Well, my blogosphere friends. I may still be semi-reeling the events of Little A’s hernia surgery, but if you ask the kid, he’ll have a different story. The day after, he’d say “ow”, point to the area and then run in circles for six hours yelling about god knows what.
This kid most certainly has his father’s pain tolerance.
The craziest part of the day was totally the drive in Baltimore, just as anticipated. About ten minutes away from the hospital, I stopped at a red light and made a right turn. As I got into my lane, I heard the WHOOP WHOOP of a police siren. Now, I don’t know which way he came from or where he was headed or if he was coming after me. What I do know is as I glanced in my rearview, I saw the cop and a Jeep, spin out after apparently hitting each other. I saw the first seconds after the impact.
THE F?! Totally $%@!#$ absurd.
The rest of the day was downhill excitement from there. Have a timeline:
8.30 pm: Kid gets his last solid food.
7.00 am: Kid awakes. Wants milk. Gets water. Throws fit.
7.03: Mom makes coffee.
8.00: Kid wants food. Kid gets jello. Throws fit.
8.05: Mom sings “What you gonna do with that big fat nut. Wiggle wiggle wiggle“. Because kid has a big nut eating jello. Kid was unimpressed.
8.06 – 10.00: Distractions in full effect as Mom requires hair washing, paperwork gathering, coffee drinking, croissant hiding and kid dressing. Somehow we leave the house exactly on time. THAT NEVER HAPPENS.
10.25: Watch car accident in rearview mirror. Have racing heart for next half hour.
11.00: Arrive at Surgical Check-in exactly on time. THAT NEVER HAPPENS.
We were scheduled to arrive at 11am with a procedure time of 1.15pm. At this point, kid has not eaten for over 12 hours or had water in two. He found the croissant in my purse and tried to eat it through the Saran Wrap. I felt awful. The next three hours was a trainwreck of distractions, toys, whining, coloring, MOTHERING$%@#!$ CLOWNS, and frantic signing for food.
Sometime well after we were already supposed to be done, kid is over it. Tired, cranky, hungry, thirsty, bored. I try to get him to nap. Mostly so I can eat hidden secret croissant because I haven’t eaten in over 12 hours either.
Nurses, anesthesiologists, assistants were in and out, asking the repeat questions and telling me that he’s next, it’ll be soon, sorry for the wait.
2.00: The Urologist finally appears in a magical cloud of glitter and angel songs. She explains that a PICU patient took an hour to have an IV put in. Now, I wasn’t mad about waiting and I definitely couldn’t be mad about situations that are waaaaay more serious than mine. She too promised me it would be soon.
2.05: She opens a marker to mark the side of the surgery. Kid grabs it and gets ALL THE MARKER over his hands. He fights and squirms and refuses to have that marker anywhere near him. The outcome is a bunch of scribbles all over his thigh, which was luckily the correct one. And then she told me he was unexpectedly strong for his size and that he had the strength of a four year old. GREAT.
2.15: He absolutely, totally, completely crashes.
2.20: Anesthesiologist comes in to tell me it really is time, hooray! I get my gown and hat on, sniff some chapstick and choose a flavor on Little A’s behalf for the gas mask.
2.25: But first, let me take a selfie.
2.30: FINALLY the caravan comes to wheel us down to the OR. The hallways ooh and ahh over this sweet curly headed monster fast asleep on the gurney. Everyone tells me the anesthesia process will be sooooooo much easier since he’s sleeping.
2.40: Except he wakes up as the mask is an inch from his face. He freaks out, flails and somehow finds me even though I’m covered in blue. It’s five minutes of squirming, crying, fighting, kicking, soothing, whispering and back patting.
2.45: And then he goes limp.
Let me tell you, friends. Nothing can mentally prepare you for the feeling of your child, in your arms, just turning into a limp sack. They had to lift him over my head, I gave him a kiss and was escorted out. I somehow didn’t cry, but between not eating and the adrenaline, I was shaking and taking deep breaths.
I knew he was going to be fine, but that feeling, man. Holy shit.
2.47: I shove SECRET CROISSANT in my face in the elevator.
2.50: I try to fill his prescription (which is for the worlds smallest dose of #%$! Oxycodone) and end up paying out of pocket for it (a whole $17) because my pharmacy doesn’t carry it and the hospital pharmacy doesn’t take my insurance even though my insurance has the hospital name IN IT. So I don’t know who made that fantastic choice.
3.15: He’s already done. His nuttal region is fixed. I catch up on Facebook, send some texts and wish I had packed more food before they come to fetch me.
3.30: I go back to recovery, where he looks so tiny on the gurney, connected to all those vital wires. I melt. My poor buddy. The nurse explains recovery process and decides while he’s still asleep, she’ll show me the incision. The second she puts the diaper back in place, kid wakes up sweaty, frantic, crazy and HANGRY. Again, somehow, he finds me immediately and tries to scramble over the bedrail, unhooking and tangling all those wires.
The next hour is spent in a chair with this human space heater wedged into my neck crevice giving me a an upper body cramp like no other. Eventually he took the rest of his med dose, licked a popsicle a few times while the rest of it dripped onto my mostly white dress and woke up enough to be discharged.
4.30: He crams cookies down his gullet while waiting at the pharmacy. I was sure he was going to hork in the car.
5.30: Almost home, on the bluetooth with Big A and I realize one of my diamond studs (that I got for my first mothers day) is gone. Because the day wasn’t enough as it were. The back was tangled in my hair, the earring is long gone.
6.00: We eat cookies, crackers, ham sandwiches and cheese while sitting on the floor in front of the pantry. Kid gets what kid wants.
8.30: Bedtime comes with a dose of the good stuff for him and a glass of the good stuff for me.
Turns out, he sleeps 12 hours on the good stuff. Plus he wakes up in a fantastic mood, chatting with his stuffed animals and yelling out the window. I wish I could give it to him every night but I’m a rational and sane human being. But I can still $%@$ wish…
That mopey kid I expected to have? Didn’t exist. I only gave him the good stuff twice and the second night was only as a precaution. I didn’t even give him Tylenol the second day. Crazy, right?
Also, I feel like a terrible mom because there is an absolute SIGNIFICANT difference in this kid’s ballsack. Like, without all that hernia fluid, it looks all shriveled up and tiny now. I guess normal, now? No wonder he’d been walking funny.
All in all, the day and the aftermath were much easier than anticipated, though I am still frantically searching my car for my diamond in hopes it’ll magically turn up. But if that’s the universe’s required payment for my kid being healthy and having normal balls, then so be it.