restored to rest and health. Once the fever passes, the child feels fine, just looks bad. The rash does not itch. Roseola is highly contagious, but is not often caught be individuals over four years old (thank you, Web MD, for giving us that ray of hope). That leaves only Marina--who has not, in two years, been sick one single day--and Ian, who I pray will pass for five when he goes to check his I.D. with Mr. Kick Butt Virus.