Update!

Yesterday was harder than I anticipated.  The emotional toll that was exercised on my heart and soul was massive.  We went into the day expecting for a long day, but I could not have prepared myself for a 12 hour long procedure. 

The end result, the reasons for the lengthy procedure, is all positive.  The doctor was able to do more than she had anticipated (and indeed had spent the greater portion of the last few weeks preparing for), which changed all of her plans.  By the way, when I say that her doctor has been preparing, there was a 3D rendering printed from the CT scans we had a few weeks back (digital and printed) that she has been manipulating to decide what would have to be done each and every step of the way.

We had some more explanation yesterday concerning what the procedure entailed.  The entire front portion of my daughters head; from the middle of her eye sockets, to the top, was removed, and then turned into a jigsaw puzzle of sorts.  Her doctor reconstructed her orbits and created a brow for her.  She also reshaped the front, top, and sides of Zoey’s skull to assist in the appearance of her skull and allow for more brain growth.

While we were waiting in the PICU community area, after nursing staff had closed down the Perisurgical OR Waiting Area (seriously…. I have gone out with friends and closed bars – of all sorts – before…. But this is a first) the time factor started getting to me.  Every time that someone walked by the door or observation windows my heart would stop, and I would look to see if it was my daughter.  Tell you what, that last few hours took more of a toll on me than the first 10.

Then there finally came the moment  that I was anxious for and dreading.  I saw her doctor coming down the hall, and called for my beloved who was feeding our son.  I knew that we only had a moment so they could continue along their way into her PICU room.  My heart was between racing and full stop as the bed rolled closer and closer. 

“Just a moment for hugs and kisses,” said her doctor calmly.  She looked tired, yet stoic and pleased.  You can tell so much by the way that your child’s doctor looks when you see them after surgery.  When things go well, or better than expected, they always have this pleased look.  When things do not go… as expected, they carry that weight on their shoulders 20-fold.

I looked over my shoulder to see my beloved slowly making her way to the doorway, apparently she had not heard the sense of urgency that I tried to convey.  In all honesty, it was more than likely lost in the moment, covered over by the other emotions playing tug of war with my chest.

The team pushing the bed slowed, with the skill of horses drawing a carriage.  My heart letting a single, massive “Thump” as my stomach fell and every ounce of air left my lungs.  There was a sound there, struggling to make its way past my throat, falling short and back into my chest.

For over two years, I have had this nightmare plaguing me. This horrifying dream that was precipitated by the knowledge that one day this surgery would happen.  The nightmare that always involved my daughter screaming for me, me finding her and then, as I pick her up and turn her around I would realize that she does not have a face.  This would cause me to wake up, heart racing, sweat pouring down my face, mixing with tears, all being shaken by the stifled scream undulating from my mouth.  I would collapse back to bed, wishing that I could have the nightmares that my PTSD generates in place of these.  It is brutal to realize that one would beg for the ‘usual’ nightmares of combat and death, over those that he is currently having.

They have warned us that our darling daughter “will not look like she ever has”.  As the bed rolled to a stop, I looked into the bed where my beautiful, darling daughter lay.  Our eyes met, and it was (in hindsight) as though I broke through those countless nightmares and instead of waking up, fought through the fear and  though she looks completely different, I saw my beautiful baby girl, I heard the dry cry of “dada” and I knew she was ok.

In a blink of an eye she was gone, and I had regressed into the waiting room, collapsing against the wall as the entire days’ worth of stress, and two years of worry shook out of my body.  I could not stop crying, an unearthly sound somewhere between unyielding pain, and boundless joy mixing in with words that I cannot recall.  The convulsions ripping through my body slowly began to wane, and my beloved bride, while holding my son, walked with me through the doors of the PICU where we would finally be able to be by our daughter’s side… and recovery would begin.

I AM A CRANIO DAD, I am scared out of my mind, and I have missed my little beautiful daughter and am proud to be her dad.