Some people have it way worse

This week writing has taken a backseat to hospital time, which I hate. First off, there's this smell, like overcooked vegetables that marinated in plastic bags of dog urine. And then there's the way that just sitting there can be so draining. Plus I'm from the suburbs and think parking somewhere is my god-given right, not a paid privilege.

Saturday night my mom fell and shattered her femur--an injury common to linebackers, people with osteoporosis and recent knee replacements. Two out of three ain't bad. Having been left in hospitals often as a child, she likes 24/7 family coverage, which makes a good case for large families, except that we all went on to have kids, passing our offspring like batons at the hospital parking garage and corralling them on whirlwind field trips around the city where the child/caregiver ratio is like an underfunded public school. I keep quoting to my siblings the analogy of marathon vs. sprint--I think we're going to make it.

But I was already hospital weary: Last Thursday my son had his check-up with the craniofacial team at Childrens Hospital of Philadelphia. This is a marathon in its own right, eight specialists in as many hours, people we have known since Hayden was a baby and transferred there at birth unable to breathe or eat on his own. I used to dread these--I wonder if other people who have gone home without their babies share my same anxiety that they technically belong to the hospital, and at any moment the hospital might take them back? When Hayden was younger, these loomed large, as each team evaluation presented the possibility that another syndrome would be diagnosed, the proverbial other shoe coming crashing down. So far, so good.

But each year since he was about five, I have seen them as reassurances, confirmations that the hurdles are mostly behind us, and our son is blissfully normal. This year Hayden opted in on a study on the effects of craniofacial abnormalities in children. ("Fifteen bucks? For answering six pages of questions? Seriously?!")

I had completed my own version, but surreptitiously peeked over his shoulder as he was doing his. What mother doesn't relish a glimpse into the mind of her eight-year-old boy?

I feel self-conscious and don't want to read aloud in school because of my face, mouth, teeth, speech.

NEVER

I feel like bad things happen to me because of my face, mouth, teeth, speech.

NEVER

I am teased because of my face, mouth, teeth, speech. 

NEVER

I want to die because of my face, mouth, teeth, speech. 

Hayden looks up at me, eyes wide, and whispers earnestly, "Mom? I think some people have it way worse than me." 

Looking around the waiting room in the pediatric plastic surgery unit, walking to get our lunch in the atrium, passing the NICU where he spent his early months, the PICU where he writhed after his second surgery, the closet where they took us when they told us he might not make it to the end of the week, Hayden still holds my hand.

We meet with the last specialist, who gives us his blessing to continue life as usual, and we schedule our appointment for the next month. Walking to catch the train home, Hayden quietly picks up trash on the city sidewalks with a disgusted harrumph, carries it for blocks until we find a garbage can. Then he is asleep, leaning against me on the train as I steal a few minutes, editing my neglected manuscript. Outside the SEPTA windows, the city falls away to green. We will soon jump in the pool to rinse the hospital smell off us, and I think again as I listen to him snore and kiss his wild curls, even as we gear up for my mom in a straight leg, non-weight-bearing cast for three months, some people have it way worse. We are indeed blessed.

Hayden, bottom of the puppypile of love in a field of green