Today Skye had an ultrasound of her head.
Over the past several months, Craig and I have debated about doing this. We didn’t want to rely on imaging to be sure of her health, the way that we have for the past five years with Gavin. But then something would happen, so we decided to do it. Then decided not to. Then decided to. Then not. And so on.
Finally, her paediatrician decided for us, by suggesting that it might be beneficial for everyone’s peace of mind.
Peace of mind is something I lack. I have great days. And then I have hard days of nail-biting anxiety.
Although I can’t imagine that anyone exists today who hasn’t experienced some form of anxiety in their time – for the happy-go definitely lucky, let me define anxiety for you: The feeling that there is something terribly, terribly wrong, although all signs point to everything actually being alright. This feeling crushes out breath, induces headaches, and creates a constant din of chattery negative thoughts. Tears leak out easily, and small things, like sudden loud noises, send the anxious beetling into a corner to wait until their hearts stop pounding.
The problem with fearing that your child has a brain tumour is that everything can be indicative of a brain tumour. Babies are just neurologically unstable, not to mention unable to communicate. So that weird motion, or expression, or sound, that long sleep, or long crying jag, or strange spit-up – yes, they could all be completely benign. Normal baby stuff. Nothing to worry about. Or something to worry about.
So the flip-flop of It’s nothing/What is it? exhausts me. I am trying every day to have faith, and have strong, wonderful people around me encouraging me to do so.
And Skye beams sunshine and charms the pants off of everyone and gives me a look that says, Stop worrying, Mama! I’m well. I’m so very healthy and well.
When I returned home this afternoon after collecting Gavin from school, the home phone blinked with a new message. Hardly anyone calls the home phone, except for my mother, so I went into panic mode as I pressed play and listened to the subdued voice of the paediatrician’s assistant telling me to call regarding Skye’s ultrasound. From completion to results in less than three hours? Canadian healthcare does not work this way, so I called her with my heart pounding and pounding.
She said, “The ultrasound report says that everything appears to be normal. But it is not a very comprehensive look.”
Normal is all I need. I’ll take it!
I’m saddened that we needed to probe her little head to find this out. It was painful and traumatic for her, and I hated putting her through that. I hate that I needed the satisfaction of scans to believe in her – and already in her wee life she has been to the hospital half a dozen times.
It’s behind us. Results are normal.
She is well and ready to go to bed. Sweet dreams.