Will this Nickname Stick?

Tyson has a nickname. He is the “Budster.”

Here’s how I know: the other day, when 28-month-old Sydney was talking about him, instead of using her normal “baby Tyson” to address him, she called him Budster.

When a 2-year-old picks up on your nickname, it is a sign you may be branded with it for life.

  

I can’t tell you precisely how he got it. I think I probably was calling him “buddy,” but because of his weight issues, he is too tiny to qualify as a full-size “buddy.” He’s more of a little buddy, or a Budster.

I’ve been calling him that since his August operation. Somehow, it has stuck. Unlike Sydney, who had a million nicknames, Tyson has really only had one. And, unlike Sydney, where none of the nicknames stuck, this one seems to be sticking.

It is not as manly as the coolest of all nicknames, The Boss, but I like it better than Puff Daddy or Snoop Dog.

It is better than Shit-for-Brains. I think my dad may have called me that a time or two. And it is better than his uncle, Little Dick.

Although, I do feel a little like that guy on Saturday Night Live making copies every time I use the name Budster. It really does sound like one of the nicknames he would toss around.

Is this something that can be carried on into adulthood? I wonder if at some point in his young life, he will turn to me with a look of disgust and declare that he no longer wants to be known as the Budster. It will probably be during some moment of pre-teen angst where he is trying to be cool and develop a rapper persona like Iron Tyson or Ice T or the T Kettle.

No worries. I can change with the times. I’m as fluid as his breast milk. I won’t call him Budster in front of his friends. I won’t make him wear “Budster” on the back of his T-ball shirt. I won’t introduce him to his junior high teachers as Budster Gregg.

But, in my mind, I’m always going to remember my little buddy who struggled so hard in his first few months to even eat, making every meal a marathon. I’m always going to picture that tiny body that emerged from open-heart surgery so battered I wasn’t even sure he would make it, despite the doctor’s assurances. I’m always going to recall all the nights his mother and I held him tight, wishing that love alone would help him heal and become whole.

To me, he’s always going to be my little Budster.

Let's Make Some Money from our Walking Billboards

Did you ever notice how young kids become walking billboards for corny sayings?

Tyson must have 13 shirts that say things like “Daddy’s Little Rock Star” or “Santa’s Little Helper” or “Ass, Gas or Grass…no one rides for free.”

I see these kinds of shirts on kids all the time. You get a bunch of babies together for a play date and it is like going to a family reunion in West Virginia or Kentucky – everyone has a shirt with a stupid saying.

How did this start? Parents who would never wear shirts that say “Crack Kills” right above their butt cracks have no problem dressing little Jimmy in a shirt that says “FBI” in big letters and “Female Body Inspector”  in little letters or “Don’t Make me Violate My Parole.”

I stopped wearing such shirts in college, or shortly thereafter. I think I had one of those Salty Dog t-shirts from a Spring Break trip that said something stupid, or maybe it was a Dick’s Last Resort t-shirt that said “Chicks Love Dicks” in big letters followed by a microscopic “Last Resort.”

Now, when I see someone dressed in something like that, I’m looking around for the trailer park.

Am I wrong on this? Have I gone Park Avenue? Have I forgotten my roots?

Once, when I was a kid, and Olivia Newton John was doing her thing in sweatsuits and headbands, I wore a shirt that just said “ANIMAL.” I liked it because she sang a song that went, “Let’s Get Physical, Physical…I Want to Get Animal, Let’s Get Into Animal,” and I was a 14-year-old kid who wanted to get ANIMAL with anything of the female persuasion.

I remember adults looking at my shirt with puzzlement and asking me what it meant. I really didn’t have a good answer. Most likely, BECAUSE I WAS A 14-YEAR-OLD IDIOT.

Now, I am the adult. And it is my kid who is wearing shirts that say “I’m not as Think as you Drunk I am.”

Ok, maybe not that.

