Roan was born with an undescended testicle. Which isn't so unusual - a lot of times they come down on their own, in their own time. When it hadn't gone anywhere by three months we went to see a pediatric urologist. She said if it didn't come down by six months, it would probably stay put. So we waited. We egged it on. But at six months, the testicle hadn't budged. It remained pretty high up, hanging out in the vicinity of Roan's abdomen, which is not an ideal environment for a testicle.
Fast forward to Wednesday at the urologist's office (Roan is ten months old). We were encouraged to hear that the testicle had relocated. It had moved down (great news!), but it had taken a wrong turn and was headed for Roan's leg (terrible news).
It was lost.
You can imagine how hard it was for me not to ask a barrage of really stupid questions. Would the testicle ever find its way, or was it, like the ancient hero Odysseus, cursed to wander? Could it move back up, or only laterally and down (like Tetris)? Once it was surgically placed in the scrotum, was there any guarantee it would finally settle down and stay put?
There was no time for questions. We had to go to the lab for blood work right away. It's really hard to take blood from a baby, because their arms are so fat, and they have tiny baby veins. Roan was asleep when they called us, and the nurse thought that maybe he'd just sleep through it. Right. They had to dig around a bit to find the vein, and Roan still has a bright blue bruise.
Friday morning we woke up and tried to act normal, but Roan sensed something was amiss. We couldn't give him breakfast; he looked longingly up at the counter top, where the Cheerios come from. Even so, he was good natured. We met with the nurses and an anaesthesiologist, and Roan charmed them all. In addition to general anaesthesia, Roan received a caudal block, which is basically an epidural. The surgery lasted close to two hours, and having gone through this once before, it was easier for me this time around. I didn't watch him go under this time - the hospital was strict about only allowing one parent in the operating room, and that was Jay.
When they brought us into recovery Roan was fast asleep on one of the nurses, who was reluctant to hand him over. He smelled wrong, like hospital, but it was wonderful to hold him and feel him snore. When he woke up he kept trying to stand in my lap, but his legs were too weak from the caudal, so he just flopped around, which was sad, but also a little funny. Jay and I alternated between giggling and tearing up.
There's something elemental about holding your child after surgery, watching him fight his way up through the fog of anaesthesia and realize he's back in the world. It's like when I first held him after he was born. There's this profound relief that he's okay, and even a bit of amazement that he's alive and exists at all. For a moment, it's like you are discovering each other all over again. And then he's back to his old tricks.
This weekend was rough, but here are some photos to assure you that the Robot is back in form:
When they brought us into recovery Roan was fast asleep on one of the nurses, who was reluctant to hand him over. He smelled wrong, like hospital, but it was wonderful to hold him and feel him snore. When he woke up he kept trying to stand in my lap, but his legs were too weak from the caudal, so he just flopped around, which was sad, but also a little funny. Jay and I alternated between giggling and tearing up.
There's something elemental about holding your child after surgery, watching him fight his way up through the fog of anaesthesia and realize he's back in the world. It's like when I first held him after he was born. There's this profound relief that he's okay, and even a bit of amazement that he's alive and exists at all. For a moment, it's like you are discovering each other all over again. And then he's back to his old tricks.
This weekend was rough, but here are some photos to assure you that the Robot is back in form:
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