The scope.

The story continues.....
The GI specialist recommended getting a scope (camera down the throat and into the belly) so she could really see what was going on inside.  See if the problem was the esophagus, the gut, the intestines....
I scheduled the appointment for one week later.  Within the hour I was questioning the decision.  I read alot.  Researched alot.  Asked my dad a boat load of questions.  Asked the doctor a boat load more.  By evening I had decided to cancel the appointment.  The anxiety was too much.  I didn't want to risk his life for the sake of sleep.  I've gotten used to this.  We're functioning.  We're safe.  That night, Carter projectile puked.  Everywhere.  Fire hose puke.  Strong and long distance.  Carpet, blankets, bed, walls, me, him, bathroom, mirror.....e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e....  A "shout" from God or coincidence??  That's the problem with me.  I get answers and I still second-guess.  So God sometimes has to do multiple shouts.  He's very patient with me.
I kept the appointment.  A few days later I was questioning again.  And that night Carter puked.  Again.   This time I did a little better job containing and managed to keep it on 2 blankets and 2 pillows.  Gross, I know.  I have to add here that he hasn't been throwing up.  Since he quit spitting up around 7ish months, he'd only thrown up a few times. (Because puking around here is as common as sneezing it didn't phase us much).
As we drove home from Las Vegas (a post for another day), I had plenty of time to think.  And prioritize.  And worry.  And plan.  And still thought maybe we wouldn't go through with it.  Because there was a chance he wouldn't wake up.  Or the doctor would make a mistake.  Or the anesthesiologist would give him too much gas. Or........he'd die.  Yes, it's extreme, but possible.  And the thought crossed my mind more than once.  And it was too painful to even think about.
The scope was scheduled for 1pm.  No food after midnight (including milk).  I had asked if we could do first thing in the morning so I wouldn't have to starve him so long but my doctor said she didn't do those in the morning.  At 4pm the day before, I got a call from Primary Children's Hospital.  They changed the schedule so we'd be first thing.  I questioned the girl knowing my doctor had said it wasn't possible.  She got a little snippy with me and said to be there at 6:30am.  Procedure was at 8.  And yes, she was sure.
That night Carter puked.  Again.  3rd time in 1 week.  Thank you, God, for shouting at me.  He knows me.  I know He knows me.
We pulled Carter out of bed at 5:40am.  My always-ready-to-help mom came down to stay with the girls and get them off to school.  We checked in at 6:30.  Did the rounds of weight, height, temperature, etc.  Changed him into his cute hospital jammies and were sent to the pre-op waiting room.  It was 7:30.  30 minutes to go.
7:50am the nurse came out to meet us.  She gave me my bio-hazard looking suit to put on so I could stay with Carter until he fell asleep.  The anesthesiologist came next.  He was apparently "the best".  Thank you, God.  I asked a few more questions.  Expressed a few more concerns.  He did his best to re-assure a very worried mom.
8:00 rolls around.  No doctor.  8:15.  Still waiting.  8:30 I question the nurses.  "Does she even know we're here?"  They re-assured.  8:45, nothing.  And then I saw the nurses in the hall.  With that "look" on their face.  Drawing straws who had to come talk to me.  And then came the anesthesiologist.  "I have some news.  Doctor H. isn't coming until 1pm.  No one told her the schedule was changed."  Um, I'm sorry, what?  She's not coming?  We've been here for 3 hours.  Waiting.  And now we get to wait for 4 more?  Really?  Are you sure?
Now let us pause.  Because I had a choice to make.  I could be mad, and let them know.  I could throw a fit.  I could demand to know whose fault it was.  All of which would probably be justified.  But minutes before this happened, I watched a mother of a boy who was probably 10.  He was handicapped.  Not sure the severity, but he didn't speak, just grunted.  And he was terrified to be there.  And by the time it was his turn, he was dry-heaving (didn't have anything in his stomach to throw-up) from nervousness.  And I watched his mom.  His brave mom.  Who stoically did what she had to do to help her son in that moment.  And when it was time for him to go, he was surrounded by 7 or 8 staff members, 2 of which picked him up and carried him to the room screaming where they obviously had to pin him down to get him to sleep.
We were in Primary children's hospital.  A hospital where the sickest of sick kids go to be seen. Where kids have cancer.  And kids die.  Every day.  Every hour.
This was the perspective.
The nurses were apologizing.  And apologizing.  And you could tell they felt so bad.  It wasn't their fault.  Didn't really matter whose fault it was.  Because in perspective, having to wait 4 more hours was really not a big deal.  These people were about to take the life of my baby into their hands.  I needed them calm.  I needed them clear-headed.  I needed them to love us and to take the best care they could of Carter.
No. Big. Deal.
I talked them out of some jello and apple juice so I didn't feel like he was completely starving and we left to hang out at my sister-in-laws to kill the time (thanks again Holly).
Carter was a champ.  Could not have been better.  He took a nap on the way back to the hospital and was happy as could be by the time we got back.  Probably a little divine intervention here.  :)
This time, the doctor was there.  Yea.
I put my biohazard suit back on and went with Carter to the room.  For future reference, this was probably a bad idea.  I had to pin down his arms while the anesthesiologist smothered him with the mask.  He screamed.  And tried to get away.  It was ugly for about 30 seconds.  And then his whole body went limp and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.  Not the last vision I wanted before I left the room.
"Give him a big kiss" the doctor said.
"Whoa buddy--don't say that like this is the last time I'll see him.  You be careful.  All of you.  Take care of my baby."
They laughed.
I left.
And then we waited.  Nervously.  Anxiously waited.
Things went faster than I expected and they called me back (you can only have one parent with the child as they're waking up) before he was awake.  The nurse said it had been 10 minutes and no movement.  Not abnormal.  But still kind of freaky as the mom.  I started rubbing his head and back and talking to him.
"Time to wake up buddy."
5 minutes later his eyes popped open. And he. was. MAD.  Really mad.  Screaming mad.
He was confused, he hurt, and he wanted out.  I held him.  And sang to him.  And bounced him.  I know how to do "mad Carter".  Then the nurse pumped in some pain meds through his IV and he settled down.  I gave him some juice, and hummed to him until he fell asleep.  Sound asleep.
The doctor came and talked to me.  Everything looked "visually normal".  A good thing.  We certainly don't want anything major to be wrong.  A quick fix would be nice.
They moved us to the second room of recovery where Mike was allowed to come back and see him.  Carter loves his daddy and woke up enough to reach for him.
We're now waiting on lab results for the bazillion things she tested him for.  We should know more in a few days.
Overall it was a very interesting experience.  And I didn't realize how hard it was until it was over.  And I felt like I'd been hit by a bus.  It's not something I'd like to do again.  Ever.
We're still not sleeping great around here, but we're alive.  And during the day, Carter is hilarious.  He's my buddy.  Happy.  Playful.  Full of energy.  His spirit is way too big for his little itty bitty body.
But compared to what could be wrong, what we could have to deal with, this really is no big deal.  We're doing just fine.  :)  Really.  Just fine.