From Austin to Boston: A Series

Last week, my friend, Terie, and I took a little jaunt up to Boston to support our other friend, Sally, whose son was having open-heart surgery. Allow me to provide you with the condensed version of Anders' (Sally's son's) condition... in layman's terms, of course:

• 2007: Sally is 22 weeks pregnant with her second son. She is an OB-Gyn doctor, so, having easy access to an ultrasound machine, she does weekly sonos in her office because she is a hypochondriac.
• Nurses in L&D say, "Sally, quit being so paranoid. Enough with the weekly ultrasounds, already."
• Sally doesn't listen. See Sally be defiant. 
• Sally's sonographer notices something wrong with her baby's heart. 
• Sally goes to specialist. It's not good. Like, it's really bad. 
• Sally is given the option of terminating the pregnancy because her baby is going to end up with a one-chambered heart (there are supposed to be four) which is incompatible with life, or she can go to Boston and have intrauterine surgery (surgery performed on fetus while in the womb— I know, right? Friggin' unbelievable).
• Sally chooses Boston. Yaaay, Sally, for making the best decision EVER!
• Nurses in L&D, myself included, feel like total assholes because, for once, Sally's hypochondriacal behavior pays off. Unlike like the time she did a myriad of tests to determine if she had MS, only to find out she was tired (story for another blog). 
• Sally goes to Boston, has surgery, and her baby's heart is repaired. Yaaay, modern medicine! 
• Sally has her baby in Boston, where they do another open-heart surgery on Anders right after delivery.
• Anders returns home with Sally a month later and spends the rest of his recovery in our neonatal ICU.
• Anders' case makes it on national news, and Sally is interviewed by Sunjay Gupta. 
• Rachel (me) does not get interviewed, but I guess taking care of your best friend's other son while his mother and father are in Boston isn't worthy of national attention. Screw you, CNN. Whatever.
• Anders grows into a beautiful little boy who can make your heart melt with just a smile and a smack on the butt.

The first time I went to Boston was two years ago when I accompanied Sally and Anders. Anders had a bunch of appointments to test the function of his heart, so we decided to make a trip out of it. Unfortunately, it was deathly cold, and aside from going back and forth to the hospital, we didn't do too much. Oh wait, I lie. We did do a historical tour, which included some graveyard. Sally pointed out that it was the graveyard in which Paul Revere was buried, and I was all incredulous and, like, "The guy from 'Mad About You'? He's dead?" To which she replied, "That's Paul Reiser, you idiot." Whatever. I grew up in Canada, so American history isn't my forte. It's not like Sally can tell me where Louis Riel is buried, much less who Louis Riel was. Yeah, that's right. Who's the history buff now, Sally? 

So, last week, while I was still in Austin, I talked to Anders on the phone a couple of nights before his surgery. I asked him if he was excited to see me and he said, "Yeah. When you get here, I'm gonna spank your butt!" I could hear Sally in the background saying, "No, Anders, that is not a nice thing to say," because, apparently, she is trying to get him passed the "Anal Stage" on Freud's spectrum of development, where butt and potty humor is the epicenter of his existence. Unlike Sally, I revel in this stage, not because I'm some kind of perv who likes her butt spanked by a four-year-old, but because I like to encourage my four-year-old, male friends to be chauvinistic oink, oinks. I figure if they get it out of their systems at a young age, they will grow up to be respectable men who don't find pleasure in farting on cue or smacking ladies' asses as they walk by. Oh, and I find it fucking hilarious, but that's just between you and me. Shhhh!  Don't tell Sally. 

So, as I mentioned, Terie and I ventured up to Boston. On an airplane. I hate airplanes. But I've decided that my fear of flying is somewhat quelled when someone I know is on the plane with me. I guess dying in an plane crash isn't all that bad if you have a friend with you. Death is kinda like misery: it loves company. 

Wow, this is getting, like, John Holms (I spelled that wrong so you don't think I'm into porn) long, so I am going to make this into a series. If you're interested, the subsequent posts will include the following: how Anders recovers after his surgery; how Sally takes advantage of my being a nurse by assigning me to help Anders poop and pee post-operatively; how two sex-deprived, single girls in a big city act like a pair of dogs in heat; how Anders' obsession with butts and farts inspires an entire video catalog. 

I vow to not be lazy and to actually follow through with this. In the meantime, Sally and Anders, I love you both. Somewhere in the near future, this will all be a memory. Prayers, hugs, healing thoughts, and big butts to you both. xo

Anders 2007