The More Things Change

I had a chance to visit my alma mater with Henry earlier this month. The last time I was on campus, I was entering my third trimester, pregnant with the same kid that just asked me on the drive out to Indiana what a 401k is. Time is funny like that. One minute, you’re crouched over their crib moving stuffed animals to a safe distance. The next, you’re putting a television in their room and making them pledge not to watch questionable content on Netflix.

84AB2769-04D7-4589-99A1-2907A58775D5

It was a bit surreal to be back in my college town. Especially with a teenager. Goodness, I was a teenager when I began school there. Only about four years older than Henry is now. Drunk on freedom. (Also, probably alcohol.) Walking the same streets with your teenager that you walked as a young adult while fervently hoping and praying that the beautiful person next to you doesn’t make the same mistakes you did is quite a trip. I refrained from pointing out the houses and apartment complexes where I partied the hardest, preferring to prudently hi-light the remodeled student recreation center and underground library instead.

7D8CC15B-DD08-404E-A238-00F15D86F465

Things have changed so much in the fourteen years since my last visit. New buildings. New businesses. New bars. Everything a little different, even if achingly familiar.

For one thing, transportation on campus has changed dramatically. When we first arrived and began walking around on Friday afternoon, I noticed there were these lanes next to the sidewalk. Sometimes separated by a median, sometimes just painted lines. The minute I realized – and began to appreciate – that they had finally designated separate bike lanes, a student flew by us on a motorized skateboard. That was the beginning of a weekend filled with a lot of things… zooming in our peripheral vision. Motorized skateboards. Motorized bicycles. Motorized scooters. Many things with wheels wheeling students from place to place. In ye olden days, we walked or rode bikes until things turned icy in winter and then we just, well, walked.

The dormitory situation has changed, too. Campus seemed filled with new apartment-style dorms. They looked very fancy and very comfortable. I distinctly remember that by the time I graduated, some of the newer dorms being constructed were designed suite-style, with attached bathrooms for each room. I remember being jealous of the incoming class of students that didn’t have to haul their shower basket down the hall wearing flip-flops and a robe, to the communal bathrooms. But, now some of these even newer places have balconies. And, Starbucks in the lobby. I mean, what luxury is this? The dorm I lived in as a freshman, has air conditioning now. What kind of grit are we instilling in our next generation if they can’t even make it through an Indiana August in 90 degree heat on the twelfth floor of a building that has no hope of a cross breeze?

Also, I guess most of the dining services have been consolidated now. No one heads to the basement of their dorm each morning for questionable scrambled eggs. Now, you go to a stand alone dining hall that services a few of the dorms that are clustered in that area. I mean, the dining hall we stopped into was lovely and the selection of food was kind of amazing but there was not a single deep fried button mushroom with a side of ranch dressing to be found and so that made me sad. Times have certainly changed.

The student union looked mostly the same – all dark wood paneling and quiet nooks and crannies – until we rounded the corner and were greeted by the blaring white spaceship lighting of an Amazon pickup store. So, that’s a new thing, I guess. Back in my day, we used to have to beg the video store delivery guy to stop and get us snacks from the convenience store next door on the way to our dorm. These days, the kids can get parts for their motorized skateboards delivered next day. By drone, probably. Right to the balconies of their air conditioned dorms, I’m assuming.

F2F32D45-4A25-4477-870D-613902C6080E

It wasn’t all new. Indiana is still just as flat as it’s always been. That hasn’t changed. We took the non-interstate route north from Indianapolis to reach Lafayette and the flatness is truly remarkable. After almost six years of living in the mountains of Virginia, I think I had forgotten what it’s like to be able to see all of the way to the horizon. Henry must have thought I was delirious from the long drive because I just kept saying, “Can you BELIEVE how FLAT it is? I mean, SO FLAT, right?”

