The Four Walls of My Freedom by Donna Thomson Page A

showed that Nicholas’ hip was partially dislocated and the doctor explained that surgery to reconstruct his hip was required. He described how in the operating room he would take a piece of the pelvic bone and carve out a V-shaped shim. He would then break the top of the femur and position the shim in the space, finishing by fixing a metal plate with screws to secure the repair. This would angle the ball of the femur into the socket of the hip joint. I was told that a transfusion might be necessary and that I could donate my own blood, because we shared the same type. This I did and we waited for the surgery date to arrive. No one in our family had ever experienced an orthopaedic surgery before, so we didn’t really know what to expect.
    That year for Christmas, I had given Jim and myself a weekend away at a spa. I knew that we both needed some alone time, and Jim was extremely stressed by his job at the Department of Foreign Affairs as director of central, southern and eastern Europe. The war in Kosovo was raging, and Jim was heading up the diplomatic strategy, as well as giving daily press briefings. Often, someone from overseas would wake us in the middle of the night to convey urgent messages from the war zone. I wasn’t sure if we would be able to take the weekend away because our city was blanketed in ice and many roads and hotels were closed. Eastern Canada had been declared a state of emergency just two weeks before — we had lost power in our home and been told by the emergency response team to relocate to a hotel in order to keep Nick safe and warm.
    The city was slowly recovering from the catastrophic damage of the ice storm, and even though we had power at home, some homes still didn’t, so I was surprised to learn that the small country hotel was open for business. I ordered a massage and relaxing herbal bath for Jim. The hotel had once been a priory and still had an aura of contemplation to match the Catholic artifacts. It was surrounded by woods and faced a frozen lake — the setting was lovely. Nicholas’ surgery was set for the Monday. At the hotel, I tried to shake the impending doom I felt during the nights, but I remember lying awake in that birch-panelled room with its crucifix above our bed. I reviewed scenarios of Nicholas’ funeral; I played out scenes of him waking with screams of pain. I felt a sickening weight in my stomach.
    It was agreed beforehand that Nicholas would go straight to the intensive care unit from the operating room because of his disability and we were told of all the possible complications that could ensue. Nick was still asleep when they wheeled him across the hall into the ICU . Jim and I sat by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up, but fearing that moment too. Nicholas’ pain was being controlled by a morphine infusion dripping automatically into his IV . He had received one unit of my blood during the surgery, and as I sat stroking his arms I hoped my blood was filled with strength and love. That is what I had told Nick before the surgery in an effort to soothe his fear. I gently lay my hands on his chest and closed my eyes, trying to will healing energy into his body.
    By evening, he was still asleep when Jim asked, “Are there supposed to be two morphine pumps running?” I dropped Nick’s hand and ran to the nurse. I remember watching his face turn ashen when I told him. The anaesthetist managing the postoperative pain medications had switched from one morphine pump to another, and in her hurry to finish her shift, had forgotten to disconnect the first pump. Nicholas had been receiving double the prescribed dose of morphine for four hours. As Nicholas lay there, his breathing shallow and slow from the morphine, we prayed for him to live. Jim went home to get some sleep and I found a parent room usually reserved for those attending their sick babies in the neonatal unit. It was a windowless, dark room with a single sofa —