Now the doctor spread the wound slightly.
“See that gray tissue?” he said. “That’s what happens to internal organs
when there’s an infection. Colton’s not going to be able to leave the
hospital until everything that’s gray in there turns pink.”
A length of plastic tubing protruded from each side of Colton’s
abdomen. At the end of each tube was what the doctor called a “grenade.”
Clear plastic in color, they did look a little like grenades, but they were
actually manual squeeze pumps. The next morning, Dr. O’Holleran showed
us how to squeeze the grenades to drain pus from Colton’s abdomen and
then pack the opening with fresh gauze. For the next few days, Dr.
O’Holleran would arrive each morning to check the wound and pack the
dressing. Colton screamed bloody murder during those visits and began to
associate the doctor with everything bad that was happening to him.
In the evenings, when the doctor wasn’t there, I had to drain the incision.
Prior to the surgery, Sonja had been on puke patrol for nearly a week and
since the surgery, at Colton’s bedside every minute. But draining the pus
was gory work and, for her, a bridge too far. Besides, it took at least three
adults to hold Colton down. So while I squeezed the grenades, Sonja
helped two nurses hold him, Sonja whispering soothing words while Colton
screamed and screamed.