I\u2019m Not Ready Yet<\/span><\/h2>\n

Once my doctors find our next step \u2013 an open lung biopsy \u2013 things begin to move quickly. \u00a0I receive a call from the surgical nurse, giving me a date and instructions for pre-operation preparation and arrival: \u00a0Have no food or drink after midnight the night before, take no medications that morning, remove all nail polish. \u00a0Grabbing a pen, I attempt to capture the flow of all this information, \u00a0\u201cDo you have any questions?\u201d she asks at the end of the call. \u00a0\u201cUh, yes,\u201d the words finally arrive, following slow and foggy thoughts, \u201cI\u2019m nursing my son. \u00a0How much breast milk should I pump and store in advance to ensure he does not ingest any medicine?\u201d \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

She pauses for some time, and I assume she is doing some calculating. \u00a0\u201cDear,\u201d she finally says, gently, \u201cI don\u2019t think you understand. \u00a0That is just not possible. \u00a0Anesthesia of this sort may stay in your system for days, even weeks or months; and you will be on strong pain medication after your surgery. \u00a0You have to stop nursing your baby.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I likely answer, \u201cOkay. \u00a0Thank you,\u201d before returning the phone to its cradle. \u00a0But all I remember saying is \u201cI\u2019m not ready yet.\u201d \u00a0I whisper it at first, contemplating my son as he grasps brightly colored wooden blocks on the carpet at my feet. \u00a0I kneel to touch his soft head, his feathery blond hair growing warm with the excitement of his play. \u00a0Glancing up at me he smiles, then immediately creases gather on his forehead. \u00a0Curious, he touches my face, and then he notices the tears that fill my eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not ready yet.\u201d \u00a0I continue to repeat the words, as though they are a mantra of sorts.<\/span><\/p>\n

They will become the refrain consistently floating through my head in the coming weeks. \u00a0When I sing my son to sleep each night, they find their way into whatever melody I chant. \u00a0As I lie awake staring at the ceiling, they arise in sobs. \u00a0They vibrate as the consistent backbeat during countless conversations with doctors who attempt to create a prognosis and with family members unable to accept that prognosis. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m not ready yet.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m Not Ready Yet Once my doctors find our next step \u2013 an open lung biopsy \u2013 things begin to move quickly. \u00a0I receive a call from the surgical nurse, giving me a date and instructions for pre-operation preparation and arrival: \u00a0Have no food or drink after midnight the night before, take no medications that morning, remove all nail polish. \u00a0Grabbing a pen, I attempt to capture the flow of all this information, \u00a0\u201cDo you have any questions?\u201d she asks at the end of the call. \u00a0\u201cUh, yes,\u201d the words finally arrive, following slow and foggy thoughts, \u201cI\u2019m nursing my […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"episode_type":"","audio_file":"","cover_image":"","cover_image_id":"","duration":"","filesize":"","date_recorded":"","explicit":"","block":"","filesize_raw":"","footnotes":""},"yoast_head":"\n