Trip number 31 to Greenville, South Carolina, came with many milestones.

This was our longest stay in Greenville so far. It also included Harrison’s longest scheduled surgery to date. It was the first time anyone had ever come to Greenville to visit Harrison. And, maybe the biggest one of all, it was the first time in his life that my son’s legs had ever been straight.

We were in Greenville for ten days, so suffice it to say, there is plenty to cover. We drove down on Sunday because he had pre-op on Monday and surgery on Wednesday. By now, we have our routine. We roll in late, we do our usual check-in dance, and I see the same night manager that Jenna has still never laid eyes on. At this point, she is convinced this girl is just a figment of my imagination or the ghost of the hotel. Either way, she gets us checked in without me having to show my license or credit card, and knows me by name. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to a Cheers-esque reception.

Pre-op Monday

Monday was our usual pre-op check-in at Shriners Children’s Greenville. They took Harrison’s height and weight, we went through the paperwork, confirmed that we’d be staying in the hospital after surgery, and checked all the boxes we’ve checked too many times now.

Then we met with Dr. Hyer to go over the procedure.

She started by walking us through what her plans were for the procedure, examining him as she talked. As always, she was a little taken aback by Harrison’s strength. He is extremely stout through his core and legs, and that is something she tends to forget between visits because most of the kids she works with are not built like he is.

Even as she laid out the plan, she kept commenting on his thighs and hamstrings. She is used to working with much smaller or less developed muscles. Harrison is not that. The boy’s upper legs are thick and strong, and that changes how she approaches things.

The plan for his feet and ankles was very clear. Once she started moving up the legs, the game plan got a little more fluid. She wanted to see how his legs responded, what degree she could get, what his muscles would allow. The more she examined, the more she adjusted in real time.

Through all of it, we told her the same thing:

If we are going to do this, if our son is going to go through another big surgery, then be as aggressive as you need to be. Do everything you think you can do that will help him. There is no point in holding back and leaving something on the table that could benefit his future.

That was the mindset going into Wednesday, and with our trust in Dr. Hyer, it was an easy one to have.

But after all the Shriners’ fun we still had a day and a half before surgery, so we decided to take full advantage.

Falls Park and piggyback workouts

It had been a few trips since we really did anything outside the hospital and hotel, so we decided to fix that and do something we have shamefully not done in recent visits: head down to Falls Park.

There’s always a sense of peacefulness when we visit, and this time was no exception. The weather was perfect. Blue skies, just enough warmth, the kind of day that makes you forget for a moment why you are in town in the first place. We did our usual casual walk towards the falls, stopped for photos, watched the water, and just let ourselves breathe.

Our walks at the park look different from how they used to. The days of pushing Harrison in a stroller or pulling him around in his wagon are mostly behind us. He will tolerate those for a bit, but eventually, he wants out. At that point, for me at least, it turns into a full piggyback tour of the park.

A good, needed workout.

We wandered around on a not-so-crowded Monday afternoon, passing people on their lunch breaks and just soaking in the quiet. At one point, we came around a bend and saw goats working a hillside. Literally goats, rented and on the clock, clearing the brush. There was a sign featuring a logo of a goat in a hard hat, and naturally, the logo geek in me had to stop and document it. Whoever designed that, you really gave me a sense that we were in the presence of hardworking goats.

We wrapped up our first full day in Greenville the way that is now a simmering tradition: swimming.

The hotel pool was still open, so we took full advantage. We knew he would be in casts for six weeks after surgery, which meant no pool time for a while. Every chance to get our little water dog in the water before that was something we were not going to waste.

Asheville and the Trolls

Tuesday was our last full day before surgery, and we did something we had somehow never done before.

We went up to Asheville, NC.

Despite having passed Asheville coming and going every single trip we’ve taken, to the chagrin of Jenna, we’ve never made a stop. That is 61 times of passing Asheville, just in these trips, that we’ve never stopped. This time, we had a full day with nothing on the schedule, so we decided to take advantage of it and drove up to the North Carolina Arboretum to check out the new Thomas Dambo Trolls exhibit, which had just opened the previous weekend.

