Celebration of Life in Approach of the Year of the Fire Horse

On February 14, 2025, my kid had their first surgery, which justified to me the fear people have around surgeries. Well, in June of ‘24 they got all four wisdom teeth out, which wasn’t nothing. I asked them to please do two at a time, after seeing how their sibling suffered having all four out the year before. But, typical of an independent-minded, self-reasoning adolescent, they did their own thing. It sucked. Turns out it was nothing.

Quinn experienced a brief phase of good health between recovery from the wisdom teeth and the start of allergy season, which was piggybacked by migraines. Beneath all of that, they felt sick, had stomach aches, and got sick. Apparently that became normal enough for them not to raise it much, not even to me, probably given the relative pain of their migraines. They did ask their doctor (“Doogie Howser” I not so affectionately called him), who said it was probably indigestion. Come late December, it was obvious something was wrong.

Without getting into too many details, we went to Urgent Care early New Year’s Day morning. With a great sense of humor and care, the doctor ran tests and ordered transport to Children’s. We waited at the Urgent Care for a room so that we would not have to wait in the Emergency Room at Children’s. I didn’t know until later what a gift that was! 

I posted from Children’s last New Year’s Eve, beside the absurdly beautiful view over the city I love — open sky, contoured clouds, sun shifting across the dome of the National Basilica, fireworks at the brink of the New Year. Of course, I’d rather have been almost anywhere else. Although I still felt fortunate, thinking Quinn was getting good care.

We stayed at Children’s for four days. The plan was to go home, rest, and take meds to get the pain and swelling down, then return to Children’s two weeks later for surgery. Kaiser had a different idea.

Had the surgical department at Children’s had the correct phone number I’d given them on file and contacted us…

Had the surgical team or surgeon’s scheduler at Children’s responded to my calls in a timely manner…

Had we gotten lucky with a compassionate surgeon at Kaiser, or at least one that would honor my please…

All might have gone according to plan.

As it was, I got plenty of calls from Children’s, mostly from their Outpatient Clinic. It turned out the number on file for the surgical team was somehow different and still from 2012, when Quinn visited Children’s with a broken arm. (It was a Florida number from my Dad’s old Blackberry, I briefly inherited. God rest his soul. I sure miss him! And also the phone that had buttons.) 

I switched Quinn to the only Kaiser Pediatrician I ever trusted. The one who realized that Coley, not even one year old yet, had repeatedly been given unnecessary antibiotics for ear infections by a doctor who shamed me mightily for letting her get sick so often. Turns out, Coley just has a slight pink pigment to her ear. This pediatrician suggested we see a specialist at Kaiser in hopes to get Quinn relief from pain. 

The specialist we saw was a straight-up ass — lots of patient-blaming and offered no help or support. And he threw out that he didn’t think the surgery at Children’s would be approved, since they could perform the surgery at Kaiser. I honestly never thought that it was in question. Quinn was sent to Children’s by Kaiser; Children’s did exhaustive tests and developed a plan. I argued. The specialist said he’d recommend Children’s but didn’t think his supervisor would agree. 

Already over two weeks out from our stay at Children’s, Quinn still in pain, no surgery scheduled, the specialist I described as an ass gave me an evening call. He said that the surgery at Children’s was denied and that I could appeal, but would lose the appeal. He said that if we agreed to have the surgery at Kaiser, he’d schedule it right away. In his office, he’d said the wait for the surgery would be about six months — one of the many reasons for my outrage that I swallowed until walking out of his office (poor Quinn, ha). I let my outrage free on the phone. I told him that with the way he talked to my kid, I would never trust him to perform any procedure. Both Quinn and Coley heard me and came out of their rooms for the show. He offered that a bigwig would do the surgery, an expert, the best. I told him I’d talk to Quinn.

I still hadn’t heard from Children’s to schedule the surgery. (They called a couple of days later.) And it would take a hell of a campaign to get insurance approved for Children’s. I was up for the fight, but not for the time it would take with Quinn still hurting. We agreed to the terms from the Kaiser specialist.

Early morning February 14th last year we went to have the surgery as an outpatient at Kaiser. I won’t give details of the who or where. I’m not here to blast any particular person. Despite my contempt, I imagine they all had good intentions, even if arrogant and incompetent. The surgeon said it went well and after a little while, I took Quinn home.

So cute! Still a little loopy, they seemed amazed that people were handing out flowers in the middle of the road. Grateful I had cash, I couldn’t resist buying them a bouquet. I tucked them in and went to nap myself. I slept only three broken hours the night before.

