See Ya Later, Tonsils!
I've been looking forward to today for a long time. With each cycle of antibiotics that coursed through my 37lb son last year, my anticipation for this day mounted. Owen was on antibiotics for strep throat 5 times in as many months last year, it seemed as though we'd finish one cycle and start another. Honestly, I'd have reached in there and hauled out those bastard tonsils myself on a few occasions. Eventually, I was rolling my eyes each time Owen spiked a fever and whined about a headache. "Again?!? What the deuce??" The ENT doctor we saw in January was quick to agree with me, these tonsils would have to go, they were doing more harm than good.
Today was the big day. We woke at 5am to take Owen to the hospital, leaving Simon at home with his Grandma and Grandpa. We lifted him onto a stretcher and stripped off his clothes, putting on a little hospital gown just for kids. Still, he was swimming in it and I tucked it around him as best I could. Suddenly, the boy who'd mouthed off to me the day before looked like a teeny little angel.
With his small, skinny legs dangling from the pink, striped hospital gown that gaped around him, I forgot that I'd screamed at him only 12 hours earlier for refusing to get himself a sweater. I forgot that we'd butted heads over a baked potato the night before. Instead, I thought about those skinny legs battering mine each morning when he crawls into bed with us for a quick snuggle. I wanted to crawl onto the stretcher with him but I didn't. I walked with him as he was wheeled to the waiting bay of the OR. Tim waited in a separate room, I'd have to join him once they took Owen into the actual operating room. Once in the waiting bay, I reminded Owen that he was going to fall asleep and wake up with a pretty sore throat. No problem, he was already looking forward to three days of ice cream. When the nurse came for him, we high-fived and kissed and went our separate ways. I stood just out of his sight to watch her carry his tiny body into the room.
I walked into the recovery ward 30 minutes after our high-five and found him crying loudly with one nurse on either side of him. They were pushing an orange Popsicle toward him and asking him to stop screaming. His pale face and constant whimpers were enough to break a mama's heart, I pulled him off the stretcher and onto my lap to calm him. I'm almost never 100% confident in my parenting. I usually fall into bed at night thinking that I could've handled something better than I did. I could've been more patient, more creative, more attentive. This was not one of those times. Those nurses couldn't calm him like I could. He needed his mom and I'm the only person on the planet fit for that job. I got to enjoy one of those rare moments that I don't have to question what I'm doing.
Thanks to the Tylenol and morphine(!!!) that he'd had during the surgery, he was back to himself within an hour and it was hard to believe that he'd even been through surgery. It's been 10 hours since his surgery and he's already driving me crazy again. He's blatantly disobeyed his Grandpa, demanded foods he knows I can't give him for a week and pushed his brother down. I swear that as I type this, he's on all fours shaking his bum in my direction. No word of a lie. Not ideal behaviour, I admit. But I'm so glad he's feeling up to being a fartface. I'm so glad that the worst procedure he's ever had to live through is this minor, routine surgery. I'm so glad that I've never been tested by the hardship of a seriously sick child. A child who's life begins to revolve around hospital stays, tests and procedures. If there's a God out there, please don't ever test me with that shit. One day was enough.
Today was the big day. We woke at 5am to take Owen to the hospital, leaving Simon at home with his Grandma and Grandpa. We lifted him onto a stretcher and stripped off his clothes, putting on a little hospital gown just for kids. Still, he was swimming in it and I tucked it around him as best I could. Suddenly, the boy who'd mouthed off to me the day before looked like a teeny little angel.
With his small, skinny legs dangling from the pink, striped hospital gown that gaped around him, I forgot that I'd screamed at him only 12 hours earlier for refusing to get himself a sweater. I forgot that we'd butted heads over a baked potato the night before. Instead, I thought about those skinny legs battering mine each morning when he crawls into bed with us for a quick snuggle. I wanted to crawl onto the stretcher with him but I didn't. I walked with him as he was wheeled to the waiting bay of the OR. Tim waited in a separate room, I'd have to join him once they took Owen into the actual operating room. Once in the waiting bay, I reminded Owen that he was going to fall asleep and wake up with a pretty sore throat. No problem, he was already looking forward to three days of ice cream. When the nurse came for him, we high-fived and kissed and went our separate ways. I stood just out of his sight to watch her carry his tiny body into the room.
I walked into the recovery ward 30 minutes after our high-five and found him crying loudly with one nurse on either side of him. They were pushing an orange Popsicle toward him and asking him to stop screaming. His pale face and constant whimpers were enough to break a mama's heart, I pulled him off the stretcher and onto my lap to calm him. I'm almost never 100% confident in my parenting. I usually fall into bed at night thinking that I could've handled something better than I did. I could've been more patient, more creative, more attentive. This was not one of those times. Those nurses couldn't calm him like I could. He needed his mom and I'm the only person on the planet fit for that job. I got to enjoy one of those rare moments that I don't have to question what I'm doing.
Thanks to the Tylenol and morphine(!!!) that he'd had during the surgery, he was back to himself within an hour and it was hard to believe that he'd even been through surgery. It's been 10 hours since his surgery and he's already driving me crazy again. He's blatantly disobeyed his Grandpa, demanded foods he knows I can't give him for a week and pushed his brother down. I swear that as I type this, he's on all fours shaking his bum in my direction. No word of a lie. Not ideal behaviour, I admit. But I'm so glad he's feeling up to being a fartface. I'm so glad that the worst procedure he's ever had to live through is this minor, routine surgery. I'm so glad that I've never been tested by the hardship of a seriously sick child. A child who's life begins to revolve around hospital stays, tests and procedures. If there's a God out there, please don't ever test me with that shit. One day was enough.
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