Our pediatrician and, in turn, a pediatric neurologist suggested that Marco might be at risk for a tethered spinal cord. This called into question his development at about week four in utero. Flashback to Jeff and I gallivanting around Seattle, taking a water plane for Island wine tasting and ingesting about every type of fish imaginable, cooked and raw. In short, way too much fun.
The examples they gave us of nerve damage associated with a tethered spinal cord were dragging one foot or not being able to make it to the bathroom (not including peeing on my porch – a post for another day). They added the word “permanent damage,” so we went ahead and signed up for an MRI to eliminate (or discover and fix) the concern.
My biggest worry on the big day was how I was going to keep Marco from eating two hours prior to the appointment. Before that, he could only have clear liquids. He awoke at 6:30 and I plied him with jello, popsicles and juice until 7:30. Only one meltdown for not getting to eat something between then and his appointment. I gave him a Mr. Potato Head that Brookie gave him for Christmas last year that he never played with because the parts were too small. A present from Brookie? Crisis averted.
At the MRI office, Marco lit up when he got to choose a scent for his gas mask. He chose bubble gum and knocked out right away. I laid him down and was escorted out. The IV kept him under during the hour-long procedure. Coming out, my eyes leaked. I felt like the tin man. What is this coming from my eyes? I remarked to Jeff that I am human and sent him for coffee.
We were both able to wait for Marco to wake up in the recovery room. Jeff – man of no silence – met his soul mate, an equally chatty nurse Kathy. I wanted to punch them. Marco sat up, looking slightly wobbly and drunk, demanded to know what all the equipment was in the room one by one and punctuated his alertness by saying, “That says M-R-I.” We were approved to go home with warnings about nausea, loss of appetite, un-coordination and relaxation – in summary, an afternoon of cartoons and popsicles.
They sent us home with Marco’s gas mask. I thought it was a little creepy, but they said their “frequent flyers” (kids who receive monthly MRIs, can you imagine?) like to play doctor with their teddy bears and bring back their own mask to use each time.
We weren’t home an hour before Marco devoured two juices, two popsicles, chicken, pizza and jumped off the couch, sticking the landing. I took a nap. He played with Jeff, made French fries, watched more movies and peed off the deck. Clearly, I was more affected than Marco. He checked my reflexes, gave me the gas mask and made me call him doctor, as in “Are you done going potty?” “No, it’s ‘are you done going potty
doctor?’”
By dinner time, he was ravenous and WRECKED a man-sized portion of meatloaf and salad. All in all, an average Cecchin day.
By 7:00 p.m., the neurology folks called to tell us there was nothing the matter with Marco. I was most surprised to realize that I didn’t even feel relieved. My reaction was, “I know.”
I learned a lot. First, trust your instincts. Second, get proof. Third, Marco is a bad ass who loves doctors, sushi, Seattle and wine tasting.
I mean, couldn’t everyone use a hit of bubble gum sleeping gas every once in a while?
