The Nightmare

The boy woke up crying about an hour after he fell asleep tonight. The poor little guy was having a bad dream. The hubby and I climbed up on the boy's bed and began to soothe him. Stroking his hair, we gently reassured him that everything was going to be alright.

When the boy was finally calm enough to speak, he blurted out, "My hand fell off! My hand fell off!" In a stroke of brilliance, the hubby was able to get the boy to raise both of his hands into the air. When he realized that all ten digits were still intact, the boy sighed, "Wow. Thanks Dad."

On the outside the boy had been very excited about his upcoming surgery. He is happy that Dr. W. will be able to repair the damaged tendon. He has enjoyed telling all of his friends about how he sliced open his fingers and the injury that resulted. He is feeling especially cool.

The hubby and I have suspected that despite all his enthusiasm, the boy is secretly nervous. This simple medical procedure feels like an incredibly big deal to our seven-year-old son. He is experiencing the dreaded fear of the unknown.

The boy woke before dawn this morning to ask us countless questions about what is going to happen on Monday; a process that has been repeated numerous times throughout the day. Will he be left alone in the operating room? Will he have to have an IV? How bad will it hurt when he wakes up? Will the anesthesia make him sick? I could go on.

This entire situation has provided the hubby and I with numerous opportunities to do what we enjoy the most... love on our boy. Most importantly, we have been able to pray for our boy and remind him that God loves him even more than we do. That He will be watching over him on Monday and every day after that.