Brantley is no stranger to surgery; it's become almost routine, with the need to go under anesthesia at least once a year. All but one time we've been fortunate enough to head home shortly after the procedure. But tomorrow is different. The medical team has advised us to prepare for an overnight stay.
Oddly, it's not the surgery itself that keeps me up at night. Brantley's resilience to pain has been evident, making his recoveries relatively smooth. Instead, it's the prospect of being confined to a hospital room that gnaws at me. The unfamiliar environment, the absence of his own room—it's a recipe for anxiety, especially for a boy who's only spent four nights away from home in eight years. Each time was accompanied by Brantley's unmistakable mania.
This morning, I sat Brantley down to prepare him for what lies ahead, his blue eyes focused on me so pensively as I tried to simplify the procedure, likening it to taking a nap while the doctors did their work. Oh, how I wish I could take that nap for him! I reassured him that both Daddy and I would be by his side when he woke up, but I couldn't sugarcoat the possibility of an overnight stay. All I could do was promise that I'd be there with him.
Watching the worry etch itself onto his young face breaks my heart. There's nothing in this world I loathe more than feeling powerless in the ability to ease his fears. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be tough, but I'll cling to the hope that our presence will offer him some comfort. And I will say my prayers that they will change their minds and let me load up our lovable boy and head home after the procedure, because the familiarity of home is what will truly comfort him.
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