Time has run away with me (or perhaps without me) once again. If there’s still anyone still curious how the Veecherdude and his fam are doing after so many long breaks between entries, prepare to be amazed. 
We just returned from surgery #5: a “sphryncto-phringio-plasty.” I probably butchered the spelling of it, but in layman’s terms this procedure has permanently restricted Vitya’s air passage between his nose and throat by criss-crossing the muscles (not the glands) of the tonsils, stretching them across his throat and attaching them to the opposite sides. The purpose of the procedure is to give Veech a chance at normal speech, a chance that is nonexistant without it. Of course, this had some considerable risks, most minor (e.g., snoring, high risk of sinus infections/runny nose, etc.) but some more serious, namely the risk of developing sleep apnia.
What’s Sleep Apnia?
Apnia is a sleeping disorder that causes you to stop breathing as soon as you enter deep sleep. This, of course, causes you to wake up after a few seconds, gasp for breath, and try to get back to sleep. This happens hundreds of times each night for people who suffer from apnia. And I did not want my little guy to develop this, just because he wants to talk like a normal person.
This last Thursday night, the evening before Veechie’s surgery, true to tradition, we converged with several of our closest friends and descended upon Chuck E. Cheese. I sat quietly at our table, now covered with empty soda cups, wads of pizza-smudged napkins, game tokens, and a few sad slivers of cold pizza. Surrounded by singing puppets and screaming children, I watched my boys excitedly flit from game to game: Kenny with his buddies, competing at the freethrow line, then skee-ball, then cyber-motorcycle races; Veech excitedly trying to prop up a rifle and deftly aim at rabid wolves in a forest like a big boy. I just want him to have a normal life God, I silently prayed. I just want him to be able to talk like everybody else. Please, please don’t let him suffer with something worse, just in order to be normal.
Don’t forget to see the miracle
I remembered back to a conversation I had with my friend Amber, earlier that morning. “Why does it have to be so hard for Veech, why does he have to go through so much, just to be able to talk right?” I asked in tears.
“Jo, you have to remember that Veech isn’t comparing his life with your childhood or the lives of the kids around him. He’s comparing it to what he had. You have to remember where he’d be if he were still back in that orpahanage in Ukraine. He has a chance. That’s the point. He has a chance to be normal. That is a miracle. Don’t miss your chance to see it because you’re stuck comparing his life to kids’ lives who have it easier. That was never a reality for him until now.”
What would I do without friends like that?
Veech slept with me that night. Kenny, Veech, and I all snuggled together on a double futon at my sister Rachel’s house. I lay there listening to him silently sleeping like an angel, so softly and silently. He’s going to snore after tonight. This is the last night that he will sleep like this. God, I’ll trust you. I sure will miss this sweet sleeper. I softly wept in whisper-tears that slowly flowed down my pillow until I drifted into sleep.
Done Before We Knew It
Before we knew what happened, we were being whisked away to ICU. The surgery was over. It had been predicted to take 2-3 hours, but was finished in 90 minutes. Kenny and I, along with my mom, sister, and Veechie’s God-parents, formed a procession behind his gerney. He was conscious, wailing with pain and disorientation. They allowed me to go directly into the room, but everyone else needed to wait outside in the ICU waiting room. Before long, Veech was juiced up with morphine and everything began to calm down. The nurses brought in a sleeper-chair and set it next to the window for me. I took a few deep breaths of relief as I stared down at Veechie’s sleeping figure. He was snoring, but the snore was soft and sweet. He was going to be just fine.
Who Gave Man His Mouth?
For a couple of hours family filtered in one or two at a time. Then it was quiet. I sat staring out the window, then back at Veech. In that silent moment, God reminded me of a passage he had given me to pray over Veech during the stay of his first surgery:
“But Moses said to the LORD, ‘O Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.’
“The LORD said to him, ‘Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the LORD? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say‘” (Exodus 4:10-12, ephasis added).
I remembered. I know that this was spoken to Moses at a specific time for a specific purpose, but don’t I serve the same timeless God? If he doesn’t change, does it not apply to us today? God made Veech the way He did–not only to rescue him and save him for us, but to remind us through the restorative process that HE is the LORD, and HE Himself will help Veech to speak and teach him what to say.
I just needed to trust. Why does that come so hard sometimes?
