Today Rowan went to the hospital for an MRI. Because he is only three, they put him under anesthesia. I think that it would not have been so awful for me if this had been a year and a half ago. I guess I cant say for sure, but today was... beyond horrible.
It started with the build up, as all hard things do. For the last couple days I have had horrific images running through my head... having to see him the way I saw my other son, having to feel his cold skin, and having to make those phone calls... to stay sane and tell other people that I have lost a child. I lived it in my head in flashes, and each one came with a sharp pain deep in my heart.
I haven't slept much. I haven't been concentrating. I cant control this fear. I told myself that the risk was low. I told myself that it is for the better. Doctors do this all the time. He is a strong and healthy boy. No amount of justification took away that fear.
Being in the hospital was hard. Being in those rooms. It wasn't, but it may as well have been the room that Rhys went to, where they tried so desperately and so fruitlessly to bring him back to life. Those rooms weren't, but may as well have been the rooms that my children played in, blissfully unaware of the grief surrounding their parents. They may as well have been the rooms that we cried in... well, I did cry in them. I couldn't help it. I was so scared.
Then I watched them put him out. I watched him and was so scared, waiting for something to go wrong. I watched him breathing and sleeping, his chest rising and falling as it was supposed to be. I kissed his face and could do nothing but wait.
Things went perfect. Rowan went through his scan with no problem, and he woke up with no problem. He is my perfect boy.
But after today, I feel so broken.