But then I got to thinking. What if we turned this trend into something positive? Babies are cute. People love to look at them. If you walk into a restaurant with a baby, you can bet nearly everyone will look at that little bundle of joy as you walk from the door to the table.

So, instead of wearing a shirt that says “Daddy’s Football Star,” what if we put him in a shirt that said “I Like Gerber” or ‘I Buy My Carrots and Peas at Kroger.” Would Gerber or Kroger be willing to rent space on my kid?

You see the possibilities, right? If your kid has great muscle tone, he could wear a Gold’s Gym shirt. If he is a little portly, a Skyline Chili shirt might be a little more appropriate. If she has crystal blue eyes, maybe a shirt that advertises colored contact lenses. If it is a great hair day, a shirt for the local beauty salon.

Suddenly, I am making money off my kid. I like that idea. How can I get this movement started?

In the meantime, I’ll try to find some shirts that match my family more closely. Sydney  can get a “Fart Now Loading” shirt with a Internet loading status bar below it. Tyson can have a “Shit Happens” shirt and Brooke can get the classic ‘I’m with Stupid” shirt.

Hell, maybe I even will get an “I Beat Anorexia” shirt.

Two Words: Dog Poop

 

 

My daughter has an unnatural obsession with dog poop.

Any brown spot she sees leads her to call out, “Daddy, dog poop!” A fleck of mud on her clothes or her hand? “Daddy, dog poop!”  When I am changing her diaper, or her brother’s diaper, she looks down at the dirty mess and says, “Daddy, dog poop!”

Twenty times a day, I hear this refrain. It has kind of become her answer to everything.

Brooke has an old night stand where a candle burned a stain into it. (Most likely the result of one of her drunken college binges.) Every time Sydney passes that stand, she points to the spot and says, “Daddy, dog poop.”

Sometimes, she can't go to sleep because, well, you know.

“Sydney, it is TIME TO GO TO SLEEP!”

“Daddy, dog poop! There’s dog poop on the bed.”

When I loaded her into the car at 3 a.m. prior to our Thanksgiving trip to Milwaukee, she was excited about the middle-of-the-night excursion to grandma and grandpa’s. ‘What are we going to see in Milwaukee?” I asked, anticipating some joyful squeal.

“Dog poop?” she asked.

Sigh. 

In her defense, she does see a lot of dog poop. We have two dogs, both weighing near 100 pounds. She’s told frequently to watch out for dog poop in the yard. (In the summer, I can mow that into fertilizer and in the winter, it is frozen and easy to pick up. Fall and summer are just messy.)

Plus, our German Shepherd, Vegas, has been diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy, which means that his brain and the nerves in his back end don’t always communicate. That sometimes results in accidents on the porch or in the house.

Yeah, I know. TMI.

Still, my daughter’s obsession is a bit out of control. When other people listen to her, they probably think we spend our days swimming in dog poop.

I suspect there will be many more obsessions over the next 16 years. My goal will be to channel them into something a little more positive than dog poop.

Like farts and burps.

Life Has Been Hectic

I’ve been on a little hiatus. Long enough to grow a beard. And then shave it.

Before I get into the subject of my post – which will be the use of babies as billboards – I will explain my extended absence. 

 

Since my last post, my mom has taken ill and has spent more than a month in the hospital. She’s undergone stomach surgery twice, but that has not fixed the problem. We’re told it could be about six more weeks to confirm a diagnosis (they suspect a blockage that they just can’t see) and then she will likely have a third surgery. The good news is, she gets to go home (well, to my house) today. No more hospital food. (Actually, she didn’t eat for 30 days, so she can’t even complain about the food.)

Once mom went to the hospital, caring for Tyson became an issue. He has to be fed through a tube, and until my mom’s illness, only my wife, mother and I have fed him. I stayed home from work for more than week to care for him after my mom went in the hospital. That's when I grew a beard and kept it for about a month. But I've since returned to just the goatee, for all those who could give a damn, which probably only equals my wife.

