Stevie Wonder

As we were driving away from Starbucks yesterday morning at 6:30 a.m., guiltily fueled up with coffee goodness while Bug sat whiny and beverage-less in the backseat, I realized I forgot the Xanax at home.

We were only a few blocks away (relative Starbucks locations are always important when making residential real estate decisions) so we turned back toward home and Matt ran inside to get them for me.

When we got there, I only made Matt re-park the car once in the parking lot (I deemed us too far from the curb) so while I was anxious, it was still at a pretty low level.  We got ourselves and all of our gear (extra clothes, extra blankets, extra stuffed animals) out of the car and shivered (it was below 50!) our way around the main building toward the outside (everything here is outside) elevator for the surgery center.

The rest of the building was dark and deserted, but I was happy to see that the ladies behind the desk were busy with paper, and were all ready to see us.  I had to sign more consent forms (shudder) and then we waited maybe five or so minutes before they called us back.  The prep/recovery area looked like an emergency room, with a small nurses station against one wall, and a row of about six wheeled bed/stretchers with curtain dividers against the opposite wall.

We changed Bug out of her clothes, and into a gown and hat.  While I was glad that she was happy and chatty, it made it almost worse knowing we were going to blindside her (in a way) with the surgery.  We met with the anesthesiologist, reviewed her medical history again, and a few minutes later were brought some liquid medicine.  We were told it was similar enough to liquid Valium, and they joked that it would give us a good indication of how Bug would act at her first college party (bender).  Turns out she's That Girl Who Won't Stop Talking Really Loud, Even Though We're Inside, And Sitting Right Next To You.  I've "heard," "anecdotally," that this is not necessarily the most terrible persona to inhabit while drunk (*ahem*), and was just glad that she wasn't That Girl Who Cries, or That Girl Who Hugs Everyone.

Her doctor then came and said hello to us and left to get changed.  Another doctor, who we met for the first time last week (one of the rotating doors of physicians who looked at her one last time) came and marked two x's over her eyes as a reminder that they were operating on both.  

Then we put her on the bed, they wheeled her away, and we went out into the waiting room.  I feel like writing a letter to UCSD about how unethical their surgical waiting room is.  This room had no TV, no music, no clock, and just a smattering of free periodicals (free as in... the free city weeklies.  Here it's the San Diego Reader; at home it would be City Pages).  There was a bathroom right off the waiting room, but it was a single-person one, and with NO OTHER AMBIENT NOISE in the room, whoever was going might as well have just left the door open.

It was a little before 8, and we knew the surgery, once started, would last about an hour.  Matt walked to get us bagels and (more) coffee.  I started reading a magazine.  I didn't feel actually all that terrible, and didn't take the Xanax.  An hour, I told myself!  I turned on Pandora on my phone and listened via speakerphone to give me some background noise, until another man walked in and sat down.  He never indicated anything, and I know I didn't need his permission, but I felt odd keeping it on.

Matt came back with the food.  I wolfed mine down.  It was now after 9.  You made it an hour!  I told myself.  Good job.  I switched to games on my phone.  The guy I mentioned before left and came back with coffee, which he began slurping in a grotesque, over-the-top manner, like a two-year-old attempting to mock what an adult might do with a cup that's too full.  Except it continued past the first sip (which would have been excusable).  He continued to drink slurp his coffee for the next ten minutes.  It was all I could think about.

Every time the door opened my pulse would quicken.  Are they coming for us??  They weren't.  There were maintenance people coming and going (what a sick joke!  Can't you come back later when we're not eagerly waiting, so we don't have to keep listening to that damn magic locked door opening and closing??).  A few nurses.  Nothing.  It was now 9:45.  My window of acceptable time was growing small.  I figured we hadn't seen any paramedics rushing in through the door, so there was probably not a crisis, but it was bugging me.  I figured I'd go ask at 10.  

Then a nurse came out for the slurping guy, and told him his wife was ready, and he should go get the car.  How does the slurping guy get called first??  Of course I have no idea what his wife was having done, I just felt wronged because we had listen to him slurp for so goddamn long.

