IMG_1763More surgery.  Words you come to love and hate.  No one wants to put their child through hospital stays, anesthesia, catheterization…  No one wants their baby poked, pricked, prodded and cut.

But there it is, that magic word – hope.   It floats around the recovery room like a flock of butterflies, refusing to be wrangled but seemingly just within reach.  Meds are simply a temporary solution to a permanent problem.  Cerebral Palsy is a permanent problem.  Surgery isn’t always successful but it’s the highest of our hopes.

On April 16th Dane will go in for his fifth, no sixth, maybe seventh surgery.  After the last ‘under the knife’ debacle I lost count – on purpose.  We had made the right decision but the best laid plans…

After the last round of medical intervention went terribly wrong I decided and declared to Dane that from here on out all major surgical procedures would happen only if we decided on them together.

I kept that promise.  On the way home from our last ortho follow-up I asked Dane what he wanted to do next.  After the PA showed Dane the x-rays of another little girl (no names of course – damn you HIPPA laws!) he was convinced that he too might one day walk the earth, part robot, part awesome.  Thank you to the physician’s assistant, the little girl who went before him and the amazing doctor who helped shape Dane’s decision with the utmost respect and care.

Dane uttered his own declaration, in the car, on the way home (after demanding that I film it of course).  He would have the operation; he would walk some day and his big brother Jett needed to be put on notice.

I believe him.  I believe every determined, stubborn word that blurts from his lips.  I’ve never stared determination in the eye and known with complete certainty that someone would, no doubt, try as hard as a body and mind can try, until Dane.  He will, no doubt, do the best that he can.  Period.  I don’t care what the outcome will be anymore – just as long as he tries.

He will have his abductor muscles cut and lengthened.  He will have his femurs severed, twisted, turned and returned to the place from whence they once came.  They will place metal rods where my baby boy just can’t bear the weight of such a change on his own.  And we will watch as he is given an opportunity to stand on his own two feet for the very first time.

No, I don’t pretend to know the specifics of what these doctors do.  We’ve done the research, we know his doc.  We’ve built a relationship and foundation of trust with these caregivers and health care professionals that goes so far beyond their job description that it’s probably against the ‘rules’ somehow, and I don’t care.

With this next step we hold our breath and hold out hope.  Hope.  Such a simple, complicated, lovely word that we never truly understood until our beautiful boys were born.  Because of them I know that my life is exactly where it should be.  My boys are exactly who they should be.  My family is exactly where we should be and we have nothing to fear as long as we have each other and continue to have hope.