Up From The Soul's Basement

Even though his surgeon said he’d be out of pain and wouldn’t need further pain medication after a day or so, ten days later The Mayor continues to suffer.

Mornings are the worst and nights aren't much better.

[We slept more when he was an infant.]

The Mayor wakes up screaming throughout the night.

One night he screamed so violently that we lifted him out of bed to comfort him but this only made him angrier. He started throwing punches with his good arm and kicking us in the shins.

Pitiful.

When K took him to his check-up the Doctor said that everything looked fine. He even suggested that The Mayor might be able to have the cast off earlier than expected.

Something just doesn't add up.

When the Doctor briefed K and I about the surgery he warned us that nerve damage was a possible complication. He said that if nerve damage occurred, it would be quite painful for The Mayor.

“How will we know if there is nerve damage?” I asked him.

“He’ll have shooting pains down his arm and numbness in his fingers.”

What I didn’t think to ask was,

“How will a three year old articulate something that specific to me?”

When The Mayor yells that he is in pain I feel particularly helpless.

What he says is,

“Ow Ow OW, Mommy, it HURTS!!!”

“What does it feel like?” I ask him.

“It’s…it’s…it’s like hot sprinkles!”

Hot sprinkles.

"Show me where it hurts," I say.

The Mayor sweeps his hand from his shoulder to his fingertips.

"My fingers hurt more than anything in the world," he says.

Desperate to ease the pain but clueless as to how, I called the surgeon’s office again.

I was told he is away until Monday.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked the technician.

“Give him some of the pain medication,” he said.

“It’s finished and besides, the surgeon said he wouldn’t need it this long.”

The technician seemed less helpful than the receptionist. I could hear his vacant eyes blinking.

I was frustrated and starting to boil.

“The surgeon mentioned the possibility of nerve damage,” I explained. “How will we know if my son has this and, if he does, how can it be treated?”

“Uh… I’ll have to ask the Dr.,” the tech replied.

The boil increased and I started to bubble over.

“Look,” I said as the beast in my soul's basement pulled against its restraints, “here’s what’s going to happen... you will call my pharmacy immediately and order a refill of my son’s pain medication. On Monday, the very first person the surgeon sees will be my son and we will plan to remain in your office until the cause of his pain is both identified and resolved. Do we have an agreement?”

“Um, yes. Of course, ma'am.” the tech cowed.

People of the world, hear this!

Do not mess with The Mayor’s Mama.

There's a beast in her basement and you don't want to meet it.