Life should slow down for me now, too. I've been going straight from work to the hospital, then home by 8 p.m. to eat, do dishes and put the kids to bed. (A 2 hour ritual when you include bath, story time and Sydney's grousing about not going to bed.) I get to sleep about 11, wake up at 2 and feed Tyson, go back to sleep at 3 and wake up at 6:30 for work. 

I'm exhausted. All. The. Freaking. Time. I could sleep for about four months. In fact, wake me up when Kim and Kanye get divorced.     

 

But life is moving in the right direction. Mom is getting better and we eventually transitioned Tyson to the child care provider who cares for Sydney, the wonderful Ms. Amber. Things are going very well. Learning to feed through the tube is not difficult, and she quickly mastered that. But when you have to spend 20 minutes getting him to drink as much as possible by mouth and then another 20 dumping the rest of his required nutrients down the tube, you are tied up from doing much else. Ms. Amber has five other little ones running around. That can be challenging.

Her solution is to pop in a movie during his morning feed and hold nap time during his afternoon feed. It is working. Thank you, Ms. Amber. In fact, a thousand thank yous.

As for a Tyson update, he is doing well. His disposition is great, a complete 180 from his pre-surgery crying and screaming. He’s a pretty quiet and gentle kid. His heart continues to heal and there are no red flags. He still is not on the growth charts, but he is slowly gaining weight. We can’t remove the tube until he is voluntarily eating what he is supposed to on his own. Right now, he is probably at 60 percent. Still a few months to go, I suspect.

I think Sydney could care less about having him at day care. Other than doing her best to wake him every time he falls asleep, she ignores him, like she does at home. I was hoping some sort of protective instinct would kick in, but I’m pretty sure if we left him at Ms. Amber’s permanently she would be fine with that.

Ok, this update is already too long. I’ll pick up the whole babies-as-billboards thing in a couple of days. There’s probably some money to be made there if you do it right.

Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

I’ll never be elected to the Fatherhood Hall of Fame.

I may look good on paper. I may say all the right things in this blog. But believe me, I have incredible shortcomings.

On a daily basis, my wife kicks my butt in parenting. There is no comparison. I am a Single A ballplayer and she is not only in the Major Leagues, she is all-star, Triple Crown winner Miguel Cabrera.

But I am smart enough to know parenting my two children will be the most important job I have in life.

That’s why I have made a very difficult career decision. I am leaving my job of only six months and returning to my old job, which provides far more flexibility to deal with Tyson’s medical issues.

Caring for Tyson has been more challenging than we thought. The main problem right now is he still must be fed through a tube, eight times a day, with each feed taking 30-45 minutes. This could go on for a few months. He has fallen off the growth charts and voluntarily eats only about a third of what he should in a normal day.

On top of that, he has numerous doctor’s visits. His regular cardiac appointments are sometimes three hours long, and we will soon add therapy sessions.

We’ve been lucky that my wife had the summer off from teaching, but, now that she has returned, those appointments will fall primarily on me.

As you can imagine, this is likely too much for a child care provider who might be caring for five other kids at the same time. Even our provider, the super Ms. Amber, might struggle with this assignment. So we had to come up with a plan to nurse him to normal.

We examined three options: my wife taking a year off work, hiring professional help and asking my mom for assistance.

If my wife took a year off work, it would hurt us financially and she would have no guarantee of getting her specific job back when she returned. Not a good option.

Hiring professional help would be expensive and mean leaving Tyson with a stranger. Not a good option.

Asking my mom for help would cost us some food and gas money and put Tyson in the care of someone who knows him and loves him. A good option.

My mom has agreed to this. She is an angel; I’ve counted on her all my life and she always comes through. My brother will play a huge part, too, making it financially possible for her to be away from her day job. He’s a hero in this story, too.