About 4:30 my phone rang. I’d made plans with a friend for that day long before the surgery was scheduled, then told them Quinn was having surgery, so I assumed they understood that plans were cancelled. In my groggy bewilderment, I didn’t explain; just said I fell asleep and couldn’t make it. Those months strained a few friendships — people I confided in who shared things with others, probably again not ill-intentioned, but it felt like gossip and lowkey betrayal; people who judged critically when I did my best to maintain balance and weigh all options, and people who needed me and I wasn’t there. Sorry to that last group, although I’m pretty good at making amends. Hopefully, I have. I’m indebted to those who waited calmly, offered support, and/or stood at the ready to help. Anyway, I was glad the phone rang to wake me up. As soon as I stepped out of my room, I heard Quinn stir. 

I helped Quinn stand and steady. They passed out once back onto their bed. But they came to quickly and managed to stand. They shuffled to the hall, then melted, slid, slow-mo collapsed, like their bones forgot, onto the floor and turned an icy blue. I called 9-1-1. I crouched with them, shouting, tapping, calling out. They kind of came to a little. The ambulance arrived before long.  

Later, the narrative by the medical people would be that Quinn jarred something when they fell. I was there and it wasn’t like that. They spilled, slow and steady, into a heap on the floor. The only reasonable assumption, and cause for the fainting to begin with, was that it was from the surgery.

I rode in the ambulance with Quinn. I couldn’t see out of the windows and might’ve been too busy talking to the paramedic and attending to Quinn to pay attention anyway. I thought we were at the Holy Cross in Silver Spring, but apparently there’s one in Germantown. I called Quinn’s other parent, who decided to meet us, but went to the wrong hospital, because I didn’t know. It took a bit to figure all of that out. We had time. Several hours of mostly waiting and then being told nothing seemed wrong, they suggested we go home. Then made the suggestion again. Quinn could still barely stand, was nauseous; their pain hadn’t gone below 8 of 10, they had periodic sweats, shivering, and they looked bad. There was no way I could take Quinn home and trust that I could care for them. I called a friend in the medical field who told me to just “trust the doctors.” The circle of friends I could call on was getting smaller.

With my refusing to take Quinn home and insisting something was wrong, they transferred Quinn to Children’s ER. There I spent the most uncomfortable ≅20 hours of my life. I met with three doctors there. Two suggested that Quinn could be discharged. “But what about their passing out. What if they fall when I’m alone with them? They’re nauseous. They’re shivering. What about their coloring?” They suggested Quinn was dehydrated and should go home and drink a lot of fluids. When I told them that wasn’t it, that there was something really wrong, they looked at me as though I were nuts.

Listen, maybe, but not in any way that would have me or anyone I love staying longer than immediately necessary in a hospital. I avoid hospitals whenever possible. And there was a poor younger kid on the other side of a half closed curtain, who’d been in the room with us for a few hours, screaming and crying in pain and releasing the most horrible smells. The only thing I wanted to do more than to leave was to make sure Quinn lived.

The third doctor in Children’s ER heard something of what I said. She had Quinn press his lips, let go, and studied the color. She looked at the skin up and down their arms on the inside and out, and believed that he looked off. She called for bloodwork and the numbers weren’t good. He got a bed back on the surgical floor. 

Alas, there, they did nothing but monitor and take blood again. They told us that the bloodwork looked better, so as soon as Quinn felt ready, we could leave.

My dear friend, Tracey, recommended I ask them for imaging. I asked. And asked again. But the doctors believed it unnecessary. 

This was the awkwardest, weirdest thing ever! Me, demanding my kid stay in the hospital while the professionals treated me like I had munchausen syndrome by proxy. The doctors were dismissive, the nurses curt. After two days, Quinn said, “Let’s just go home.” I asked the nurse what’s next and she said, “He can go to school tomorrow.” I was like, WHAT?! It was so absurd! 

In testing if Quinn could be okay, we took a few brief walks around the floor. They walked slow and by the wall, and it wiped them out. They did not pass out, but they were far from well. I parked my car a good distance from the room, so I asked if we’d have a wheelchair and the nurse, let’s call her Tulsi, said that Quinn didn’t need one. With me carrying all our bags like a packmule, and Quinn shambling slowly, I found a wheelchair by the downstairs elevator to take them to the garage.

Things stayed status quo for ten days, with Quinn in continued pain, and I mean 8 or 9 out of 10 pain. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt 8 out of 10 pain. Eh, maybe once with a toothache in Tucson. But never for more than one night. Quinn hurt badly for days, weeks. There was no way they could go to school. 