I took Henry to Arni’s, a Lafayette tradition since forever. They’d remodeled the restaurant at some point in my absence so that was freshened up a bit but it still smelled the same inside. Just like ever-so-slightly burnt crust. The pizza was the same, too. A thin crust with tangy tomato sauce and topped with sliced mushrooms that came from a can which is the only appropriate way to top a pizza with mushrooms. The salad has remained the same as well, made from non-nutrient dense iceberg lettuce with copious amounts of shredded cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Served with what can only be described as a tureen-sized container of Thousand Island dressing. I love a restaurant that still serves Thousand Island dressing.

The football game was just as much fun as when I was a student, too. The stadium hasn’t changed much, albeit maybe a little bit bigger than when I was last on campus. I seem to remember an addition going on, funded after one particularly successful football season that has yet to be replicated. It was also a little bit colder than I remember ever being bothered by as a student. I’m not sure if that’s because I’ve lived in the south for eighteen years or because I wasn’t insulated by beer consumption. Regardless, all-in-all just as thrilling and nail-biting as a Big Ten college football game always promises to be. The band just as entertaining and awe-inducing as I remember. I loved it. Every minute of it.

035E8D2B-1A33-4156-9345-A4B067435956

At one point during our weekend on campus, Henry mentioned that he felt a little out of place walking around. “It feels a little weird,” he said. Like he was too young to be there. Too young to really belong just yet.

Which, I understood since I felt a little too old to be there. Especially jarring since it seems like just yesterday that I was there, seventeen years old, wondering if I belonged, too.

He can’t imagine what lies ahead and I can’t believe what lies behind. Everything past, present, and future. All together. Time is funny like that.

 

Thirteen

As of 5:22 this morning, I am the parent of a teenager.

That went fast.

I keep a set of pictures in my wallet. They’re of my children. One wallet-sized picture of each of them from every school year. I’m not even really sure when or why I started keeping them like that. No one seems too interested in school pictures anymore. I casually asked Henry if he wanted a set of this year’s photos to trade with his friends and by his absolutely bewildered reaction, I’m assuming students no longer do this. Just another industry killed by millennials or Facebook, I’m guessing they’ll say. But, on a moment’s notice, I can make the march of time tangible by pulling out the thin stack of photographs from my wallet, laying them all in a row, and marveling at how my kids have changed through the years.

I can see how my bespectacled kindergartner has become a bespectacled middle schooler. How he still, begrudgingly, after all of these years, agrees to wear the one collared shirt he owns on picture day. How he looks the same and yet so very different. How I think I can get a glimpse of what he’ll look like when another eight years pass. How I sometimes feel like I only know him in the present and have completely forgotten how he was in the past.

At thirteen, Henry has become a kind, interesting, funny, sporty, and (somewhat consistently) respectful adolescent.

I’ve found myself over the past several months asking other moms who have parented teenagers what the journey is like. I’m afraid I ask questions of them like I would the big cats caretaker at the zoo – a mix of earnest curiosity and inherit fear. The answers I receive are frequently mixed. For every, “It’s not so bad,” there’s a, “No comment.” One parent will speak fondly of the time while another just looks off into the distance, a little battle-weary. I’m always left with the impression that the teenage years are something to survive rather than relish.

And, we have many, many years of survival ahead of us. During a particularly challenging parenting moment a few weeks ago, when the dust from the frustration and the anger was settling all around us, I looked at Bob and said, “We have a full DECADE of parenting teenagers ahead of us. We didn’t really think this through when we decided to have three of them, did we?”

It’s strange to be beginning this journey. It makes me feel old in a way that turning forty never did. I’m old enough to have a teenager! I still remember being a teenager. It all feels like the start of something but also the end of something. Fun and exciting but also destined for frustration and heartbreak. But, that could describe every stage of parenting.

I suppose teenagers are just a different kind of difficult.

The Other Side

When Henry was little more than a week old, I noticed each of his eyes had a single white spot right in the middle. The spots weren’t exactly symmetrical but there was one in each eye. A pair.

Henry had begun to open his eyes for longer periods of time, focusing on what he could in the world around him. I noticed the white spots while I was feeding him and we were gazing lovingly, exhaustedly into each other’s eyes. Him, undoubtedly wondering who this lady was that wouldn’t stop crying and me, wondering if I would ever sleep again ever in my whole entire life.