But my mom lives four hours away. It is a tough drive for a 64-year-old woman and then she has to care for an infant. We need to find ways to give her breaks. Plus, we really need a parent at these doctor’s appointments.

So I am going to fill the gaps.

My old job is 15 minutes from my house and 5 minutes from Children’s Hospital. I have four months of accumulated sick time there from rarely taking a sick day (they allow you to accumulate and roll over). I also am able to use sick time to deal with my child’s illness, something I do not have at my current job, which requires sick time only for the employee’s illness.

While my new employer has been super great regarding this whole Tyson thing and very flexible, I’ve only been here long enough to accumulate six days of sick time. And I am more than a half hour away from home and the hospital, adding more time away from work to those long doctor’s appointments.

When you add up the pros and cons, it is simply much easier for me to be a caregiver for Tyson while working the old job instead of the new job.

I liked working at CVG and will miss my colleagues. I’m burdened with a heavy heart to leave them in such a lurch, but sometimes you have to be selfish. Those who work closest with me understand.

I’m very lucky I am in a position to go back. JFS could have filled my position as soon as I left, but, somehow, it was still open at the time I came to the conclusion going back would be a good option for me.  Perhaps that is a little divine intervention.

It is an unexpected career detour, but it works. One, I always liked the job and the people I worked with, so I am not going back to a bad situation. Two, it is what my son needs from me now.

Like I said, I’ll never make the Fatherhood Hall of Fame. But I am sure as hell going to step to the plate when called upon.

Focusing on a New Battle

 

 



 

 

I’ve had more than a few people ask for an update on Tyson, so here it is.

His heart seems to be ok. There haven't been any red flags to this point. The small tear that didn’t completely patch is being monitored and they think it will eventually fix itself.

I don’t want to be overly dramatic. This is not a miracle. But it is a tremendous outcome. We are blessed to have come this far. If I wasn't so bashful, I'd do a thank-you dance in the middle of Cincinnati's Fountain Square, that's how happy we are. 

But there is still a big obstacle to overcome.

First, the good news. His demeanor is better. He smiles a lot more and engages in a little back-and-forth cooing with his mom and dad every now and then. I absolutely LOVE to see him smile and when he is in one of these moods I stop everything I am doing and engage him.

It is so nice that his tiny body doesn’t have to work as hard anymore. He used to be constantly exhausted, as well as writhing in pain. You can now see the potential for him to be a “normal” baby and he has several times a day when he is actually a pretty happy kid.

But not all is well. I’d say that where he was a 10 on the scale of cranky babies pre-surgery, he is probably now a 7. He still has a lot of stomach issues. While the doctors told us to expect this with heart babies, we are still a bit unclear on the connection between his heart problems and his stomach issues and wonder if something else is at play. 

He simply doesn’t like to eat. I believe it causes him pain. He gets extremely gassy and it is very painful, so he doesn’t want to put himself through that experience.

This is how bad it is: after we try to feed him everything we can via bottle, we then have to pour the rest down his tube. When you hook the syringe up to the tube, you sometimes can hear gas bubble up through the tube and watch it come to the surface of the milk in the syringe. On really bad days, when he gets particularly cranky, he can force the whole syringe-full of milk he just drank out of his belly and back into the syringe.

Poor kid. We have talked to doctors and tried different fixes, but nothing is working.

As a result, he is only getting about half of the food they want him to take in a day, and he only takes about half of that voluntarily. We are slowly adding more – 5 milliliters per feed every week – in hopes of getting him up to what a normal kid eats.

Brooke and I hate the tube. Not only is it a burden on us – we feed him eight times a day (every three hours), and each feed takes about 45 minutes – but he seems to really dislike it and we wonder if it is a reason he DOESN’T eat. Filling his belly constantly also leads to a couple of throw ups each day.

The docs don’t seem to mind. Their only concern is getting the food into him. He has fallen off the growth charts and they want him to get his calories up. Whether he is miserable doesn’t matter.

So, we plug away.