For a random Tuesday, there were more people there than I expected, but it was still quiet enough to feel peaceful. We walked the paths, wandered through some wooded areas, and let Harrison just exist outside for a while.

You get that kid out on a trail surrounded by trees, and he is in his happy place. If you throw in running water from a creek, you might as well roll credits. That is his ideal environment. (Foreshadowing!)

We explored, took in the views, took photographs of twelve different trolls, caught our breath in the fresh air, and then found our way back to the hotel. Where once again, we closed out the evening back in the pool for one last round of late-night swimming, and did our best to keep occupied enough to keep the nerves down.

We did everything we could to squeeze the good out of those days leading up to Wednesday. Sun on our faces, fresh air, time in the water, and as many piggyback rides as my back could handle before I would not be able to offer them for a few weeks.

Surgery day

By the time surgery morning rolled around, we were back in familiar territory.

There is a certain rhythm to the pre-op area that I wish we did not know so well. While Harrison was in surgery this time, I did the math in my head and realized that we have now sat in that same pre-op bay, he and I on that same bed, ten different times. Before we left Greenville at the end of this trip, it would become eleven.

Same room. Same curtain. Same bed. Same drill.

We know when they will ask us to change him into a gown. We know that he needs what we call “happy juice” to help him calm down and loosen up before they take him back. We know to talk to the anesthesiologist and tell them, very clearly, “Use his right hand for the IV. His left arm doesn’t move as much, so his veins are easier to find on the right.” We know that he’ll swing his arm until the bracelet falls off, and that they struggle to get his pulse/oxygen reading until he’s calmed from the happy juice, because he recognizes the room and routine as much as we do.

However, one of our favorite parts of the pre-op routine is letting him pick a Build-A-Bear before heading to the pre-op bay. This time, he picked one with his favorite colors with dinos, love at first sight, and immediately his little recovery sidekick. Which, to be fair, is also another first, as this boy has never really cared about stuffed animals, until this trip.

We know to expect the nurses, the pre-op questions, and eventually to see Dr. Hyer walk in with a marker, ready to sign Harrison’s legs and feet before she takes him back. We are seasoned pros at this part now, whether we like it or not.

That familiarity does not make it easier. The nerves have never faltered.

If anything, there is a strange kind of heaviness that comes with realizing how many times you have already done this. You sit there, going through the motions, but there is this low hum of melancholy underneath it all. You are present, but you are not. You are doing what needs to be done, but part of you is stuck on the fact that your child has a “routine” for surgery days.

And it never stops being gut-wrenching to watch them take him through those doors.

We have watched him be carried back when he was smaller. Now we watch him being rolled away on the bed, lying there by himself, headed past doors we have never been allowed to go through. Same hallway, same turn, same doors that always swing shut in our faces.

You would think it would get easier with repetition. It does not.

Waiting out a seven-hour window

This surgery had a seven-hour block reserved. Just hearing that number out loud will make your stomach flip.

I could not tell you exactly how we passed all of those hours. We had the room that would be ours for the next few days, so we camped out in our routine spots, Jenna in the chair and me on the “couch”. We just sat or lay around and waited for the occasional update. (You’d think this would be prime time to accomplish things, like start writing a blog post, but the brain doesn’t like to work that way.)

Every so often, the phone chime with a nurse giving a text update.

“Dr. Hyer just finished the left foot and has moved to the right.”

“Now she is working higher up the leg.”

Those check-ins become your entire world. You hang on to each one, trying to read between the lines while also trying not to.

Then, about five hours in, the message changed.

“Dr. Hyer is wrapping up. She will meet you in the conference room.”

Two hours shorter than the block they had scheduled. A surprise.

Whenever a surgery finishes earlier than expected, there is always that little voice in the back of your head that starts whispering. This is not the first time we have had that happen. It has happened with previous procedures, including his hip surgery. The minute someone says, “They finished early,” that voice starts gearing up:

Did they get in there and realize they could not do what they planned?

Did something go wrong?

Did they have to stop?

You brace yourself without even realizing you are doing it.

This time, that little voice was not prepared for what it was about to hear.

