Surgery

The surgery is over and done with now, so I can take a deep breath and relax for the first time in a few weeks. Recovery is proving to be a bit difficult--the patient doesn't want to drink or take his meds and, even worse, he insists on watching Tom Hanks' tour de force "The Polar Express" over and over--but I'd rather be on this side of an operating room than the other.

For the uninformed, Andres had his tonsils and adenoids taken out on Friday. This surgery was the culmination of a number of interrelated factors, the biggest being poor sleeping since January. In addition to waking up at least once a night for most of this year, he also occasionally seemed to lose his breath while sleeping. His position while sleeping was also odd--I would often find him with his head all the way back, mouth open and neck exposed, like he was gasping for air.

Doctors suspected a mild case of sleep apnea. A sleep study in June seemed to confirm this diagnosis, so we booked a date for surgery in the hope that removing these glands would help set him back on the path to getting more consistent sleep.

Although I greatly admire the work that doctors do, I have never liked seeing them in professional settings. (Don't hate me--some of my best friends are doctors!) I think this comes from the semi-irrational fear that I will go in for a check-up one day, complain about a seemingly insignificant malady that I have, and learn that I actually have cancer and will die before the year is out. I say semi-irrational because, according to my father, a similar scenario actually happened to one of my cousins a few decades back. He managed to beat the dead-within-the-year diagnosis and is now fully happy and healthy; my version of the events that could befall me, however, does not account for this positive outcome. Once a cynic always a cynic.

That said, I could recognize that Anres was going to experience very low-risk surgery. Back when I was younger it seemed that someone I knew was getting his/her tonsils taken out every week; it seemed like it an acceptable form of cosmetic surgery for children. The operation was no big deal and then, as a kicker, you got to miss school, watch TV, and eat ice cream for a week. Basically, you hit the jackpot of all surgeries. Who wouldn't want that?

So despite my own personal fear issues with modern medicine, I recognized that Andres' tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy were really small potatoes. Seeing other families at the Children's Hospital pre-operative clinic last week drove home how minor it really was.

His operation was scheduled for 1:15, which meant a full morning of no eating. Not ideal. Natalia and I tried to mitigate the potential crankiness by keeping him up late on Thursday night and letting him eat whatever he wanted; that method worked a little bit, as he slept in until 7 am the day of surgery. But trying to keep him away from food all morning was an uphill battle, and one that was finally won by allowing him to watch WALL-E.

We got to the hospital around noon and waited, waited, waited until they were ready for us. 1:15 became 1:30, then close to 2:00 before we got the call. Andres held up very well during this time--he played some video games that they had in the waiting area--while I paced and thought of everything possible that could go wrong. In short, I was miserable, and (not for the first time) was being more of a baby than my 4-year old. Always an optimist.

Not surprisingly, Natalia held up better than I did. She's been through childbirth twice and generally has a more positive/less irrational outlook on life, so she was not as fazed by this surgery as I was. (And having dealt with Andres all through this summer, she was very ready to begin closing the book on sleepless nights and the tantrums they caused.)

We waited again in the pre-op room while the doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists stopped by and explained what was going to happen. Andres still held up well, but he was beginning to get cranky after not eating all day--and probably because he sensed what was about to happen. I accompanied him when it was time for him to go to anesthesia, and then after a bit of a meltdown when they put the mask on him (he got spooked by everybody around him and I had to help hold him down), I was ushered out and the doctors began their work.

As expected, the surgery went fine. He came out of anesthesia fine too. Nothing to worry about.

The surgeon said that his adenoids were slightly enlarged but that his tonsils were like "two giant meatballs" in his throat. He didn't see how taking them out would not help his breathing at night, and thus help his sleep in general. Yay. He also said that he (and, by connection, us) would be miserable for two weeks while the wounds healed. (This prediction has proven to be true so far.)

We visited Andres in the PACU (Post-Anesthesia Care Unit?) about 30 minutes after he came out of surgery. He looked so small in his giant bed, with monkey was at his side. He slowly woke up and seemed to relax when he saw that we were next to him. He didn't seem too loopy from the pain meds and even managed to have a pop and drink some water--good signs that he was on the road to recovery. His request to watch "The Polar Express" was another sign that everything was ok. God do I hate that movie.

Nurses came and went, and eventually we were moved upstairs to a more comfortable room to spend the night. Natalia stayed and attended to him during a fitful night; I headed home and, sheepishly, got a good night's sleep for the first time in a while.

So now we are all back at home. Recovery has been slow, as expected, and it will probably be a tough first week. Andres likes the benefits of being on the other side of surgery--yay movies and playing Wii Mariokart--but has not wanted to eat or drink much since we got home. He is a stubborn 4-year old, after all, so that is not atypical. He has been catching up on his sleep though. Hopefully this is the first step of a journey in the right direction.