When that nurse walked out again with the wife, I caught him on his way back and asked if we could have an update.  He started to tell me that the doctors would come out with info, and I was all, duh, I get that part.  Not asking for a play-by-play.  Just wondering if we could maybe get a heads up on if I have time to chew off both of my hands, or just the right thumb.

Surprisingly enough he did come back out and told us five to ten minutes.  

Then the doctor came out, and motioned for us to follow him.  We eagerly gathered up our three weeks-worth of belongings before we realized we were just going into a previously unseen small conference room, and weren't actually leaving the waiting room.  Oh well.

We sat on low plastic couches across from him while he explained that everything went well.  We talked for probably ten or so minutes, and he reminded us a few things about what recovery might look like, how she will probably cry, what could be hurting her, and that she may not open her eyes for a while.  He mentioned that kids her age don't have a good concept of a pain scale, so while you or I can differentiate between a "1" and a "10," to her everything is a "10."  I'm still not 100% sure if this is accurate or if he was just telling us this to make us feel better, but it made sense considering lately when she has an out-of-reach itch in the car she screams bloody murder about it, and actually produces real tears.  For an itch.

Then the anesthesiologist popped in to say that she was doing fine, and added that she had the entire OR wrapped around her finger from the second they wheeled her in.  This was not surprising to us whatsoever.  The doctor chimed in with a defense that since he and anesthesiologist were fathers to just boys, they felt extra susceptible.  

We were told again that she would sleep off the medicine, and that we may have a few more hours ahead of us.  I was ready to sit in the room again with a little less anxiety knowing they were done, and knowing I had a gooey PB&J sandwich packed and ready to go.  Matt and I sat back down and literally three minutes later Bug's nurse popped out and motioned for us to follow her.  Already??

Of course already.  She was awake, mad, and wanted me.  We walked back there and a nurse was holding her while she was sloppily crying.  He handed her to me and said, "she's heavy!"  I wanted to tell him, "and you've only been holding her for five minutes!"

She tried to open her eyes a few times but either physically couldn't or decided it wasn't worth the effort.  She was crying and scared and had the jagged breathing that she gets after she's had a really spectacular and protracted freak out.  The worst part is that her tears were red, which we knew to expect.  

I hate monitors in hospitals.  What does all the goddamn beeping mean?  I quickly learned the nuances of her ventilator while we were in the PICU so I'd stop having heart attacks every time an "alarm" went off (every 15 seconds) but this machine was different and across the bed, out of sight enough that I couldn't figure out what meant what.  I know in theory the nurses are all on top of it but a) our nurse did not seem all that on top of anything and b) you just never know.  Then it started screaming "APNEA" in huge gigantic red letters.  I took some solace seeing her breathing in front of me, but how does that not freak you out?  The nurse came and did God knows what, and eventually we were allowed to take off her arm pressure cuff (she HATES having her blood pressure taken, and right as she would calm down it would tighten up again, restarting the hysterics) and take out her IV.  

We sat with her for maybe a half hour, tops, before we were loading her up to take her home.  I was able to put her pants on, but she refused to take off her gown.  She also refused the juice offered to her, and refused my offer to vomit on the tile floor instead of in the car.

I swear we had her covered up in more blankets than Beyonce uses on Blue Ivy to avoid the paparazzi.  It felt like we were smuggling her out of the hospital, and her slurred crying and neon blue gown were not helping our case.  

We got her in the car and I sat in the back next to her with a plastic bag ready to go, just in case.  We drove off with the open can of apple juice still on the top of the car, and my husband, Mr. Practical, had to pull over (on a busy street) to take it off.  Somehow it was still upright.  Let it be known that I would have gotten on the interstate with it still on the roof of the car.

I thought there was a chance she'd fall asleep in the car, but no such luck.  Just on and off crying (I have to imagine the whole thing was/is terrifying, and then not being able to see afterward just compounds it), but, happily, no barfs.

We got inside, gave her a Nuk, and she instantly crawled into her turtle position and passed out on the couch.  It was before noon still.  