I wouldn’t mind waking up every three hours in the middle of the night if we knew it was helping, but I am not so sure it is. The irony for us is we have a baby who would completely sleep through the night, but we have to feed him every three hours. Meanwhile, our 23-month-old still parties like a rock star throughout the night.

If we can’t fix this problem with the feeding tube that runs through his nose, they will eventually put one directly into his stomach. We certainly don’t want that. You can bet we are doing everything in our power to turn this around.

Caring for him is especially challenging now that Brooke is back to work. As you can tell from my previous descriptions, you spend nearly a third of a whole day just feeding him. We’ll soon add therapy sessions to catch him up developmentally. And, of course, he still has numerous doctor and cardiology visits.

We are working on some things to put a system in place where he has the right people to ensure he gets everything he needs and I’ll have more on that in a later post.

To all who have sent prayers and good thoughts his way – the key message from this post is that they worked. He is on the right path and we have every reason to believe he will come out of this A-OK.

But don’t completely forget him. He still has a tough piece of road to travel and your support means the world to us. Someday he is going to understand he made it through on the strength of his community’s shoulders.

Sweden's Little Miracle

 

 

 

I went where no man should.

I entered a discussion on snot.

Why would I enter such mucousy waters?

Because I am passionate about the NoseFrida.

This small, simple, Swedish tool is a must have for any parent. It is the nemesis of snout snot.

So, when a pregnant Facebook friend – congrats Nicole! – posted a picture of a NoseFrida she received as a gift and asked if anyone actually used them, I waded into the mucousy waters with much trepidation and spoke up.

“You will discover it is one of the best gifts you've received.”

I’m not really a guy who is comfortable giving parenting advice to anyone. Despite two children under the age of 2, my parenting knowledge could fit into a six-ounce baby bottle. Thank God for my wife.

But on this topic, I couldn’t resist. I had to have my say.  

“It is the absolute best way to clear congestion.”

Needless to say, not everyone agreed with me. Among the jokes and expected responses of “Gross!” were comments such as this:

“So this mom of four....nope, never, wouldn't try it. I'm sure it's great for some...but not me!”

Many claimed that the blue bulbs you get at the hospital are the best way to win the booger battle.

I beg to differ.  

Ever since my wife saw Nancy O’Dell interview Christina Applegate – yeah, Kelly Bundy of Married with Children – the NoseFrida has been a positive part of our life.

Nancy: What is the best piece of parenting advice that anybody has given you?
Christina: There's so much [baby gear] to get! I think... to buy a NoseFrida!

Nancy: What is that?
Christina: The thing that you use to suck the stuff out of their nose. It's called a NoseFrida. It's got a long [tube] and you do it with your mouth.

Nancy: You do it with your mouth?! [laughs] I just used the hand-squeeze nose suctioner.
Christina: Well, there's a stopper. It doesn't go in your mouth. But it's so much more effective. I mean I always had that thing [squeeze suctioner] in there trying to get it out, and it never worked. But this one is magic!

Sydney had a lot of colds when she was younger. She was always congested. We, too, used the blue ball. Until my wife saw the interview with Kelly Bundy.

I must admit, I was grossed out and afraid. But it was worth a try.

The NoseFrida is a long suctioning tube with a disposable filter. You place the tube against the child’s nostril and create a seal. Then you use the mouthpiece to suck out the snot!!!

Yeah, it sounds gross. But the snot never gets to your lips. It is blocked by the filter.

This nifty little invention was created by a Swedish doctor and is 100 percent hygienic. It is worlds better than the blue bulb. The kids don’t like it for the few seconds you suck – they don’t like the blue bulbs, either – but once you are out of their nostrils, they have immediate relief.

Why is it better? Well, here’s what it says on the NoseFrida site:

“NoseFrida is non-invasive – instead of going inside the nose like the bulb, it forms a seal with the outside of the baby’s nostril (creating a vacuum). Parent-powered (mouth) suction is much stronger and more effective than the static suction of the bulb or battery-powered aspirators. NoseFrida is also easy to clean.”

