X-ray in use

We’ve waited ten months to find out. The surgery last February was designed to help David’s large intestine recover from four years of damage. The first two steps were to do the surgery and then wait. Nobody was sure for how long. Six months, they said at first. That should be enough, so then we’ll check to see how he’s doing. But four months later, they decided to wait longer. And now here we are, ten months after his surgery. Time to fill his large intestine with contrast and take some images.

We step out of the room, leaving him in the hands of four young strangers whose ages barely add up to ours. A minute later, the light goes on briefly. X-ray in use. And then it goes on again. And again. And again.

The 21st time the light goes on, it stays on a bit longer. Same with the 22nd, and the 23rd. The 24th time seems like the longest, but what does it mean?

After 35 times, I want to stop counting. But I am bearing witness the only way I can.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

50. Was that 50? Or was it 51? I have one task here, and I cannot keep a simple count.

57. They’ve taken 57 images. How far is it to the cecum? They’re working their way backwards. Sigmoid, descending, transverse, ascending, cecum.

58.

59.

David can count this high. He sometimes skips a number. 19 often leads to 21. Sometimes 29 goes to 40 instead of 30, but his counting is pretty steady overall.

67. They stop at 67.

No. Just a pause.

68. 69. 70.

I should have stayed in the room. He doesn’t need me there, he’s brave and he’s occupied by an ipad and they know how to reassure him and he’s not counting the way I am. But I’d rather have the extra radiation exposure myself just to not have to watch that light.

71. X-ray in use.

72. X-ray in use.

73. X-ray in use.

It’s as easy as pressing a button. It is, in fact, just a button they press. And it’s not entirely continuous exposure, the way fluoroscopy might have been done years ago. But how much more are they learning than they could from a single KUB radiograph?

74. X-ray in use.

Should I have pushed harder? The technician remembered me from 10 months ago. I was the one with the questions, the one who insisted on talking to the actual radiologist, the one who made them page the surgeon and change the plan because they didn’t need to do as much imaging as they had first planned. This time the attending radiologist knows what’s going on, and isn’t put off by my questions, and has a clear conversation with me up front about minimizing the exposure while still getting the information the surgeon will need, and yet how far are they now going?

75.

76.

77.

78.

And this time the pause is longer.

And this time the pause is the end. No more x-ray in use.

They show us some of the images. Much more normal than last February.

Much more normal. It’s ok to breathe. It’s ok to think we can do the surgery in three weeks. It’s ok to think that we’ve waited long enough.

It’s ok to stop counting for a little while.

David was incredibly cooperative, everyone says. A perfect patient. He’s reluctant to give up the hospital’s ipad, the strongest and most addictive narcotic they have for kids his age. The nurse stays for a few more minutes, then gives us the room so we can get him dressed.

In 20 days we move back in, 8 floors up from radiology.

And someday maybe we can stop counting.