I carried on with my life — work, music, poetry, I’d even joined a woman’s chorus. Quinn rested, took meds, tried to get up and go, then rested. Toward the end of February, I came home from work one day and Quinn complained of leg cramps and dizziness. They looked flushed. I touched my cheek to theirs and they felt warm. I asked them to take their temp. At the beeping I asked, “What did it say?”

“104.”

“Very funny.” They’d already turned it off. “Take it again and let me see.” 104 it was!

I called Kaiser. The rep told me to take Quinn to the Children’s ER. I didn’t know how I’d bear waiting there after the last time. I was hopeful I might get a doctor, like that wonderful one before, who would send us from Urgent Care right to a room at Children’s. Nope. We went to Urgent Care, got some IV meds, then, as directed by Kaiser, I drove us downtown to Children’s ER. Quinn still thought it was best that we went to Urgent Care first, because they’re not sure they could’ve withstood the waiting room without the IV meds they’d been given. We were in the waiting room for hours. Then Quinn, admitted into ER triage, laid in a gurney in the hallway, me in a seat at their feet, for hours. The hallway was more pleasant than the room almost two weeks prior. And people were much more pleasant for 104 degrees evidencing Quinn being unwell.

After another ≅15 hours, Quinn was rolled to the surgical floor. Here’re excerpts from a message I sent at that time that recaps that day:

“I didn’t check Messenger last night. I was out of my mind tired…

“The beautiful nurse last night gave me four! 4! blankets! The most comfortable I’ve been evah! and I slept well. Quinn does look good… And I just saw the first seagulls of the morning…

“1) They are laughing (best sound :) (watching memes)

“2) They’re being kind of mean to me. They hadn’t in a few days (nice but disconcerting) So they seem to be feeling a little better :) 

“3)  …there is blood pooled around the operation site…”

A surgeon did a procedure to try to remove the blood, but it had dried. Had they done imaging at our previous visit, they likely could have saved Quinn months of pain. But, as it stood, there was nothing to be done, except wait until the dried blood reincorporated itself back into Quinn’s body.

I dreaded seeing any of the nurses from our last visit and expected I’d blast Tulsi if she walked in. Well, she did and I felt no ire. She didn’t apologize, but had a conciliatory manner. And frankly, none of their right or wrong or support or indifference mattered now. Quinn would be left to suffer for God knows how long and by then there was nothing anyone could do about it. Well, now even us mortals know that it would take eight months to go from 8 of 10 pain to 2. 

Since, things have still not been easy. There were a couple of good weeks, then Quinn got sick, then allergies, then migraines. Thrown into the mix in the fall was a little scare that had us back to Kaiser for imaging, then to Children’s ER for a day. The ER visit revolved around a clip that concerned the Kaiser doctors from the imaging, but the doctors at Children’s knew it was there and did not believe it to be a concern. 

Through all of this, Quinn has maintained a phenomenally good attitude. They’ve kept their awesome, albeit sometimes shocking, sense of humor, and have consistently handled even the tough parts of the past year with more grace and composure than I have. (I have tried. And for me, did pretty well.)

I do understand that this is not about me. This is Quinn’s story that they have generously agreed to let me write about it and share. I could not be prouder of how they’ve handled everything or who they have been in this, despite this, and who they are because of this hardship.

I’m pretty good at not doing any woe is me thing, particularly not to my kids, and would especially never respond to their struggle(s) in that way! With that said, Mamas, Papas out there  —  you feel me, right? To the core, the pains, struggles, and blessings of my kids, on a fundamental level, are about me. At least in my personal writing spaces — my journals, blogposts, poetry, fictionalized prose  — without any thought to overshadow or deflect the experiences, identities, and feelings of my children, I can claim these shared realities as mine too. I can say when they suffer, I suffer. I can share their narratives, while still uplifting that it is central primarily to them. But to my marrow, I feel what is to them.

I delighted in February 14th this year, celebrating Quinn’s life. We went out for dinner and frozen yogurt, with many toasts. In most normal constructs of what I’d have expected of my life, I believe Valentine’s Day would continue to be an ill-fit, sweet and scratchy day for me. But now I’ll simply love it. Quinn’s survival date will always serve as an anniversary to make me glad.

 While I don’t really follow any astrology (although sort of follow all), I love that we’re entering the year of the fire horse in Chinese astrology. In contrast to many months of suffering, dependence and recouperation, I embrace the spirit of vitality, boldness, and action symbolized by the fire horse, uplift it, particularly for my kids, and for me too. And for you.

I wish you all a happy Chinese New Year filled with luck, prosperity, inspiration, and good health.