Tag: health

Eighteen years later. This reflection is shared with my son’s permission.

My son’s brain surgery is now officially an adult.

I didn’t realize at the time how much that day would shape the way I see the world, other people, and myself. But it did, and I still carry it with me.

We began a mid-December Friday morning in 2007 at Phoenix Children’s Hospital with my seven-year-old son having markers (ones that looked sort of like Froot Loops) placed on his head. As I understood it, these markers would appear on an MRI used during his surgery. While the medical team placed them, they rolled in a video game console to keep him occupied.

Once the markers were in place, it was time to move him into the MRI room, where they would put him to sleep and I would say goodbye. The medical team reassured my son that the video games would be available during his hospital stay. He was excited about waking up and playing once he felt up to it.

I stayed with him while the anesthesiologist placed a mask on his face to put him to sleep before starting any IVs or performing the MRI. As soon as he was asleep, I was sent to the surgery waiting room, where my family and I waited through the rest of the long day. Our second child was almost six months old and spent the day with us, too. At the time, the hospital had not yet closed to child visitors for RSV season—a small mercy that would disappear by the very next day.

About twelve or thirteen hours later, my husband and I were finally allowed into recovery. The goal of the surgery was to remove the entire right temporal lobe of his brain to treat his epilepsy and, we hoped, stop his pervasive seizures. Just before midnight, everyone in the room breathed an audible sigh of relief when he moved his left toe. It was the sign we needed to know that the left side of his body was not paralyzed.

The surgery successfully controlled his seizures—a life-changing, and very likely life-saving, outcome. But it wasn’t without effects. It took time for his brain to build new synapses, and his brain processes information differently from people who have a right temporal lobe. He’s also blind in the upper left quadrant of his vision, which primarily affects his peripheral sight and could have been much worse. There are other realities that come with brain surgery, too, but these are things you learn over time rather than all at once.

Even so, he is here. He is happy and healthy. And I am deeply grateful to have him in my life.

What’s also true is that, eighteen years later, this experience still shapes how I see the world.

Leading up to the surgery, I knew we would be in the hospital for at least a week. If everything went well, we might be discharged just a few days before Christmas. As a mom—and as the person who felt responsible for bringing the magic of the season to life in our family—I felt pressure to get everything done before the surgery.

The Saturday before the procedure, I went to Target to finish my Christmas shopping. As soon as I walked in, I became overwhelmed and started to cry. I turned around, walked back to my car, sat there, and pulled myself together before driving home. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I sat in the car. 

At that moment, I couldn’t buy presents because I didn’t know what I would be coming home to later that month. My son was facing a major surgery that carried real risks: death, paralysis, or other outcomes that would permanently change his life, and ours. We hoped for seizure control, but hope didn’t erase uncertainty. I didn’t know who my son would be when the surgery was over, and that realization hit me all at once.

Anyone who saw me walk into Target that day would have seen a put-together young mom with an infant strapped to her in a Baby Björn. They wouldn’t have seen the fear, grief, or uncertainty underneath. My son’s life was the one at stake, but the experience shaped me, too, and it still does.

It affects how I see the world and how I see other people. I am constantly reminded that we don’t truly know what others are carrying. People show up, do their best, and move through the world while navigating circumstances we may never see. The same is true in the other direction, too. People may be experiencing incredible joy that remains invisible to us. That awareness has stayed with me and reminds me to lead with compassion.

During that season of my life, I was surrounded by people who loved me well—family, friends, and coworkers who knew what was happening and showed up for us. I was also deeply aware of God’s presence, especially through the prayers of those who interceded on our behalf. That support carried me through a season I couldn’t have navigated alone.

Eighteen years ago, I didn’t know who my son would be when the surgery was over.

Today, I know this: he is here. He is living his life. And I carry forward the lessons of that day quietly, daily, and intentionally.

That mid-December day still reminds me to lead with compassion, because we never truly know what others are carrying.