Feeling like Mom

I never felt more like a mother than I did Monday. My entire world was focused on Primero and getting him well. Unfortunately, even though we acknowledge in our hearts that we are mother and son, in the eyes of the law, we are nothing more than foster mother and teenage boy. This was evident by how I was treated by some of the medical staff. The nurse and the first doctor took me as mom and treated me as such. They didn’t chase me from the room while examining Primero (I had told him he could ask me to leave at any time if he felt uncomfortable – I averted my eyes to give him some privacy, although there were plenty of eyes on his private parts) and they spoke with me, not to me or through me. The urologist and his P.A. were not nearly as courteous. The urologist looked at me when I answered a question he asked and said, “And you are what relation to him?” Excuse me? Who do you think I am, the neighbor? With my hair bristling, I declared, “I’m his foster, soon-to-be-adoptive mother.” He stopped listening after the word “foster.” He asked me to leave as they began the procedure and I felt so helpless. I wanted to be there for Primero, hold his hand and explain to him what was happening (I’m not saying I was upset being asked to leave the room and I understood why, I just wish there was someone like me who took the time to tell him what the hell was happening). Like me (and probably so many other people) he can keep calm a little better if he understands what is going to happen. But the urologist (is it wrong that I called his urologist a dick?) seemed to be in a hurry and he didn’t care. He told Primero he was going to give him a “block” and then put a catheter in him. Primero and I had discussed the potential for a catheter and so he looked at me panic-stricken and said, “Catheter? What’s a block?” I was shooed away before I could explain. But, it’s not like the doctor let the numbing agent work. He gave Primero the block and then immediately proceeded to tear an opening in the closed foreskin and jam the catheter inside. I knew, when the doctor said what he was going to do, that it would cause Primero pain. I knew the morphine had not yet kicked in enough to take the edge off. I knew he was scared and not sure what they were doing and that only added to his anxiety. But, I’m “just” the foster mom and so I was relegated to behind the curtain listening to them torture my boy, gasping as he screamed, hot tears pressing against my eyes, my stomach churning, knowing! Knowing but unable to *do* anything. I held my breath as I heard them say the worst was over and I heard Primero groan in response. I clenched my hands into balls, willing my heart to touch his, to let him know there was a kind word and soft touch waiting to embrace him, to soothe him, to cuddle the hurt away. In other words, his mother was there for him. I was there for him, even if that just meant my presence, as I was helpless to do anything to help him.

 

When I was finally allowed back in the room, anxious to see him, to touch him and reassure him, I was distracted by the P.A. telling me the next steps for surgery and the nurse asking to get the consent. I was calling CHOR and texting his case worker, finally getting the county case worker to call me and passing my phone around to the P.A. and nurse. I couldn’t stand still as I swayed to peer over the nurses shoulder at the child in the bed, a sad sight to see. In my mind’s eye I keep seeing him like that – splayed on the bed, his legs apart and his arms hanging limply at his sides with his robe hiked up too high revealing the bloody aftermath and the serpentine catheter snaking to the rapidly filling urine bag. His skin was gray from the pain and his eyes were red and teary from screaming. He looked like the mere act of breathing was nearly too much for him; he was totally wiped out from the anxiety and pain the night before and all morning in addition to the traumatic insertion of the catheter. When I was finally able to make my way to his side, I kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, then giggled as the morphine finally took hold, erasing the residual pain. His color returned as he cracked jokes about his predicament and he glibly told the nurse his pain, on a scale of 1 – 10 with 1 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain ever, his pain, which had been at 10 just minutes ago, was at 1 now. I fussed over him, like a little mother hen herding her chicks under her wings to protect them from the elements or whatever dangers were lurking.

 

On our way home from the hospital, we stopped at the red box to get some movies and Primero joked that he had a new super-power. As we made our selection he whispered to me conspiratorially, “I’m peeing now and no one knows it.” And we laughed at our secret joke. At home, we practiced emptying the bag, which he does fastidiously because he hates feeling the pee against his leg. His concern right now is related to his part in the chorus recital, which he insists he will not be missing despite it being the same night after his surgery. I had him email his chorus teacher to explain that while he would not be in school, he still wanted to attend the rehearsal Wednesday night and be in the recital on Thursday. I honestly don’t think he will feel up to going to the recital and I’m not sure the school will let him attend the rehearsal if he’s not in school. It’s just a big slice of life right now. I’m just so thankful that I am healthy and able to care for the various people in my life who are not so lucky – my mom, the baby, Primero, my grandfather. It’s been crazy and at one point on Sunday when the little girl was lying on the bathroom floor in the ER screaming and pounding the wall and my head was throbbing as her wails echoed off the tile, I wished I had a partner to help manage the chaos and share in the load of duties. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath and waded in because there’s no use crying over spilled milk. The good news is that Primero will be ok, once he has surgery on Thursday. And, what we endured together has only strengthened our bond. The fact that I was there for him, even I was utterly inept at doing anything other than physically being there, made him feel better. In times of crisis it is better knowing that someone cares for you and is looking out for you. I love this kid more than words can accurately express, more than I thought humanly possible. Yes, I loved all the children who have come into my home, but knowing this one is mine makes him extra-special and the love I feel for him is more than I believed I would or could possibly feel. It’s intense and even painful sometimes (like yesterday when I hurt for him and wanted nothing more than to take all his pain away) but it is also more beautiful than I could have imagined. Yes, if I am honest, there are still little twinges of sadness when he talks about his mother and family and while he usually refers to me as his mother, he still says foster mother most of the time and he still calls me by my first name. But, these things will smooth over the longer we are together. And I can understand his hesitancy in calling me his mom in certain situations because in reality I am not his mother *yet* - this day will come but we have numerous legal loopholes to jump through first. I guess it’s true that the best things in life don’t come easy…..