What?

To say I was shocked at the surgeon's words is an understatement. How does one receive that kind of information? I stress again that Mikey did not ever have a look of death about him.

I believed the surgeon, of course, because he detailed for me that the infection was still raging and still active. He also indicated across his own abdomen, a line of infection. It was about an inch above the pubic line. An inch of solid, red, angry infection. (That is also something that my son had never mentioned.) They had cultured the infectious area and had called in an Infectious Diseases doctor -- a specialist! The doctor mentioned the possibility of further surgery, more dead tissue removal, possible skin grafts.

I received all the information. I did. I know I did because I am spitting it out on a blog right now. I have also repeated it to my parents, Mikey's father, my former in-laws, several friends by phone, and in many, many emails to far-away friends and family. I know the story. I believe the story. I'm telling the story...but I cannot fathom it.

How about this: His birthday was on a Monday. I could have been having a funeral for him on that Saturday. How's that for a reality check? How can one digest that information? It's simply not logical. "Parents are not supposed to bury their children." Makes sense to me. I can fully understand how parents who lose a child can look lost. They are lost! I did not lose my child and I am still wondering how it all happened so fast; and I do think too often about what could have been.

I do digress, however.

Mikey was in a room, but I had to go home. I had to get the girls back home and get them something to eat, take a shower, inform people via email, phone and text message about Mikey's condition. I had a cool house now - something that, although I was grateful for, did not seem all that important. I had a washing machine that worked, too. I had to go to work and arrange time off; not a problem, because everyone at work was and continues to be very, very supportive. Still, there was paperwork. I did not get back to the hospital until the dinner tray was out. Mikey had been up for hours and wanted to know why I hadn't been there.

He was jovial.

He joked with the nurses, joked with me, poked fun at his sisters, and repeatedly pushed the button on his morphine drip.

"You know, son, that you don't get a shot of morphine every time you do that, don't you? It's timed to only give you meds every so many minutes no matter how many times you push that button."

"Of course I know that, mom! I'm not a moron." (Said with a big, goofy grin.)

Something was baffling me, though. One thing the surgeon said was that he had left Mikey's wound open. The infection was so bad that he had packed the wound with betadine-soaked sponges, but had not closed it. ("Actually, the healing occurs much faster that way.") For a wound to be open and draining, I thought that Mikey would be in some kind of pain. I understood about the morphine, but he was not even being careful or treating the area gingerly at all. Several times during that initial hospital visit, I half-expected him to punch himself in the nuts like a neanderthal to prove his bravery. It was that casual.

I almost told him that he was open under that hospital gown. Not that anyone could see that...he was bandaged even though he was open. The sponges were to be changed 3 times a day. The first time would be tomorrow sometime. Still, each time I opened my mouth to tell him I thought, "Nah, he knows...surely someone has already told him this." His actions were telling me a different story, though. Also, the fact that he hadn't told me himself (oh, yes, he would have told me himself: "Mom, did you know that the surgeon split me and didn't sew me up again?") bothered me. Something wasn't right. Yet, he had just come out of surgery and was on morphine. Also, his sisters were here. He could be putting on a show for them. I would just let it ride for now.