I just emailed orthopaedic doctors in Boston regarding a recommended course of action for our search for corrective surgery for Drew. We had arrangements with a doctor in Nashville, but lets just say they “fell through.”
In sending this email with the knowledge that the potential result is another 1000-mile trip to Boston that could turn into an extended stay in an unfamiliar city living out of a hospital room/Ronald McDonald House/hotel room, it occurred to me the can of worms I’m fixing to open. I feel like I’m watching a 1970’s horror flick screaming at the idiot blonde girl wearing skimpy PJs cautiously creeping up the stairs to investigate that susipicous sound: What are you doing?!? Are you crazy!?! Just get out!
But then, as I get Drew out of his car seat, I have to listen to Drew beg to walk the distance instead of being carried (Waaahk!! Waaahk!! he insists) and it’s clear to me why I’m ready to throw caution to wind and uproot our comfortable lives to live through a few years of misery, pain, stress, and anxiety. Becuase, when Drew is walking, whether it’s with a cane or a walker or by some miracle, unassisted and with gusto, the next few years of our yet unpredictble life will be miniscule and worth it. I get a lump in my throat at the mere thought of Drew walking.