Broken Promises and Long Walks

I am really cherishing these morning walks with Jack and the dog. It's hot and there's poop to pick up, but it's great "talk time" with my eldest son. Tomorrow will be our last such walk as Whit will finish up reading camp and will be joining us on Thursday. Not that I'm not looking forward to adding my youngest son to the routine, it's just that "talk time" will probably turn into "fight time" over the leash, which direction to go, or who gets to kick the empty water bottle laying in the street.

Anyway, during today's walk with Jack the conversation somehow turned to the idea of broken promises... those promises we make with every intention of following through, only to have unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances deem keeping the promise impossible.

It reminded me of this memory of Paul, which I shared with Jack:

I don't remember the date or even the time of year, I just remember it was one of Paul's many in-patient surgeries. I'm pretty sure it was for the purpose of putting in a new port because they were using a peripheral IV (that had already been placed in his arm) to administer the medicine.

Anyway, as we were waiting for our "turn," Paul informed me that he did NOT want me to leave him until he was asleep. I promised him that I would stay with him until he received the "sleepy juice." Now, you must know that it is Cook "policy" to administer a drug called Versed to patients while the parents are with them. This drug is supposed to make them feel "drunk" and not really care that they are being ripped from their mother's arms. (They supposedly don't remember the experience. Let me assure you, however, that the parent remembers every harrowing moment of it)! Once they are in the OR, they get Propaphal, which is what makes them go to sleep. However, Paul had had Versed in the past, and it did absolutely nothing for him... he was still very much aware that he was being taken away, and he still very much cared. So...Terrill and I always insisted that we be with Paul until he received the Propaphal. Depending on who the anaesthesiologist was that day, this task ranged from simple ("Is that the way Paul likes to do things? Well then, no problem!) to extremely difficult ("I'm sorry, ma'am, but administering that drug outside the OR is a very unsafe thing to do. We only have the safety of your child in mind when we say that this is against our policy"). I won't go into how the conversation went whenever the doctor had this attitude.... let's just say that I don't ever recall NOT breaking Cook's "policy."

I will never forget that day that the anaesthesiologist was a very dear man named Dr. Byrd. He was more than happy to comply with Paul's desire to stay with me until asleep. I placed Paul up on the gurney, Dr. Byrd told the nurse the amount of medicine to administer, and then he left. Now, keep in mind that Paul had done this same drill numerous times. This routine was just as familiar to him as soccer practice is to most kids his age. He watched the white medicine flow through the tubing and into his arms and expected to fall asleep within seconds. Instead, he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm not sleepy." When Dr. Byrd returned, he was amazed that Paul was not out given the amount of drug the nurse had administered. Then, he examined Paul's IV and found the problem: his vein had blown. He showed me the "puddle" of medicine just pooling in Paul's arm underneath the skin. I don't remember exactly what he said next, but it involved me leaving. I knew I had to go immediately or I wouldn't be able to go at all. I kissed Paul, looked into his eyes, apologized repeatedly and left the room.

While I waited for Paul during the surgery, I held onto the hope that maybe enough of the drug had gotten into his system so that, even though he was awake, perhaps he would not remember the separation. The surgery went fine, Paul's recovery was typical, and we were back in his hospital room by mid-afternoon. Paul never mentioned the botched pre-surgical job, so I broke the ice. Holding on to my "memory loss" hope, I asked, "Paul, do you remember when you left me for surgery?" I will never forget his reply: "You mean, when YOU left ME." I was crushed. I apologized profusely and asked him if he understood. Of course he did. Would he forgive me? Of course he would. And like the sweet child that he was, he never mentioned it again.

I don't know exactly why I'm re-hashing this particular memory. Maybe it's just a chance to talk to Jack about the times when we just can't keep our promises. Perhaps it's to remind myself to be careful about the promises I make to others. Maybe it could be that I need to learn from Paul's example and forgive those who've let me down. Or maybe I just miss my Paulie.