Grandchildren and Hospitals Don't Go Together

Our five-year-old granddaughter, Sarah, had to have an operation. She was born with a defective hip joint, and after trying less aggressive treatments her doctor decided she needed a hip joint created out of donor bone.

Apparently he does three of these a month at CHOC in Orange, but that doesn’t matter too much to me. I’m glad he’s considered an expert in this field…I’m glad CHOC exists and does wonderful work for many children…but I don’t want to see any more of my grandchildren in a hospital bed. Ever.

Her parents were playing it by ear, to see how she felt and how many of their many friends should come and visit right after the operation. In the end, Sarah had the final say and the only people she wanted to see were Grampy, Grammy, and Aunt Mary, who's home for semester break. So we got in the car at 6:30 pm and drove to CHOC. As is often the case, we couldn’t find a space in the parking garage, and while we were spiraling around hoping for a break I got a text from her mom.

“Sarah’s wondering where you are. She really wants to see you.”

We found a space – finally – and then got lost locating her room. It was nearly 8:00 when we got there, but her big smile when she saw us was enough. She reached out her arms to give me a hug and I nearly lost it. And I thought of my grandmother, Momo.

When I was five I broke my finger, and had to go to the emergency room. I remember how swollen it was, and what the metal splint felt like. But mostly I remember marching into my grandmother’s room and showing it to her. “It hurts!” I wailed. She put her soft hand on it and gave me a piece of information I’ve kept with me, and used, many times since. “Just think, honey. Every night when you go to bed, you’re one day closer to your finger being healed.”

Sarah began to fidget, and suddenly her parents realized her pain meds were wearing off. Soon she was crying, and they couldn’t find the nurse and the nurse couldn’t get the laptop to work, and she needed to call the doctor…all while I shrunk as small as I could in the far corner of the room. Ron and Mary were sitting outside, listening to Sarah crying. And we were all helpless.

Soon all was put right, and we were leaving to let her sleep. As I leaned over her bed to say goodbye, I whispered:

“Just think, Sarah. Every night when you go to bed you’re one day closer to this being over.”

I hope she heard me. She might want to say it one day to her granddaughter.