I wasn’t concerned because I was way too tired to be anything but tired but I do remember getting up from the chair we were sitting in and peering in the bathroom mirror to see if I, too, had white spots in the center of my eyes. My sleep-deprived mind had thought maybe it was a structural thing in the eye that I had simply forgotten we all had? But, no, I did not have white spots in my eyes.

Henry’s pediatrician at the time was part of a very busy group practice near our home. When I took Henry for his two-week checkup, the scheduling backup at the office meant we were seeing a doctor we had not seen prior. He was a founding physician of the practice and his son worked there as well. He was older and kind and patient and when, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned the white spots in Henry’s eyes and did he think those were supposed to be there, he took a closer look and casually exclaimed, “Oh, I see those, yes. He has cataracts.”

We never saw that doctor in the practice again and I’m not exactly sure why. I remember reading about his passing a short time later and thinking that the randomness of our appointment with him was one of the more fortuitous events in our lives because he referred us to the pediatric ophthalmologist that would eventually save Henry’s vision.

001_24A

Ten days after that newborn checkup, Bob and I took a wee baby Henry to Children’s National Medical Center to have his cataracts officially diagnosed. I remember Henry nestled in a bucket car seat we had borrowed from friends. I remember meeting his ophthalmologist for the first time – a man that would feature so prominently in our lives for more than a decade. I remember wishing I had written down more of what the doctor had said. I remember being a little scared and mostly being really, really sad.

And, I remember exactly what Henry was wearing that day – a onesie and matching pants given to us from a neighbor. The little shirt was covered with knights slaying dragons.

For the next three years, we continued with regular, frequent appointments with Henry’s ophthalmologist, tracking the progression of the cataracts and trying our best to determine what, exactly, Henry could see. Wrestling a toddler through an hours-long ophthalmology appointment is just as fun as it sounds. There’s the waiting room wait, followed by blatant coercion to cooperate in the exam room, then the application of stinging eye drops, followed by more waiting, and finally wrapping up with yet another lengthy exam. It was challenging and difficult. Henry once accidentally punched the nurse administering the eye drops. I never seemed to bring enough of the good snacks or the right toys. But, we eventually got into a routine and each appointment was a little easier than the last. Plus, the waiting room played non-stop Disney Junior.

Shortly after Charlie was born, in the summer of 2009, one of these routine appointments turned up the presence of secondary cataracts in both of Henry’s eyes. His congenital cataracts had changed as he had grown and the situation was more pressing and his condition more serious. If Henry’s clouded natural lenses weren’t replaced, his vision would be further compromised. And, compromised vision in a young child means that the critical connection between his eyes and his developing brain would also be compromised.

Surgery was inevitable and, following some intensive testing to rule out genetic disorders commonly associated with congenital cataracts, Henry was scheduled for surgery on the first eye – his left – the following May, when he was four years old.

DSC_0333

My memories of the nine months between Henry’s diagnosis of secondary cataracts and his first eye surgery are cloudy. I’m convinced it’s a trick my mind plays to safeguard my heart from how absolutely overwhelming life was at the time. We had just completed a whole-house renovation, I had shifted from full-time to part-time work, Charlie had surgery to repair a birth defect that included a rather complicated convalescence, and we were in the beginning stages of Bob’s heart health journey. In one particularly unimaginable day, I checked Bob out of the cardiology wing of our hospital after an overnight stay for a heart procedure and we walked – very slowly – to the children’s wing of that same hospital so Charlie could have an emergency ultrasound due to a post-surgery complication. I have no idea what the receptionist in the children’s imaging center must have thought at the sight of us. Charlie, agitated in the stroller, Bob wearily slumped in his chair, hospital bands still affixed around his wrist. Me, staring blankly ahead, willing all of this to just be over, please be over.

But, by May of 2010, we were ready to fix Henry’s eyesight. We had seen some very dark days and, like seasoned warriors, we were ready for the new battle ahead.