Straight legs for the first time

When we met with Dr. Hyer, she walked us through everything that had happened in the operating room. The work on his feet and ankles went according to plan. All good there.

The real surprise came once she moved up his legs.

The original plan was to release his hamstrings, then look at the position of his knees and decide what else she could do from there. Once she started working through his hamstrings and soft tissue, she realized something she had not expected.

She could extend Harrison’s knees until his legs were straight.

For the first time.

This is the part where I need you to picture where we started.

When Harrison was born, his feet were up by his butt. His left foot was tucked underneath his right butt cheek. The kid was a pretzel. His knees have always been bent. His legs have never fully straightened.

Four and a half years later, after this surgery, his legs were straight.

It is one of those things that sounds so simple on paper. Most kids have straight legs. Most parents never have to think about whether their kids’ knees can fully extend. It is mundane. Ordinary. Background noise.

Until it is not.

When you sit with the reality of “His legs have never been straight until now,” it can pull you down a rabbit hole pretty quickly. How different is this going to feel for him? How different will his center of gravity be once he is out of casts? How will that change transfers, standing, sitting, everything?

You start with a simple sentence.

Then your brain starts doing the math on what that actually means.

So, what all did Dr. Hyer do? What all went down in that surgery room that has our boy in casts for the next six weeks? Here’s the breakdown for those interested:

Big picture of the surgery

In the operating room, Dr. Hyer basically hit reset on Harrison’s legs. She rebuilt both feet so they could sit flatter and more stable, then went up to the knees and unlocked the tight hamstrings that kept them stuck in a bend. By the time they were done, both legs could straighten, and both feet were held in casts in a position they had never been in before.

Feet and ankles

On each foot, Dr. Hyer lengthened Harrison’s tight Achilles tendon and moved a major tendon on the side of his foot to a new spot on the top of the foot. That tendon is now helping hold the foot up and out instead of letting it point and twist. She also reshaped part of a bone in the ankle and used live X-ray to guide everything until the foot could sit flat.

Knees

At the knees, she worked from both the outside and inside. She slowly released and lengthened the hamstring muscles and part of the IT band that had been keeping Harrison’s knees locked in a bent position. When she checked with X-ray and saw that the knees could fully straighten, she stopped instead of doing a bigger, more drastic release.

Why it mattered

None of this was cosmetic. Every cut, lengthening, and tendon move was aimed at one thing: giving Harrison straighter legs and flatter feet so standing, walking, bracing, and everyday care will be a little more possible in the years ahead.

Waking up in casts

Of course, Harrison did not wake up thinking, “Wow, my legs are straight now.”

He woke up miserable.

He came out of anesthesia with both legs in casts, an epidural, a catheter, and the full post-op package. I am not sure how happy I would be waking up like that either.

He was not a happy camper. At all.

The next three days were mostly about letting him rest while we tried to keep his pain under control. It was a weird mix of long stretches of sitting around, quick power naps, and then nights that did not feel like nights because no one really slept.

Time in a hospital has a way of stretching and folding in on itself. Hours feel longer, days blur, and you live in this small bubble of monitors, medicine schedules, and the constant mental inventory of “Is he okay? Is he hurting? What else can we do?”

His preschool crew did everything they could from afar to help fill that bubble with something brighter. They sent artwork and cards that ended up covering his hospital walls, videos, and little gifts. The kind of stuff that slowly turns a sterile room into something that actually feels like it belongs to your kid, which was all new for us. (I fully admit sitting there at one point, nearly dumbfounded over the fact that Harrison has friends, which added a whole new element to things I had never really considered before.)

And nothing weighs you down more than those moments where you’re powerless, and you know you can’t do anything to help your kid. And it sucks.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, we got one of the first tangible signs of what this surgery really did. With a lot of help, Harrison stood for the first time after surgery. Even with casts, he suddenly looked long. Different. Taller. In her notes, Dr. Hyer actually wrote “perfectly extended.”

First time ever in his life.

A shorter stay than we expected

Going into this trip, the plan was for Harrison to stay inpatient at Shriners for a week after surgery. That was what we were mentally geared up for.

