Having a sick child is like living with a very tiny drunken Kim Jong Il. Angry. Bossy. Irrational. Loud. Emotional roller coasters. Demanding absurd requests. Yet, as parents, we kowtow (no offense to anyone who would be offended for my having used a word taken from Mandarin Chinese after referencing the North Korean cray cray) to these little people and their every wish.
My daughter is getting a head start for tomorrow’s tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. She just said, “Mom. Fix my lunch. I want two sandwiches.” She has never asked for a sandwich in her life. On top of which, she hasn’t stopped talking since she woke up this morning.
I read the little cartoon preparatory book to her that the ENT gave us as we were leaving their office. She burst into tears when she saw the little cartoon kid with the mask over his face. She woke up asking if her tonsils had been removed. Great book, assholes.
She has been asking me every day if her tonsils are out. I told her for the four hundredth time that we have to go to the doctor’s office for that. I’m quite certain they are going to have to strap her down to do the surgery. Or she’ll completely surprise me and it will be a breeze. She will either be immobile for two weeks or demand Skyline on the way home from the surgery. She will most certainly eat four gallons of ice cream, whether she feels better or not. She will milk it. I know this.
I am going to do my best not to cry. I must be strong. Must. Be. Strong. I’ve always been a very emotional person. Motherhood has only exaggerated this lovely quality. I watched Raising Helen yesterday for the zillionth time and cried my fool head off. I am going to have to think of something terrible tomorrow to keep my composure. Any recommendations will be appreciated.
I’ve had four major surgeries in my life. Two spinal fusions in my teens, my four wisdom teeth removed in 2006, and a c-section that delivered the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t take any pain killers after my c-section and my scar is practically invisible. No pain killers after my wisdom tooth…ectomy; went to the movies the next night. My first spinal fusion was a big ordeal. I was supposed to be in the hospital for 10-14 days. I had the surgery on a Tuesday and went home on Saturday. You can say I’m a very stubborn patient. I refused to use a bed pan and made my nurse, who looked like she was in her tenth trimester of pregnancy, lift me up and walk me to the bathroom. I don’t like to be sick. I will myself not to be sick. Get. Well. Get. Well.
I will let her get well in her own time. I spend a lot of my life telling her, “BandAids don’t help pain go away, especially when it’s a pretend boo boo and you drew on yourself with a red dry erase marker.” I promise this time not to ever say, “Huddy. Come on. It’s not that bad.”
When I had my second surgery, my mom said she had wished she hadn’t told me anything about the first surgery. “We never thought that you would ever have to have that done again. I should have never told you that your dad cried after your first surgery. When they came out to tell us how you were doing in recovery the second time, they said, ‘She’s very worried about her dad.’ It’s all you talked about.” Of course, after my first surgery, I remember asking if my dog was there to visit me.
So who knows what will go through my sweet child’s mind. That I’m torturing her. That she’ll never see me again. I’m prepared to shower her with love and movies and Popsicles and ice cream and water; all things I do for her on a daily basis, come to think of it. Except this time, when I’m picturing this: …I won’t care. Sort of.