HE'S STILL MY BOY

HE’S STILL MY BOY

“Jo, I quickly said as my daughter-in-law answered her phone. “Call Ken’s doctor. There’s a problem and before you ask, no, I’m not sure what it is.”

*

“Which hospital? I’m on my way.”

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“What the hell?”

*

My son had been diagnosed with ulcerative colitis when he was still in his teens. Although we were able to keep it, for the most part, under control with diet and medications, by the time he reached the latter part of his twenties, it was out of control. But I’m getting slightly ahead of myself.

Like most mothers, I worried constantly about my children.

During his respite from this disease, he met and married a wonderful young woman. Not trying to use that old cliché “they were perfect for each other”, but yes, they were. They shared the same interests, never lacked in topics of conversation, and enjoyed demanding work. Within their first five years of marriage, they were overjoyed with the birth of each of their two children.

Everything was going wonderfully and then! Yes, then his disease came back – with a vengeance that we never expected. The meds failed to work, and his ulcerative colitis was back. Unfortunately, now, his only option was surgery.

On that dreary July morning, my son lay in the operating room for what should have been a four-hour procedure. After six hours, the surgeon came to us in the waiting room and said it would take much longer. Ken’s bowels were more damaged than he anticipated. His entire large intestine would have to be removed. The entire surgery consumed the better part of twelve hours! What was supposed to be a one week stay in the hospital ended up being one month, but we’re not done yet.

His recovery wasn’t easy for him or his family. Jo still had to work, and his children were in middle school. My daughter-in-law asked me to move in with them for a week, which turned out to be three.

During the next three years, there was one problem after another, which meant more stays in the hospital. He developed an allergic reaction to the adhesive that adhered the colostomy bag to his skin. Infection set in. His hemoglobin count dropped significantly – and the list went on and on.

As a parent, I’m sure you can all imagine my mental status. Rather than being able to form a well thought out, coherent sentence, I basically ran on autopilot. Mother instinct took over. While my daughter-in-law worked, I cooked, cleaned, took care of my grandchildren, got them off to school, drove my son to his doctor appointments, and the list goes on.

All that while, let’s keep in mind that my adult son, while happy I’d be there for his children, wasn’t thrilled that I’d have to change his colostomy bag. Yes, he had a visiting nurse come in daily, but I still had to learn the ins and outs of a stoma for the times when she wasn’t there.

One afternoon in late August, when the nurse wasn’t there, my son said he was cold. Too cold! The house temperature was eight degrees! Yet, there he sat on the couch wrapped in a heavy blanket, shivering. That’s when I called his wife.

“Jo, I can call the doctor but since he’s your husband, legally, you’re next of kin, not me. You need to call.”

Minutes later, she called back. “The doctor said to bring him in asap!”

With shaking hands and a stomach filled with nervous knots, I helped Ken get dressed, (thankfully, his children were visiting Jo’s mother), and the two of us made the 45-minute drive to the doctors office in about half an hour. I’m still surprised I wasn’t stopped by the police for speeding.

The surgeon was out of town, so her assistant took over my son’s care. By this time, Ken was in extreme abdominal pain as well as having the sensation of lying naked in a refrigerator.

The doctor left the room to retrieve my son’s file.

Ken, with only a thin, very tiny paper towel covering him, reached out his hand to me. “Mom, I’m scared. What’s wrong with me?”

My heart was breaking all over again. What do I tell him? I grabbed his hand and as private as my son is about his body, pulled me to him, reached up and hugged me. “Mom, I’m glad you’re here.”

Here, my son was almost forty-five and there were tears sliding down his cheeks. Ken never cried. Now, with pain and fear, he did, and I had to do everything in my power not to.

He spotted something everyone else missed. The medications!

Somewhere between the surgeon’s care and his stay in the hospital, someone forgot to “wean” him off the steroids that had kept him well for so many years. He was now going through drug withdrawal. The doctor put him back in the hospital immediately but now the orders were to slowly relieve his body of this powerful drug.

One week later, Jo and I drove to the hospital and my son came home.

I only went home to my own house on weekends, thankful for my own bed.

Home recover was slow but at least it happened. My emotional roller coaster seemed to level out. Everything seemed to be back to normal. Finally, after three-and-a-half- years, and spending his forty-fifth birthday in the hospital, my son was able to go back to work. We all relaxed – although I always worried about him. He adjusted well to his new internal BCIR colostomy pouch and his level of energy was back to normal.

Yes, I still worried. While his ulcerative colitis shouldn’t bother him anymore, my son’s job worried me. He was a trucker – a large, flat-bed trucker!

My husband and I were planning to drive the two hours to my son’s house the following week to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. But then -

Just when I thought I could relax a bit, my phone rang. It was Jo.

“Ken’s in the hospital. Please drive up.”

I never asked why because thinking of his past medical history, I automatically assume it had something to do with his bowels. I disconnected the call; told my husband I’d let him know what was happening as soon as I got to the hospital.

In the emergency room, I found my son with a large bandage wrapped around his head.

“What the hell?”

A disgruntled co-worker was in jeopardy of being fired for his improper work habits and in fear that my son might report him for not securing the load on the flat bed, attached Ken causing a fractured skull. Ken spent his fiftieth birthday in the hospital undergoing tests. The results were that the blow to his head caused irreparable brain damage.

Eight years have now come and gone. My son is still alive, but suffers daily with excruciating pain, acute sensitivity to light and sound, and an unsteady gait that causes him to use a walker. He also has short-term memory loss.

Watching him suffer has been the lives we now lead, and I do whatever I can to help my daughter-in-law when she reaches out.

He still has his difficulties but with his new medication, he’s functionable. He still needs his super-dark sunglasses and will always avoid loud sounds. But at least he’s at the point where he can hold a conversation.

As I sit here now, my son just finished his phone call with me, I keep praying that, while his brain injury is incurable, at least for the most part, he’s stable. I keep praying he’ll stay that way.

After all, he may be approaching his fifty-nineth birthday, but in my heart, he’s still my “boy”.