Because the surgery went so well and wasn’t as intensive as anticipated, and because at this point, Dr. Hyer knows us and trusts us, that plan shifted.

When she checked on him the next day, we had a different kind of conversation. Once the catheter was out, the epidural was removed, and everything checked out, she was comfortable with him being discharged to the hotel, as long as we stayed in Greenville for cast changes and follow-up.

By that point, we even had Harrison up out of bed and in a wheelchair for a little while. We took slow laps around the floor just to get him out of the room and let him see something besides the same four walls. A couple of therapists he has worked with on past trips spotted us and came over to say hi, talk to him, and comment on how big and grown up he looked, and cheer him on. It was a small thing, but it made the hospital feel a little less heavy.

So our “week in the hospital” suddenly became “roughly three days in the hospital.”

We technically could have been discharged on Friday. We chose to stay one more night. He was still feeling rough, and his pain was not fully under control, so we opted to keep the safety net of being at the hospital for one more night. (Which proved to be the right call.)

We were officially discharged on Saturday.

We were still in Greenville, still close to Shriners, still very much in recovery mode. But being out of the room and out of inpatient status shifted the tone of the trip, even if it did not change how hard those days were on him.

Two nurses who changed everything

You would not necessarily think a hospital stay would be something you could write a lot about. For the past four years, I probably would have agreed. Most of our inpatient stretches have blurred together into a mix of stress, beeping machines, and trying to keep Harrison as comfortable as possible.

This time was different.

Along with the milestones of this visit, this trip gave us something I am still not sure I can fully put into words. We had the chance to meet two incredible nurses who changed what those days felt like.

Cassie and Caroline.

They were Harrison’s day and night nurses, respectively, and they were outstanding.

And not just because of how they handled his meds or how they charted his care, but because of the way they interacted with him and with us. We have had some less-than-stellar experiences in the past. I can remember dreading certain nurse shifts during his hip surgery.

This was the opposite of that.

Cassie and Caroline had a natural rapport with Harrison and a rapport with us. They even had a rapport with each other. They made a game out of seeing who could get him to smile first.

He was extremely reluctant, for the record. I do not think he gave in once.

But what could have been a string of miserable days, just sitting in a room watching our kid be uncomfortable, was made so much better because of them. They paid attention. They treated him like a person, not a chart. They treated us like people, not background noise.

I do not know if I will ever feel like I have said enough good things about those two. They took a hard week and made it lighter, and that is something I will not forget.

A New Visitor

Speaking of making things easier: to my chagrin, and despite my attempts to deter her, my mother made the trip down to Greenville this time, and I am reluctant to admit it proved to be needed.

She drove in on Friday and headed home on Sunday, which meant we had a visitor for a couple of days, whether I thought we needed one or not. Despite my protests and attempts to talk her out of it, it ended up being a good thing.

Having her there meant Jenna and I both actually got showers without trying to sprint through them. I could run to the store without feeling like I needed to teleport back. Harrison even took a nap in Mom’s hotel room that Saturday after we had been discharged, which gave him a change of scenery and gave us a breather.

When Mom first walked into the hospital room late Friday, Harrison did not know what to do with himself. His face was a mix of excitement and confusion, like his brain was trying to process why Mimi was suddenly in the hospital with him. He stared, he smiled, he hesitated. The boy did not know what to make of his Mimi showing up in that space.

Then he decided to take full advantage of having someone new there to pet on him.

She sat with him for a few hours, through the in-and-out cycles of him crying, fussing, and being generally miserable. It gave us a little bit of a break and gave him some comfort from a familiar face. (I’d also argue, while he was clearly miserable, our boy still managed moments of milking the extra attention for all it was worth!)

She also got to witness “Greenville mode” for Jenna and me in real time. (Truly a unique experience!)

Because Cassie and Caroline were both so good with us, there was a lot of back-and-forth joking and easy conversation when they came in. Mom happened to be there during a shift change, so Cassie was bringing Caroline up to speed while all four of us were cutting up and riffing off each other.

I am pretty sure my mother’s face at one point was about one step away from utter bewilderment, just short of horror.