My friend Nicole wondered if she could suck too hard and hurt her baby. According to the web site: “No. NoseFrida is safe to use on newborns and preemies. There is no risk of sucking too hard.”

Sydney and Tyson might not like the few seconds of intense sucking, but it provides immediate relief. You can see and hear their breathing become easier.

Here’s what I know:

·       Rarely do I publicly tout any product. I just don’t like putting my reputation on the line like that.

·       I’m totally intimidated by the thought of offering parenting advice in any forum that would include mothers who know eons more than me.

Yet, I went to bat for the NoseFrida. Draw your own conclusion.

But this isn’t like Hair Club for men. I’m not also a client. I’ve yet to ask Brooke to pony up to the NoseFrida and give it a whirl on my stuffy nose.

There are just some places even a husband and wife cannot go. Do a little dance, suck a little NoseFrida, get down tonight…

I also couldn’t legally go on TV and proclaim to be a regular user of the NoseFrida.

Why? My wife handles the snot sucking in our family.

That stuff’s just too gross for me.

Some Families Run a Never-Ending Race

We had a fix.

That is what I kept thinking as I walked the halls of Children’s Hospital and saw so many kids whose conditions are permanent. Kids who will never walk again, or live their lives on ventilators, or spend only a few more months with us before their short lives are snuffed out by a terminal disease.

I have great empathy for their parents. I’m in their stadium, but not in their race. I ran a sprint. These parents are running a marathon that never ends.

I don’t know if I have the strength to put on their shoes.

If they had my option – to gamble on a risky surgery that could provide a permanent “fix” for their child – they’d take it with tears of joy in their eyes.

Life has been a struggle for Brooke and I the past few months. In and out of the hospital. Relying on others. Unable to settle into the routine of normal family life. Huge hospital bills. Frustration over lack of progress.

Most of all, we’ve hated watching our little boy struggle. We see friends with happy babies reaching milestones Tyson should be achieving, yet he is far behind.

But we had a fix. We knew this surgery was coming and we knew, if successful, it would put us on a path to normalcy.

We are not 100 percent sure we are there, but we are in a better place than we were a week or two ago.

That is not the case for many of the parents I saw walking the halls of Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center. They don’t have a fix. Their life will never get back to normal.

I walked into the lobby of the cardiology unit the other day and saw a priest comforting a family of seven. I don’t know what happened, but, of course, I do.

When I walked to the parking garage, even at 11 p.m. at night, I saw people sitting in their cars or even on their open truck beds, eating, drinking, listening to music. Who hangs out in parking garages? Family members of children who have come to the hospital from outside of Cincinnati – Morgantown, W. Va., or Evansville, Ind., or Frankfort, Ky. People who need to be here for their child, but don’t have a local option or the cash to spring for a place to stay. They live out of their child’s hospital room and that few minutes they have in the parking garage is a respite from the challenges of loving and caring for a struggling child.

A few minutes of solace.

My wife sees this all the time. She is a special education teacher who takes care of children with disabilities. She’s had children in wheel chairs, children on ventilators, children who don’t speak or hear or comprehend. She’s had children whose problems are simply insurmountable, yet their parents chug along each and every day, trying to do their best at establishing a normal routine.

These parents are super heroes.  

I’ve never been an activist. As a journalist, I tried to use my skill as a writer to shed light or right wrongs or even change a small corner of the world. Up until recently, I worked in a field designed to help people – my little way of doing something to make a difference.

But I’ve never been big on volunteering or joining causes or doing this walk or that fundraiser. Group activities like that are just not in my nature, and I doubt that will change.

But seeing these children and their parents breaks my heart. Every day for them is Groundhog Day, the same bad news over and over.

I don’t know how they do it. I feel like I should do something to help.

