We had surgery Monday morning at the best children’s hospital in this part of the state: Children’s Hospital of Central California. We wondered if it would be safe to have surgery given the news of the swine flu epidemic over the weekend. In times of uncertainty, you just don’t know. It’s perhaps why the times are uncertain. I did decide, however, that if this is the beginning of a global pandemic, it would be best to get the surgery over with sooner rather than later.
We did wonder what kind of protocol we would have to follow to pass through security. Would they question us about recent travel? Ask if we had a cough? Pass out surgical masks?
I was at this same hospital seven years ago with another child who had surgery and I went bananas when they let us through security without asking about our health. It is their normal protocol to do so. I complained in two places. I was deeply concerned (read: paranoid) about my child getting sick when his immune system was compromised with surgery.
This week there was even more reason for concern over germs and, apparently, we’ve all gotten pretty loosey-goosey about the whole business.
The protocol for swine flu: Nothing.
They asked nary a question about our health condition at surgery. In the surgery waiting area a woman sat wrapped in a fleece blanket coughing. No one asked her to leave. She appeared to be too old to be a patient waiting for surgery.
Unlike seven years ago, I did not make a stink largely because I learned seven years ago that it did not matter and only got me more worked up.
Seven years ago
“Mom, do you think any of the nurses who were there at the time would remember me?”
After a thoughtful pause, “Yes, it’s definitely possible.”
I made a big stink in two places: one at registration complaining about the problem with the security protocol and one in the pre-op room. The pre-op room was memorable.
I was already upset because I could not be in recovery with Frederick from his hernia surgery. I kept suggesting they needed me there, but I was really obsessed with juice.
“We don’t give juice in recovery.”
“Then why did you ask on the intake form if he drinks juice?”
“We don’t give juice.”
“But you asked about juice. Do you see how nutty that is?”
I was really angry about the juice and I am sure I was abusing those poor nurses. My mom told me years later that she followed behind me saying, “I’m so sorry, she has really bad postpartum depression.”
They took him away and I didn’t see him until he was in his post-recovery room. He was crying when they reconnected us and I assumed he had just woken up and had just begun to cry.
Last week
We were in the waiting room Monday and had just heard that the surgery went well when a nurse came in looking for me.
“Just mom. We only need mom right now.”
Moms have special powers in these situations if their milk ducts are working.
Alastair was awaking from anesthesia, crying uncontrollably, and would not take a bottle full of glucose water. Good for him. He was full of wires when they placed him on my lap and he nursed for about 20 seconds. He continued to scream because, in fact, he wasn’t hungry. He was ticked off that one hour before he fell asleep on his dad’s shoulder and then woke up minutes before with what seemed like forty-seven tubes, casts on his legs, and likely a giant headache. He screamed and screamed.
I held him in recovery for about twenty minutes while he screamed. One nurse commented, “Wow. By now other moms would be in tears (and that doesn’t help the baby at all). What’s your secret?”
“He’s just working it out. He woke up in casts with forty-seven wires on his chest and he’s pissed,” I said over the screams.
“And you’re fine?”
“Yep.”
“You should write a book.”
I smiled and kept rocking Alastair.
Back to normal
In any case, we’re getting back to normal around here. I got through it. Alastair is still a bit ticked about the casts. He’ll get used to it and then we’ll put him in orthopedic shoes just to keep things exciting. At some point he’ll start walking (and he should do that on schedule) and it will all be a distant memory.
@ Amazon.