I do not think many people in our family have seen that side of me and Jenna at the same time, especially with other people to play off of. We are usually a bit more reserved around family. In Greenville, when we are with medical staff we trust, a different switch gets flipped. Fortunately, Cassie and Caroline were the type of nurses we could be ourselves around, and Mom got a front-row seat to that.

So, milestone number whatever-we-are-on now: for the first time in thirty-one trips, we had a visitor come down. Harrison got to hang out with his Mimi in Greenville.

She even checked into the same hotel we stay in. (Which meant she became part of the ritual elevator mirror selfie.) Because of her timing, she did not get to see the mysterious night manager who knows me by sight, which only fuels Jenna’s theory that this woman does not actually exist. The first room we had on this second stay had an air conditioner that did not work, so I went down to the front desk that night to ask about a room change. The hotel was packed that weekend, but the night manager knew me on sight and helped sort it out, which only reinforced our weird little familiarity.

Either way, having an extra set of hands for a couple of days helped more than I care to admit. We were dealing with an extremely upset, hard-to-console little boy who was clearly still in pain and absolutely irate with the universe as a whole. Having someone else there to tag in and out with made a difference.

Eventually, I might delete this part of the blog post, so there isn’t a permanent record that it was probably a good thing my mom came down. For now, I will leave it.

A Failed Attempt

After Mom left and we settled into hotel life again, we still had a few days to fill before heading home and trying to pretend we were ready for Thanksgiving.

After already being cooped up in a hospital room for three days, plus clocking a day and a half back in a hotel room, we had the bright idea mid-Sunday afternoon to try and venture out. Harrison wasn’t keen on sitting up, but was less prone to fight against things that were routine, like sitting in a car seat. So, we attempted a little venture out of the hotel to grab a bite to eat and feel the sun on our faces. We decided to try a new spot, not too far from our hotel, called Conestee Nature Preserve. 

The attempt was short-lived, as Harrison tolerated being in the wagon for all of maybe five minutes before he was done. We arguably spent more time loading and unloading the wagon and prepping it than we did walking, but we tried, and still managed to feel the sun on our faces, even if it was extremely short-lived.

Thankfully, the car seat proved to be one of the few places Harrison seemed comfortable, and returning him to his seat let the calm return. (This was also the point where I started debating bringing the car seat up to the hotel room with us, just for him to sit in it. Thankfully, it proved unnecessary.)

Back Outside Again

After that failed attempt at venturing out, Harrison started to show flashes of his personality again. He was more willing to sit up. He found a little bit of his independence, propped up with his iPad and actually able to control it. We finally landed on a good schedule for pain medication, and things started to feel a little less like survival mode. Nights were still proving to be a nightmare, but it was clear we were making forward progress.

The weather stayed almost stupidly perfect the entire time we were in Greenville, and we decided we were not going to waste it. Harrison had spent too many days trapped in hospital rooms and hotel rooms, regardless of his minuscule reprieve the day prior. So, once he was in a good enough mood, we ventured outside yet again.

We loaded him into the wagon and headed back out to explore, this time walking a section of the Swamp Rabbit Trail we had never been on before. We checked out a little rock garden, then followed the path toward the zoo area. The trail wound through a more secluded stretch, wrapping around the edge of some woods with running water nearby.

The temperature was perfect, even for a little boy in full-leg casts.

About a mile in, Harrison started to doze off. He fell asleep in the wagon and napped through most of the walk back to the car, his head tilted back, completely relaxed, with his still unnamed bear in tow.

It was the first time after surgery that it felt like he really got to relax.

Like I have said before, you give our boy trees and running water and you have basically dropped him into his happy place. Being able to look up at the trees, watch the leaves falling, and listen to the sound of water running beside us, it was the calmest we had felt since before surgery.

For us, it felt like the first real chance to catch our breath.

That walk ended up being the reset we needed to push through those last two days before we could finally head home.

Trip 31 wrap-up

The next day was mostly about resting, packing, and getting ourselves ready to leave. We gathered the chaos from ten days in Greenville, sorted bags, cleaned out the car, and mentally shifted from “hospital and hotel mode” to “five-hour drive home with a kid in casts” mode.

