Past: Wherein my world stood still and everything else just marched on by
I committed the unforgivable and scheduled our baby's surgery on my husband's birthday. It was a routine tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy…an outpatient procedure. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, here's a little synopsis:
Outpatient means taking your kid home in a few hours.
Outpatient means no big deal.
Outpatient is like getting a tune-up.
Sometimes, Outpatient also means the end of the world. He got out of surgery a lot faster than expected. Walking into Recovery, I scanned each bed looking for our boy. Old man, little girl, guy in pain, jesus look at that poor kid, bald woman…he was not there.
On the second pass I realized that the poor kid all cyborged out with tubes and wires everywhere…he was ours. The doctor's voice kept cutting in and out like a bad connection,"…really sorry…so lucky we caught this….airway 90% occluded…emergency tracheotomy…" And then silence. His mouth kept moving but nothing came through.
Everything slowed down. I left my husband standing there, adrift in the middle of the room with the doctor and walked up to the bed. He was awake and crying. Still no sound. His little fists were balled up and his face was purple. Still no sound. Sticking out of his perfect chubby neck was a little blue tube. His mouth was open, screaming and silent.
And then the sound came rushing back. I heard alarms going off. I heard monitors beeping. I heard people talking. I heard air angrily hissing through that tube, bypassing his vocal cords. It would be years before we heard his voice again.
We spent two weeks in the hospital. No spare clothes, no toothbrush, no deodorant, no money, no idea of what was to come.
Six years after the fact, my husband started celebrating his birthday again. This gets wrapped up in fancy paper and hidden in the back of the closet.
Outpatient means taking your kid home in a few hours.
Outpatient means no big deal.
Outpatient is like getting a tune-up.
Sometimes, Outpatient also means the end of the world. He got out of surgery a lot faster than expected. Walking into Recovery, I scanned each bed looking for our boy. Old man, little girl, guy in pain, jesus look at that poor kid, bald woman…he was not there.
On the second pass I realized that the poor kid all cyborged out with tubes and wires everywhere…he was ours. The doctor's voice kept cutting in and out like a bad connection,"…really sorry…so lucky we caught this….airway 90% occluded…emergency tracheotomy…" And then silence. His mouth kept moving but nothing came through.
Everything slowed down. I left my husband standing there, adrift in the middle of the room with the doctor and walked up to the bed. He was awake and crying. Still no sound. His little fists were balled up and his face was purple. Still no sound. Sticking out of his perfect chubby neck was a little blue tube. His mouth was open, screaming and silent.
And then the sound came rushing back. I heard alarms going off. I heard monitors beeping. I heard people talking. I heard air angrily hissing through that tube, bypassing his vocal cords. It would be years before we heard his voice again.
We spent two weeks in the hospital. No spare clothes, no toothbrush, no deodorant, no money, no idea of what was to come.
Six years after the fact, my husband started celebrating his birthday again. This gets wrapped up in fancy paper and hidden in the back of the closet.
posted by T. Willie at 8:50 PM
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