Many people have rallied to our side during our ordeal with Tyson. People from all over the country – even the world – have voiced their support.

Thank you. Every prayer and good thought you have sent our way has helped. My wife and I are amazed at the support we have received and we wish we could throw a party for all of you.

But our sprint is hopefully ending. We had a fix. If we are lucky, we are moving on to a new phase in our life.

If I could ask one thing of those who are reading this, it would be to visit the Children’s Hospital nearest you. Ask how you might help. Or reach out to that family you know who struggles every day taking care of a child with a disability or terminal disease. Offer to give them a break. Make them a dinner. Buy them a gift card.

Say a thank you to the heroes who work at these places and take care of these children every day. Emotionally, it has to be tough.

I’m much more aware of this now. I don’t think I will ever be an activist, but I do think I will pick and choose the spots where I help. The Ronald McDonald House will go on the list of charities I annually cut checks to. So will Cincinnati Children’s.

I need to do more to help, and, while I don’t want to be preachy or melodramatic, if you have a decent life, so do you.

Because some families will never have a fix.

Tyson the Warrior

 

 

                                                                Tyson today

The past two days have been quite a blur.

From the gut-wrenching handoff to the surgery team early Monday morning, to the euphoria of the surgeon arriving seven hours later to tell us the operation was successful, to the shocking reality of seeing the damage to my son’s body, to the alternating hope and worry that comes with watching him struggle to recover, I am emotionally drained.

I am, however, the happiest I have been since we found out in February that Tyson had this serious heart condition. Since then, we’ve been trudging up a hill that we dreaded climbing, realizing the summit contained a surgery that put my child’s life at risk. Now that the surgery is over, I feel like we are coasting down the other side of the hill.

I was happier at 4 p.m. Monday than I was the day he was born. His birth day was filled with worry over whether he would need immediate surgery and whether he would survive. On Monday, after hearing positive news from Surgeon Roosevelt Bryant III, a gentle giant whose hands are as big as Tyson’s whole 8-pound body, I was walking on air.

Euphoric.

An hour later, I was sick to my stomach at seeing what looked like my son’s corpse in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.

Those are the highs and lows of the past 50 hours or so.  

If you are interested, I will try to quickly catch you up:

We arrived at the hospital at 6:30 a.m. Monday. Tyson was appropriately dressed in his Massillon Tigers outfit, ready to do battle. I also played Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger while they did some pre-surgery checks. (Hey, it worked for Rocky and it works – about 80 percent of the time – for my legendary high school football program, the Massillon Tigers.)

Yes, I was pulling out all the stops. This was serious. I needed my son to gear up for battle.

                                                                Tyson pre-surgery

Dr. Bryant stopped and spoke to us. This was my first chance to meet him. He’s about 6-foot-5 and solidly built, not skinny. I immediately pegged him as a defensive end on the football field.

He was alert and happy, despite it being so early. He spoke gently and confidently.

He seemed ready for this fight.

 

Handing Tyson off to the surgery team may have been the most difficult thing we’ve ever done. Not ashamed to admit I was crying. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure we’d get him back.

 

 

                                                          Saying Goodbye

After that, they ushered us into a private waiting room. They have one room they keep for the surgery that is the day’s longest and most serious. We won the prize on Monday and the reward was a fairly decent-sized room with comfortable chairs and a TV all to ourselves. I was thankful, because the main waiting room was filled with about 50 people.

We (Brooke, my mom and I) spent the time reading books and surfing the web. We didn’t even turn on the TV. I knew the Royals were welcoming a baby across the pond, but seriously, who the hell cares? Didn’t we fight a whole war so we wouldn’t have to worry about the British monarchy?

I was nervous, but I didn’t show it. I never show it. No use in getting others worked up with my anxiety.

They told us the surgery would be 4-6 hours, so we knew we were in for a long day. They did explain to us that at some point, when the surgery was completed, they would take us to a conference room and give us all the details. I told my wife that the whole conference room speech was a cover so we would think it routine and not panic as they shuffled us back to a private spot where they could deliver the ultimate bad news.