We had one more stop to make before we could leave: one final trip to Shriners.

Dr. Hyer wanted to put Harrison back under anesthesia to give him a full exam and recast his legs into the set that would carry him through the next six weeks. That meant pre-op again, which meant that bed and that room for the eleventh time. (and another Build-A-Bear!)

We went through the routine like the seasoned veterans we unfortunately are. This time we had a different anesthesiologist who clearly did not listen to our usual “use his right hand” speech, but not everyone recognizes our pro status right away.

After they gave him happy juice and took him back, we were escorted upstairs to a room to wait while he was in the OR and then recovery.

As we turned the corner into the hallway, we heard it: “Uh-oh, somebody call security.”

Cassie and Caroline were both working that shift.

They saw us, recognized us instantly, and we all fell back into the same easy joking we had before. They came in to check on Harrison during recovery, and once again Cassie ended up as his primary nurse.

Because she already knew him and knew us, her goal was simple: get us out of there as quickly and smoothly as possible.

Once she was sure he was doing well, she moved with purpose. Monitors off. IVs out. All the necessary boxes checked so that all we were really waiting on was for him to wake up a little more.

He woke up mad at the world again, understandably, because he was once more in casts. But it could have been much harder than it was. Having someone we trusted running point on discharge made the whole process feel lighter.

When they discharge him from something like this, the nurses always walk us all the way out, making sure we get him buckled into the car seat, the wagon loaded, and everything ready for the drive home. There have been times where that has been painfully awkward. Someone hovering over, not talking or offering any type of help, while you are wrestling an angry kid into a car seat and trying to get packed up for a long drive.

This was not one of those times.

With Cassie there, it felt natural. She knew us well enough that it did not feel like we were being watched or judged. It was just help. We got Harrison settled, got the wagon loaded, and pulled out of the parking lot without needing to shake off that weird, awkward feeling after having someone in your space for a beat too long.

After ten days, we were finally on the road Wednesday afternoon, with Thanksgiving waiting at home the next day.

A quick update from home

Since I am over a week late getting this post finished, I am going to do something I do not usually do and include a little home update.

We do not go back to Shriners until January. Harrison will be in these casts until then.

The first few days at home were nearly as rough as the days at the hotel and, honestly, some of the hospital nights. You would think there would be a nice stair-step progression: hospital hard, hotel a little easier, home the easiest, but that is not how it played out.

I think our boy was just done.

He was tired of hospital rooms. Tired of hotel rooms. Tired of being uncomfortable and restricted. Add the casts on top of that, and the nights especially were rough.

Once we were home long enough to really watch what was going on, we realized a lot of what was waking him and making him miserable were muscle spasms, not just general pain. Once we shifted to focus more on treating the spasms instead of just hammering away at pain management, things improved a lot.

We are at a much better place now.

Once home, we rolled straight into Thanksgiving and multiple gatherings in the first few days back, which meant there was not much of a decompression window before everything restarted. In true Harrison fashion, there was no rest for the wicked, with only Sunday as his one real rest day before heading back to school on Monday.

And while he has yet to develop the fondness for leftovers that his parents have, being back around familiar faces and surroundings helped get our boy back into the swing of things.

His pain seems to be minimal. The nights are getting better. Each night feels like a small step forward instead of a roll of the dice.

He has no restrictions on what he can attend or do. He is back to school, getting his casts signed, going to therapy, and doing all of the things he was doing before. He has worked hard in therapy this week, stubborn in all the best ways and determined to do what he can, casts and all. The biggest change between now and cast-off is that there will be no AquaTots. Other than that, life keeps moving, and after this first week, that seems exactly like what our boy needed; he is excited and happy to see his friends, ready to put in the work after being off therapy for two weeks, and regaining his independence, albeit in slightly different ways.

Trip 31 gave us straight legs, our longest stay yet, a lot of hard nights, a few unexpectedly calm walks, a surprise visit from Mimi, walls, and now casts, covered in love from his classmates, and two nurses who raised the bar. We are tired, but we are home. And for now, that is enough.