Speedy Recovery
The hours rolled by, measured more in Disney movie titles than in minutes. Veech was awake, unable to speak but very alert. Alert enough to consistently refuse pain meds 4x longer than they had anticipated. They were under orders to give him meds up to every 2 hours; he was going as long as 6-8 hours before allowing them to administer it. “It’s that stoic Russian constitution,” one of the nurses said. I smiled. It could also be a merciful answer to my exhausted prayers. In my sleep-deprived state, I was so grateful that this one was so much easier.
What I Learned In Pediactric ICU
The next morning, Veech was talking. He was speaking softly–in a half-whisper–but it was distinctively clearer. He was excited to gain strength and go home. “When you can eat and drink, they’ll let you go home,” I told him. He smiled.
“I want apple sauce and chocolate pudding.”
Veech was also feeling too good to stay in bed. Still looking like a zombie with glassy eyes and an expressionless face, he asked if he could walk around. With the help of Leah the Wonder-Nurse, we did lap after lap around the ICU unit, trailing his beeping machines behind us. He had to stop at each room and waive at the mothers and the children and the nurses. One little boy was lying in a dark room. He had buzzed blonde hair and looked to be about Veechie’s age. His mom, thin and spent, sat next to the bed and leaned over him. Veech paused as the boys’ eyes met. The boy smiled. Veech waived. The boy struggled to sit up a little and waived back. “Look Veech,” I pointed out, “he has a light on his finger and tubes in his hand, just like you.” Veech held up his tubed hand and showed it to the boy. The boy held up his tube-laden hand and slowly waived it back. The mom started to cry. She rose from her seat and made her way to the sliding glass door that separated us. Bending down to speak to Veech, she started, “Thank you for coming to visit us.” She looked up at me. “He’s very, very sick.” She glanced back at her son. “Thank you for showing him that he’s here so he can get better.” Veech squeeked out a “You’re welcome” and the mother closed the door to return to her chair. I couldn’t leave yet. I opened the door.
“Wait–” she looked up.
“I’ll–we’ll be praying for you, okay?”
Another tear splashed onto her lap. “Thanks.”
I was flooded with emotion. What was wrong with her son? How did I get to be so lucky?
As we stopped so Veech could waive at every baby and child that was hooked up to so many machines and gadgets and surrounded by so many doctors and nurses, I couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed for feeling so bad for Veechie’s struggles. I want Veech to talk normally. Some of these kids will just be happy to make it out alive. It really puts life into perspective to be in ICU. When we returned to our room, we sat on the floor and prayed for the kids and the families we would be leaving behind. I felt a similar emotion to the one I had when we were leaving Ukraine: like we had somehow been snatched from the fire, but we couldn’t bear to have any of the other children burned. I know God’s heart feels this even more strongly, and He just gave us a tiny taste of His pain for these little ones.
Four hours later, we were on our way HOME! From ICU to home!
One night in the hospital, and now home.
A Beautiful Shock
Yesterday morning, I came into the kitchen to check on Veech, who was eating a breakfast of oatmeal and soup (that’s what he wanted!). His back was turned from me, so he was in his own world. He was looking around the kitchen, finding words he was previously unable to say:
“Frigerator!…and…Oven!….and…Sandwich!” I walked slowly to him. When he saw me, his eyes sparkled with pride and anticipation. “Mommy, listen.” He took a deep breath, then another, like a child who is preparing himself to jump from a diving board into deep waters. Suddenly he got his nerve: “LIGHT SWITCH!” WOW! My boy is talking! “And–Sissy! SHIP!” And this went on for over an hour. I don’t think either of us were able to contain ourselves very well.
And when Kenny came home from church it started all over again: “Daddy, I have a really, really hard one: SANTA CLAUS!” Kenny burst into laughter and tears.
A couple of times yesterday, we didn’t understand a word he was trying to say. The expression he gave was priceless, something in tandem with: “Now, I know this is you, because I got my upgrade and I’m not broken anymore.” But what came out was a long sigh and, “Mommmeeeeeee, you’re not listening.”
“Honey, I am listening. You do have a new throat now and we can understand you much better, but it’s only your second day using it. Miss Wendy (the speech pathologist) will help you practice some of the sounds that are still hard to understand. You’re fixed, but it’s still going to take practice for us to understand everything.” Another sigh. More attempts. And finally we understand. Everything still takes time.
Veech is still slow on his feet, still tired, still speaking more softly than usual, still occasionally choking on his food, still in some pain. But this is by far the easiest surgery yet. We are so grateful.
God is so good.
Who gave man his mouth? Is it not the Lord? Then He will help Veech speak and teach him what to say.
We just have to walk it out.
Love to you all.
jo