My mind is trained to consider the worse. I was convinced that if they took us to the conference room, they were going to tell me my son had died. I didn’t want to go to the conference room.

As the surgery progressed, they called us or met with us personally about every hour and a half to provide an update. All the updates were positive.

About 1:30, the nurse came in to tell us they were wrapping up and the surgeon would be in to see us shortly. She said everything went smoothly.

We were ecstatic. I can’t even describe in words the relief that went through that room.

An hour later, Dr. Bryant arrived. He explained the surgery was more challenging because Tyson is so small – they usually like to wait until the baby is double his size to perform this procedure, but Tyson was too sick and couldn’t wait. With the huge hands this guy has, I can only imagine how difficult it was working on my boy’s tiny heart.

But, he concluded, he felt everything went well and Tyson could avoid future surgeries. Ultimately, he could lead a normal life and even run marathons if he wanted.

(By the way, he delivered this news in the waiting room, not a conference room, kind of confirming my assumptions.)

I was so happy, I asked him to take a picture with my wife. You have to know me to know how out of character that is. I’m the kind of guy who could be eating dinner at the table next to Justin Timberlake and wouldn’t even say hello because I don’t like imposing on people. I don’t like to be bothered and I don’t like bothering other people, but this was a moment I had to capture.

 

 

                                              The Gentle Giant, Roosevelt Bryant III

They told us to wait about an hour as they got him all hooked up in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit and they would call us up.

They did not call for a couple of hours, which, of course, made us wonder if something was wrong. But we were still so happy that when we did get the call, we rode the elevator grinning ear-to-ear.

Then, I saw a horrifying sight that turned my stomach. Tyson looked like a corpse.

He was lying on the table, pale and unsettlingly still. He was attached to a million wires. His eyes were open, but there was no life in them. They’d been coated with a glaze to keep them moist.

I almost turned around and walked out of the room. It was heartbreaking.

 

                                                        Our first glimpse

But somehow, they convinced us this was normal for this type of surgery and that he was actually doing ok. (I'm not so sure on that. I have a friend who works in a hospital and he said that was the most wires he has ever seen on a kid.)

We accepted them at their word and settled in for a bedside vigil that they tell us will probably last about 10 days, if all goes well.

And it seems to be going ok. He has not had problems with his heart, but he has been struggling with his lungs. He’s even had a collapse. Several times, he’s been clogged up and stopped breathing for a few seconds, leading them to “bag” him.

Scary stuff.

They hope this will stop once they take the breathing tube out, which they did this morning.  

Other than that, they tell us he is doing as well as can be expected.

The people at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center are incredible. From Dr. Bryant, to Tyson’s cardiologist, Dr. Thomas Kimball, to every nurse, therapist and other medical professional we have encountered, this place is top notch. I know we had scheduling problems last week, but that is water under the bridge and every one I have encountered since 6:30 a.m. Monday morning has been tremendous.

We have a long way to go. Tyson will need to fully recover and that will take some time. He’ll likely return home with his feeding tube back in. He will still have regular cardiologist’s visits and other doctor visits. Because he is developmentally behind from doing nothing but struggling and sleeping the past 11 weeks, we will enroll him in therapy.

I’m eager to see what he is like with his mended heart. Life has been such a struggle so far.  Just sitting still, he would sweat like he was in a steam room. He got to the point where he wouldn’t eat because it was too much work.

In the days leading up to the surgery, he was either sleeping or crying. In fact, he would cry so hard for a couple of hours, he would exhaust himself and fall to sleep, only to wake up a couple hours later and repeat the cycle.

I’m eager to see his real disposition. I’m eager to see him happy and carefree.

I’m eager to meet my “real” son for the first time.

This I know: he is the toughest little 8-pound boy in the land.