My Daughter was born with a hole in her hole in her heart, the medical term being atrial septal defect (ASD), only we didn’t find out until she was ten years old. When she was three we were told that she had an extra chamber in her heart, but that it was of no concern. Seven years later, there we were hearing that she had been wrongly diagnosed by the previous doctor all those years ago and something we thought was of no concern was now something she would have to have repaired, and I was terrified by all the what-ifs of surgery.
Three years would go by before I would come to terms that this surgery was something that we would have to do. Three years of research, three years of denial, three years of praying, three years of expecting a miracle, three years of believing I could “think” the hole shut in her heart, three years of sleepless nights, three years of crying when I was alone and pondering why this had happening to my baby. Three years of my life consumed by fear and what if’s.
In the meantime, my seemingly healthy daughter’s health began to become noticeably weakened to the point that I could no longer pretend she didn’t have ASD. I called and scheduled an appointment with her doctor to discuss the procedure again. The last time we met with him he was telling us that she had ASD and would eventually have to have surgery. All I remember about that day was him telling us that, then the room began to spin, and everything else he said became muffled. I needed a refresher with him now that I had time to process the idea that she had this hole in her heart.
At this time I allowed my now thirteen year old daughter’s input and asked what she wanted. She wanted to have the surgery. She wasn’t scared like I had been. She just wanted to fix the problem and move on with her life. In learning this about her, I began to release some of my fear, give it to God, and trust in the experience and knowledge of her doctor. I knew I had to let her do it so the surgery was scheduled.
We showed up to the hospital early in the morning. Not long after arriving, they had her sedated and were wheeling her into surgery. My legs went weak as I watched her fade from my view and disappear behind a set of double doors. I waited, cried, and prayed.
Two hours went by before the surgeon came out and reassured me that everything went well and that my daughter was okay. I hugged him and cried some more. It wasn’t until they allowed me to see her though that I could really begin to breathe. There she was, groggy, but okay.
The nurse had me wait for her in the room she would recover in, the room where we would sleep, and she would be monitored in for the next 24 hours. The first hour of her coming out of anesthesia was the worse part of it in her opinion because she had to pee so bad that it hurt but couldn’t because the anesthesia had not yet wore off. She tried and cried and was completely miserable, but once the flow began and she could let it go her entire mood changed. She was at peace and overall pretty happy. Her recovery consisted of nurses coming in to check on her about once every hour, eating all the strawberry jello she wanted, and watching movie after movie on the hospital TV.
It took a lot to get to the point of accepting that repairing the hole in her heart was the best thing for her, but looking back I couldn’t be more proud of my daughter’s courage. As parent’s we want to protect our children, but when we allow fear to consume our decisions and paralyze us we aren’t showing up for our children the way they need us to. Its important to be honest them, listen to them, learn from them, and allow their choices to be heard and to validate them. Many times, not all, but many, they know better than the parent if we’ll just listen.