The occupational therapist spent half an hour reviewing methods for helping Eloise cope with oral aversion. I've heard all of it at least five times before, but I think they like reciting it to me.
Directly after this Eloise had an esophagram. I have never been in the room before when they did this, and did not know how it would proceed. They bound her legs together, pinned her shoulders to the table, and forced a tube down her throat and nose, injected contrast that tastes like chalk, and took an x-ray. Oh, and she was awake for the whole ordeal.
It struck me how ridiculous the situation was - the cautious, repetitive talk of the OT, and then the manhandling of an esophagram. It was baby torture, and mama torture. She won't be awake for the next one if I can help it.
The results of the esophagram were not what I hoped. She has a pretty significant stricture. It wouldn't hurt so much if I had not already signed the consent form for Eloise to be back-transferred to Utah Valley hospital.
When I have to draw on inner reserves of strength, I do not recall sane, calm or rational memories. I re-live the crazy ones, the ones when I touched sublimity. I remember dancing around a bonfire in the African bush well after midnight in my bare feet, cliff jumping, staying up all night with a friend to watch the sunrise over the desert. I think of how marriage, death and birth intermingled on the bank of the Ganges in Varanasi. Swimming in the ocean. Spontaneous trips to Paris with my dad.
If you, dear reader, have been contemplating doing something spontaneous or wild lately, consider this post your permission.