At three, it doesn't phase you when your doctor makes the recommendation of surgery. You don't pay any attention to the pictures that give a glimpse of what the inside of your skull looks like. You don't listen to the doctor explain a three to four hour procedure that involves cutting through the membranes that protect your brain or the time that it will take you to recover from such a surgery...you're too busy playing a matching game on your table and only show any interest in the doctor when she mentions the word "stickers".
It's been almost four months since Ben had the long seizure that eventually led us to an MRI, the discovery of Chiari Malformation, and a trip to Riley to see Dr. Smith (this past Tuesday). While I know that he hasn't had to worry about his diagnosis, I have noticed that on a daily basis, he tells me that he is sick. Our conversations are short, and usually sound like this:
Ben: Mommy, I sick.
Me: What hurts baby.
Ben: My back hurts. or My belly hurts.
Me: I'm so sorry baby (followed by lots of cuddles).
We've only had a hand full of times that he has actually gotten sick, but knowing that, at three, he doesn't go a day feeling completely normal, breaks my heart.
But this isn't what I signed up for...you know, when we decided to have kids. I'm not supposed to have to make decisions in which I basically say, "Sure, cut my child's skull open and work on his brain a little." I'm not cut out to make choices like this. But we did it. And, until it is over and I hold my baby in my arms and see that all is okay, I'll continue to wonder if I'm cut out for this.