Wednesday, March 20, 2013

From the Other Side

Today, we made our fifth trip into the wonderful world of surgery since New Years 2012. We're getting really good at it. It's kinda weird... I heard, "Yay, the cupcake lady is here! I was so excited when I saw your name on the schedule! When does the bakery open?" more than once this morning. I knew bringing cupcakes to all my surgeries would pay off.

But, today, I was not the patient. My sweet, precious, baby boy was going under the knife. And I must say, the view from the other side of the waiting room... I don't care for it. 

You know what I DO care for? Coloring books. I freakin' love to color. It's a huge stress-reliever for me. It's like free therapy. And guess what? That low-down hospital has been holding out on me. When we got to Boo's curtain in pre-op, there was a spankin' new coloring book and crayons laid out, just for him. You better believe I'm going to ask for my own next Tuesday. I don't care if they're supposed to be for kids, dadgummit. Or maybe I'll just bring my own... that'll show them.

He was nervous before the surgery. He just wanted to go home. I really know how he felt. And I feel guilty for putting him through that part.

Boo's surgery took about 40 minutes. 42 minutes, actually, not that I was counting. 42 minutes of waiting and worrying. That part was new to me. I don't recommend it.

And then I got to experience all kinds of other new things. Like watching the patient come out of anesthesia. And talking to the doctor... we met with the doctor in a little room after the surgery. Turns out, Doss has been meeting with doctors like that after all my surgeries. Huh. Who knew? 

The doctor said that Boo did beautifully. Hooray! His tonsils were huge but his adenoids... oh, his adenoids. The good doctor called them "monster adenoids". He assured us that we would see an immediate difference in Boo's voice, breathing, and hearing (from the ear tubes placed today). 

He was right. 

Boo has never sounded like this when he breathes. I never realized how much air he wasn't getting. Even his snoring sounds different. His voice is much less nasal. And he had to cover his ears when a loud car went by on the street- an absolute first for the boy who, until today, was rocking a 30% hearing loss.

See how good he looks now? With his new sock monkey and the balloon the doctor gave him...

But here's the thing... when the boy woke up, it was terrible. He was upset and incoherent. His throat hurt and he was dizzy and disoriented. He was hurting and crying and didn't understand what was happening. And there was nothing I could do about it. No balloons or stuffed animals could make it better. He wanted them to fix it. And he wanted to go home. And all I could do was hold him and feel completely useless. So far, that was the worst part. He said, "I feel badly," and all I could come up with was, "Good adverb, buddy." Oy. 

He's better now. He's got some meds in him for pain and he's eaten. He's eaten a lot.

Get-Well messages from little sister help a lot.
He's better now,  I'm better now. And, with only two more school days until Spring Break, I almost get to spend lots and lots of recovery time with him. But going to work tomorrow is going to be tough.

*OK, this post wasn't nearly snarky enough. So here's a true story:
Today, I went to the (all too familiar) pharmacy to get the boy's pain meds. The pharmacist was reviewing the side effects and whatnot and he got to the part where alcohol messes with the medication. So he said, "I guess he's not going to be drinking in the next few days anyway," trying to be funny.


So, with a perfectly straight face, I replied, "No, he hasn't been hitting the sauce as much since he started kindergarten. I mean, don't get me wrong, the boy can still tie one on. But I don't think that he found kindergarten to be quite the party scene he was expecting."
And the pharmacist was laughing because, well, he's used to me by now.
And so I went on, "I mean, I think he was expecting the ladies there to be more in tune with his... proclivities. But it's just been disappointing to him. Meh, there's always first grade."
And the pharmacists (there were two cracking up at this point) were enjoying the story verily.

It was at that point that I noticed the elderly woman standing a few feet down the counter. To say she did not approve would be a gross understatement. Meh. 

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