When I approached the information desk and made eye contact with the woman behind it I must have looked a little “frazzled”. When I asked her if Oli was out of surgery yet she must have sensed my panic, noticed my tightly clenched fists, or saw me on the verge of crying because she immediately went to check for me. She even bypassed pretending to know how to work the phone or computer.
She came back a very long 5 minutes later and said “No. She is still back there, but they will be done soon. She’s doing just fine.”
“Oh okay. Thank you. I knew everything was fine, but you know…..well, I had to check because you see, she’s blind and autistic and has this rare gene deletion, so we don’t really know a whole lot about it and this gene caused her eyes not to develop so she wears prosthetic ones and she started having seizures in 2011 and…..”
Crap. I lost her.
She’s “working on the computer” now and trying to politely get me to go sit down.
You don’t want to hear Oli’s life story?
Are you sure?
I can tell it 2.5 minutes if I talk really fast and run all my sentences together.
Whatever. You’re missing out on a really good moment of mommy-gone-mad. Especially since I didn’t sleep last night. It’s an even better show when I don’t sleep. I’m much more likely to cry and then burst into fits of uncontrolled laughter.
Oh well. Your loss. That’s some quality entertainment your missing out on.
You better believe that I sat my butt down in the nearest chair and did not move until that pager lit up and vibrated.
I finished my much needed cup of coffee, checked my Facebook (thanks for the prayers guys!) and waited.
6 hours later…..no, it wasn’t really that long. It just felt like it. They called my name and walked me back to another little waiting room.
This one was WAY better. It had a nice big squishy couch, a table and chairs, a little TV….
I don’t want to be in this nice room!
This looks like a “bad news room”!
You never give parents bad news in uncomfortable chairs. That’s just plain mean. You give them bad news in rooms with big comfy couches and little TV’s. Rooms with a circular table and chairs for having “discussions”.
“Make yourself comfortable. The audiologist will be with you soon.” The volunteer tells me.
Make myself comfortable? I am going to get the worse news of my life, well….the second worse, behind “Your baby is blind, do you have any questions?” It will be the same. “Your daughter is deaf, do you have any questions?” I should call the School for the Deaf right now and just get this ball rolling. No need to waste time…Good thing I have my Tab, I’ll just Google it.
I mean…the news cannot possibly be good. This couch is just way too comfortable.
Maybe I’ll hold off just a minute. Google will be there in 5 minutes. Maybe I’ll take a nap.
I’m feeling a little over-tired and the craziness has begun to set in quite rapidly.
Luckily I did not have to wait long enough to be able take a nap. (Well I guess it wasn’t so lucky for everyone else that had to deal with me the rest or the day.) The audiologist walked in and sat down.
Uh-oh. She’s sitting. Number one rule of doctors and nurses: always sit and be at eye level when delivering bad news to parents.
Stand up lady! Stand up!
“The results of Oli’s hearing screen were 100% normal. She has perfect, beautiful hearing. No problem.” She doesn’t give me the chance to spin out of control with panic.
“Really?” I exhale for the first time all morning.
“She’s fine. But her eardrum on the right is still not moving well. I think that it’s probably just scarred and thickened from having so many infections in it and then rupturing. It DOES NOT affect her hearing. She can hear you just fine.” She explains.
SHE CAN HEAR! OLI CAN HEAR!
To say that I was ecstatically, fantastically, wonderfully, overjoyed…would be an understatement.
I now knew, 100% without a doubt, that my sweet girl can hear me.