I set out to write an honest post about what it’s like to be drawing close to a big surgery that could change our lives dramatically without knowing whether that change will be dramatically good or dramatically bad. I think that the best picture I can give of what that feels like is to say that right now, I’m not at a point where I can dive into all that.

Let’s just say there are feels. Lots of feels. So many that I kind of need to ignore the feels and stick with facts for now.

So here are some facts and tips from our first three experiences with big surgeries, along with some additions from other minor surgeries we’ve had along the way. L was only 3.5 months old at his last big surgery, so my facts and tips regarding those kinds of procedures are focused on tiny bodies and very early stages of development, and I don’t have advice for preparing older children to understand what’s about to happen – although I would love to hear yours, if you have some.

Here’s what I do have:

Ask questions. Early and often, and don’t stop until you’re satisfied with the answers. Write down a list of questions and bring it to appointments with you to make sure you get them all answered. Ask them to explain again if you don’t understand. Ask questions even if you don’t really know what you need to ask.

A good place to start may be to ask what kinds of things you should be asking, especially if you can connect with a knowledgeable and objective third party – a parent who’s gone through the same procedure; a specialist or surgeon who is familiar with the diagnosis or procedure but is not involved in your child’s care (i.e. before we met with the surgeon who’s going to be operating on L next month, I had emailed a surgeon at Boston Children’s and had inquired with specialists at two other hospitals in other states via friends, just asking what we should ask the surgeon and if they had any advice to help us make our decision).

And at L’s second surgery, our surgeon had expressed concern about keeping L under anesthesia for any longer than he had to after the two-hour mark, but we were expecting a minimum of four hours in the OR; in our pre-op meeting with the team, I simply turned to the anesthesiologist and said, “Make me feel better about this.” And you know what? She did.

You can probably accompany your child further than you think. If they don’t offer, ask. For L’s last line placement, I scrubbed up and carried him right into the operating table, then stayed with him and held his hand and talked to him while they put the gas mask on to start sedation. Plus then you get a cool paper outfit and neat hat and stuff that you’ll definitely want to keep for the scrapbook.

Do not do this if you’re going to freak the flip out once you get in there. Seeing the OR could be scary. Your child might struggle with being handed over, or laid on a table, or with getting the mask, or a number of other things. It’s a horrible feeling to watch your child’s eyes glaze over and drift away. If any of these things are going to make you lose it, don’t go in. You’re not taking the easy way out; you’re doing what’s best for your child. The surgical team needs to be focused on taking care of your kid, not on calming you down.

Anesthesia is scary – but in most cases, it’s maybe less scary than it seems. The anesthesiologist that I mentioned told me that there were people in the OR whose sole job was to monitor vitals and make sure that if there were any signs of adverse reactions, the surgeon knew to wrap it up immediately. She also told me that while extended anesthesia in babies and young children has been linked with developmental disorders and delays, it’s likely that correlation does not equal causation because children who undergo extensive anesthesia have a reason for needing multiple and/or lengthy surgeries, and those reasons are more likely to be the cause of those correlations than the anesthesia itself (i.e. L had gross motor delays, but he had his abdomen cut wide open three times and spent a good deal of his first few months flat on his back, for pete’s sake).

Ask for updates. Most hospitals probably have some kind of update system in place – we could see on a screen what phase of the procedure they were in based on a color coding system, for example. But ask what else they might be able to do. During L’s big surgeries, we had a nurse call my cell phone right from the ER to give updates on how things were progressing. This not only was a huge reassurance, but it also meant we didn’t have to sit in the heavy hush of the waiting room for 6+ hours. Which brings me to my next point:

Don’t just sit in the waiting room the whole time. Get up. Walk around. Eat something. Go outside. Bring a laptop and find somewhere comfy to watch something stupid on netflix. Maybe even laugh, if you can. You’re allowed to feel things besides fear and anxiety and dread.

Be prepared for post-op. Ask what to expect, and be prepared for it to not go 100% smoothly. This will vary greatly based on the type of procedure. If you’re expecting invasive neonatal or infant surgery here are some things I was completely and totally unprepared for:

• Swelling. Preemies and infants are tiny. Surgeries involve an awful lot of retained fluids, and in an 8-lb person there’s not a lot of space for all that fluid to go. They cut open L’s belly, but the swelling extended all the way up to his face and right down to the tips of his toes. L was almost unrecognizable for a while after his big surgeries. That was hard, and made harder by how unprepared we were to see him like that.

• Intubation. I knew they would intubate him. I was not prepared for the way it felt to see my child crying silently around a vent tube.

• Pain management. It took a little while to find exactly the right combination of meds to keep him comfortable. And in the second week, when I was asked to weigh in on giving him another dose of narcotics or not, I was not prepared for the way it felt to see him slowly glaze over and drift away again and know that I had made that choice.

• Unexpected outcomes. L’s jejunostomy was a difficult one, to say the least, and we thought it would be gone after his second surgery. The surgery was more complicated than we’d expected, and he kept that ostomy for another 6 weeks. It had not occurred to us that they wouldn’t be able to take down the ostomy at the second surgery, and so we felt a little defeated even though the news from the surgery was generally very good. If you’re up to it, hash out every possible outcome and complication with your surgeon before surgery so you can go into post-op as informed and prepared as possible.

• Backward steps. Recovery = progress = moving forward. But sometimes, it’s not a straight line. Sometimes your kid isn’t ready for what you’d like them to be ready for. Sometimes there isn’t a clear finish line. Sometimes steps back are necessary for progress.

Accept help. People will probably offer. You will probably be inclined to turn them down. If you need something, don’t be afraid to say yes, and specify what you need.

Be gentle with yourself. Whatever you’re feeling? It’s okay. You might not react the way you expect. You and your partner might react differently. That’s okay too. Z tended to get emotional at all the appropriate times, like when we found out good news and bad news, and I tended to sit stone-faced through post-op debriefs feeling like an a**hole because I wasn’t properly emotional, but then cry at all the inappropriate times, like in the checkout line at the grocery store or driving 70 mph down the highway (that last one might be less okay).

If you find yourself needing more support, whether from family and friends or medical staff or a therapist – seek it. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve spent most of that time taking care of someone else. Remember to take care of yourself too.

I’ve done this a few times, but I don’t claim to be an expert. This is the kind of thing that’s never quite the same, and always hard. If you have more tips or advice, please leave a comment!

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