Routine.
It went well.
'Text book' one might say.
Words that mask reality.
Today we brought our littlest soldier to have her tonsils and adenoids removed.
The teams were fabulous, accommodating of her needs. Learning Disability nurses smoothed the way, made sure she understood, put her first on the list, made sure the appointment wasn't changed. We felt safe in expert hands, but still tears flowed as she drifted calmly, unsuspectingly into the gas, whispering, 'I'm hungry...'
A flashback to her heart surgery, natural parental fear.
We kissed her and told her of our love for her, promising cake when she woke.
We kissed her and told her of our love for her, promising cake when she woke.
The hour of her surgery stretched ahead of us. We paced, spoke to family, listened to every sound and voice in the ward, waiting for news of her safe return to us.
'She's out and in recovery.' Bob caught the snippet as it passed our door.
Yes, it was our Natty. The relief is immense, no matter how minor or routine the op, the irrational fears that your mind fights, all centre on the anaesthetised time. The time when you are not in control, powerless, only able to trust others in whom you lay your child's life.
Natty woke, disorientated and feeling strange. She was distraught in a way I don't recall post heart op, but then we are 4 years down the line with a little girl who understands so much more and thinks so much more deeply.
We soothed. Morphine came to the rescue, and shortly she was eating soup demanding exactly who sat where and stroked her arm and watching Mamma Mia on a loop, to which she sang loudly (apologies to the rest of the ward).
This is how she feels when the morphine is working, but when it wears off and lesser painkillers are the baseline, she's struggling a bit.
Tonight has been hard for her. We are in High Dependency Unit to monitor her oxygen and breathing, surrounded by nurses who look vaguely familiar, who say they know us of old. Those who have been a crucial part of our journey so far, to whom we owe so much. The faceless medical angels whose lifework is supporting us all.
She has missed Daddy who has gone home to sleep and kiss her sister goodnight.
She is swollen, her face rounded, lips sore from the tubes. The catheter in her hand is bothering her. She's restless, fidgety, fussing over her latest syringe. She settled late, overtired after the day's events. Waking in the early hours for more pain relief.
But finally, after endless stroking and rocking and soothing she sleeps.
She is safe, she will be well.
But darn it tonsills, you packed a mighty punch...
And yes, I'm off to get some rest too now.
H, 2.33am x
You might also like to read about the emotions behind the operation here at Tonsil Op Cancelled at the Crack of Dawn.
