Don't ever let anyone tell you that a tonsillectomy is just a simple procedure. Okay, don't get me wrong -- after spending the better part of a day and a half in a highly-rated children's hospital, I know that we are lucky beyond our wildest dreams that our worst problem is our child's sleep issues and the relatively minor annoyance of having his tonsils and adenoids removed. I know only too well, after seeing the anguish on the faces of a family waiting for their 15-year-old daughter to emerge from surgery for a brain tumor, and after talking with a mom whose son was born with parts of his skull prematurely fused together (at 9 months, he was in the midst of surgery to unfuse his skull so his brain can grow properly) ... I know that, compared with these kids and these families, we are incredibly blessed. Truly.
However, if I might indulge in a bit of a whine for awhile ... Today is Sunday. Squeaker's surgery was Tuesday. And everything in between is one big exhausting blur. I will always be everlastingly grateful to this mommy blogger, whose post I found before the surgery. If we hadn't known what was coming, we'd have been completely gobsmacked. The docs hinted at it, but they certainly didn't prepare us in detail for what was coming. I know that every kid's experience will be different, but here's how it's been for us.
On surgery day, Squeaker was Not Happy At All to be skipping his breakfast. Once we got to the hospital, he forgot about hunger in the newness of the adventure. He played with his toys in the waiting area, and did great in the pre-op staging area. He chatted up all the nurses, rode a tricycle around (and around and around) the nurse's station like a wild man, and happily played doctor on the Mister and I using his brand new doctor kit. When they gave him the versed or valium or whatever it was (bad mama, not paying attention), he got quickly and hilariously stoned, and when the nurses wheeled his bed off into the operating room, I was the only one in the hall crying. Squeaker was cheerfully pointing out the colorful giant butterfly stickers on the ceiling. I ran down to the cafe and got a quick snack for the Mister and myself. Our wait was very short, and soon the surgeon was coming to tell us that the surgery was over, Squeaker was in good shape, and we'd be able to see him as soon as he woke up.
Then things got a bit ugly. Squeaker had a horrible time coming out of the anesthesia. When we got to him, he was wailing and thrashing, his eyes were all unfocused, and thick stringy drool was coming out of his mouth nonstop. I sat in a rocking chair and held him as best I could, while the machines beeped away and we waited for him to emerge from his drug haze. He hated hated hated his IV lock and kept wailing about it being "owie." The nurse assured me that all kids his age said that, but I was still skeptical, having had more than one seriously owie IV in my day. Eventually he woke enough to ask for the Mister, who held him for about a half hour more. Finally the nurse said we could go upstairs to his room. We wheeled his bed through the halls, with me holding his good hand so that he couldn't tear at his IV lock. His room was pleasant enough with large yellow-leafed maple trees right outside, a private bath with shower, and a window seat that doubled as an adult bed. He continued to cry and wail inconsolably for what seemed like ages, while clutching a drool-soaked towel to his face. His room nurse, Mike, came in and talked with us about meds, and we finally got Squeaker to take some tylenol with codeine. At long last, he stopped wailing and began to express an interest in his toys and his Peter Pan video. After a few hours, he demanded dinner. I started him on a cup of crushed ice, which he tore through ravenously. Then we got a popsicle, and he kept that down. Finally, he had a few bites of mac & cheese and a cup of chocolate pudding. Everything stayed down, and his energy began to return. Mike came in and expressed wonder at what a different child he was. Food makes such a difference in our boy.
Several hours later, we were able to settle him enough that he slept. The Mister stayed the night, and I drove off into the pouring rain, exhausted and worried about Squeaker, but also worried about myself and the baby. I barely ate or drank all day and could tell that I was pushing my limits. Plus, I was driving with one dangerously soft tire. I took the streets home rather than risking a flat on the freeway, and finally found a gas station with air. So there I was in the dark at a nearly-deserted gas station, the rain sheeting down, holding a flashlight, pumping up the tire, 8 months pregnant and hoping that I wouldn't get mugged or pass out before I got home. Awesome. Fixed myself a huge breakfast when I got home, watched some Law & Order, and went to bed. Slept restlessly, woke early, showered, and went back to the hospital.
Squeaker was awake and wailing when I got there, and the Mister looked like he'd been up all night. Turns out he had been. See, here's the thing they don't tell you. The pain of a tonsilectomy is really horrible, and if you're a little kid who doesn't quite understand what is going on, all you know is that you hurt and these people are making you swallow stuff that makes the hurt worse (even though it will eventually make the hurt go away). So the Mister and the lovely Jamaican night nurse had spent the better portion of the night trying to force meds down Squeaker's throat. And he puked it all up, and there was blood, and that freaked him out, and when he's freaked out, he screams, and screaming hurts his throat, and so it went. Yet, at the early rounds that morning, the surgeon declared him to be "doing great" and discharged him into our care.
We're alternating the tylenol/codeine with ibuprofen round the clock. Each works well enough to take away most of the pain, but on his bad days/nights, if you get too close to the dosing time or past it, all hell breaks loose. He wakes up wailing, which hurts his throat, then the thick ropey drool starts in, which chokes him, which makes him cough and gag, and then he claps his hands over his mouth and refuses the meds because swallowing hurts, and so we have to hold him down and force him to drink, while hoping he doesn't puke it all back up from gagging on the drool. Sometimes he acts like he's going to drink the meds himself, and then throws the cup across the room or dumps it on his bed instead. The hysteria is really what hurts him, but the pain is so bad that he can't stop shrieking. Last night was particularly bad -- apparently at this stage, the scabs start to slough off -- and he began clenching his teeth when we held him down, which meant we had to dig our fingers into his jaw (which was already sore from having it held open for surgery) and pry it open. Plus, to add to the joy, he's having night terrors, which makes the hysteria completely unrelated to the pain, and makes our ability to soothe him almost impossible. The Mister has been sleeping in Squeaker's bed with him, and I wake up and run down the hall when the crying starts. Last night it was 10:30, 2ish, and 6:45. Each time it takes about an hour to dose him and calm him. And so it goes.
Yep, good times. During the day, he feels well enough to eat a litttle bit and drink just enough to stay hydrated. My mom came up on Friday and left today, giving the Mister and I a bit of a break to do things like exercise, shower, and pay bills. We're hoping that last night, or perhaps tonight, will be the worst of it, and that he'll be on the fast-track to healing this week. In the meantime, we watch his ups and downs and try to keep him from wearing himself out. Oh, and somewhere in there, I cooked a full Thanksgiving dinner for the Mister and me. I even baked an apple pie. Because, after all, we have a lot to be thankful for this year ...