However, Henry’s first surgery did not go as planned. Cataract surgery in young children can be difficult since the eye is so malleable at that age. It took his doctor three attempts to get Henry’s new artificial lens to sit in Henry’s eye correctly. It was a long and worrisome surgery followed by a long and difficult recovery.

The three biggest challenges in recovery being to prevent Henry from touching or rubbing the eye, to encourage Henry to open and use the eye, and to administer steroid drops directly into the eye which is akin to wrestling a grizzly bear to the ground but being, you know, gentle about it. I remember having to pin Henry to the carpet, his arms restrained under my knees, my left hand gingerly opening his delicate, damaged eye, my right administering the drops while he screamed and thrashed. We’ve both recovered from this trauma but just barely, if I’m being honest.

DSC_0473

Two months later, we did it all over again with his right eye.

Weeks after that second surgery, a suture from the first surgery popped, a rare complication necessitating an under-anesthesia repair. I discovered the popped suture BECAUSE YOU COULD SEE IT STICKING OUT OF HIS EYEBALL. Let that sink in for a minute.

Three months after that suture repair, another suture in the OTHER eye popped, requiring ANOTHER under-anesthesia repair. Henry’s doctor was amazed. We weren’t. We were just really tired.

At this point, Bob and I were getting pretty good at the dividing and conquering part of parenthood. One of us would remain with Charlie while the other was with Henry. Since the suture repairs were pretty quick, I was taking Henry to these procedures solo. Before I even had time to properly organize my purse, he would be out and in recovery. We had the whole process of out-patient children’s surgery down pat which, frankly, is a skill you never expect to acquire.

Several months later, the development of a membrane in Henry’s eye – kind of like scar tissue – meant another round of invasive surgery. It was impacting his vision and had to be cleared out.

A year and a half later, Henry had the same surgery on the other eye.

DSC_3348

The intervening years since Henry’s last surgery in 2012 have been filled with eye patches and regular checkups and the occasional emergency appointment and lots of new glasses and the inevitable replacement of those glasses when they’re broken by a renegade sibling and also some long lectures on caring for one’s glasses and a bit of wondering when Henry will be old enough to manage contacts.

For the most part though, the past few years have been a lot less stressful for Henry than the few that came before. I hope the painful memories recede for him and the better ones rise to the top.

But, my memories haven’t faded. I remember how difficult things were. I remember how hard it all was. How scared we were. I remember bracing myself at every appointment for bad news. How often there was bad news. But, I also remember how good I got at caring for Henry. How his condition made me more confident as a mother. I asked questions and sought solutions. I advocated for him. I remember how Bob and I worked so well together. I remember family that would drive long distances to help us. Friends that worked at the hospital and would distract us on surgery days. Neighbors that would ply Henry with gifts in an effort to encourage him to open his eyes.

All of these memories melt together in my mind, a mix of worry and exultation, of sadness and relief, of thankfulness and exhaustion. They’re tucked away but they’re still there. Right below the surface.

IMG_1400

We haven’t had an appointment with bad news in more than five years now and so, earlier this month, Henry was officially discharged from the care of his pediatric ophthalmologist. Very nonchalantly, after almost twelve years to the day of treating Henry, his doctor announced that he didn’t need to anymore. It took me by surprise. It makes sense though. Henry won’t need additional surgery until his late teens. It seems a prudent time to find a local ophthalmologist that can see him through from here. But, still, the finality of it all, the finality of our journey took my breath away. I refrained from making things awkward by crying or hugging his doctor but I did thank him profusely for his diligence. Though, Henry and I both hugged the nurse on our way out. He apologized, again, for accidentally punching her that one time.

For so long, I’ve wanted to write about our experience. To record the history of our journey, reflect on the tremendous frustrations, dwell in the depth of our gratitude. I never did. I never could. I realize now that was because I couldn’t think about it, couldn’t focus on it too much when we were in it. When you’re in it, the journey is about something else entirely. The rest of it, the reflection, comes when you’re on the other side.