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur.  She'd wake up, start crying hysterically due to what I can only assume was a combination of fear, discomfort, and WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I SEE ANYTHING??

We kept the shades all closed because she complained about it being too bright, even with eyes closed.  The dog was beside himself.  He didn't know what to do.  Eventually he came closer and wanted to snuggle.  

 She requested Elmo, which we dutifully put on.  It became obvious she had no intention of watching, just listening.  An audio equivalent of the bag of conversation hearts I was pounding back as comfort.  

That's Elmo in the background.

Eventually we convinced her to take off the gown, and put on a regular shirt.  She'd sleep for about 45 minutes to an hour, wake up and ask for a snack.  It started with two nibbles of a chocolate coin (special request granted by Mimi) and progressed to banana bread (also a special request granted by Mimi).  We had to be quick on our feet, because we usually only had five or so minutes before she'd pass out again, literally.  

She leaned over on Matt's shoulder while eating her banana bread and I was all, aww, that's cute, until I realized she was out cold, again.

THEN, halfway through the second hour-long episode of Elmo's World, I realized something brilliant.  She had no plans to actually watch the Elmo, so why not keep the audio going (our DVD player is hooked up in such a way that the sound only plays through the stereo receiver, anyway), and turn on the regular TV with closed captioning.  Ta-fucking-da!

Ten points for me.  It was like watching SportsCenter at the health club, minus the treadmills and stinky dudes.  

Matt left to go to the grocery store to get some food for dinner for us.  While he was gone, she woke up and requested banana bread.  Mid-chew, she announced she had to go to the bathroom, but "wanted to finish banana bread first."  Then before I knew it she was crying, and I started frantically asking her why, and it was because she was peeing her pants.  Right.  So I scooped her up off my lap and we ran to the bathroom where she was able to finish, and then announced she wanted to sleep again.  Home alone with a child who (understandably) refused to part with me, I sat in my wet clothes for the better part of an hour.  At that point, after sitting on the couch the entire day with a snuggly baby who woke just to eat before falling back to sleep, getting tinkled on was the icing to my "return to Infant Bug days" cake.

Around 7 we got her to eat scrambled eggs and more banana bread, got some good giggles out of her, and then put her to bed downstairs in her crib.  I was concerned about how the night would go, but she only really woke up twice.  I took the second wake up as an opportunity to re-dose her [generic] Tylenol.  Normally we buy the dye-free stuff, but Target was out.  I must ask why they even make the colored stuff anyway.  Terrible idea.  Terrible.

Because when do you use this stuff?  Usually when your kid is sick.  And when your kid is sick, they're usually up in the middle of the night.  And if they hate taking that shit during the day, they're really not going to be impressed about your attempts at getting them to swallow it at night.  You've burned your retinas in the bathroom light trying to measure it out, and now you're back in their dark room where you can't see your fingers in front of your face.  Your child may or may not be thrashing around like a 35-pound walleye, making it even harder to get it close to their mouth.  We go the syringe route, because squirting it into her mouth is *usually* more successful.  Inevitably, though, you miss, or they spit it out, and if you have the grossly-dyed shit, it gets everywhere.  And worse than the staining, do you know what strawberry-flavored kids Tylenol looks like in the middle of the night to an exhausted, probably paranoid parent with only a distant hallway bathroom light to go on?  Blood, that's what it looks like.  Big, huge, streams of blood.  

It's not, of course.  It's just the medicine (that they are now getting less of, which won't make them feel as good, WHY CAN'T THEY JUST UNDERSTAND THAT AND DRINK IT??) covering everything.  My point is that next time, make the extra trip to a second Target store, and buy the dye-free.  

She slept relatively late for her this morning, well after 7.  I was concerned what we might be waking up to, but there was nothing gross or for the faint-of-stomach to report.  

Trying to listen intently to Elmo so she can tell me EXACTLY what is happening.  Also, please note the liquid Tylenol stains.  

Her eye (balls) seemed less swollen through her eyelids than the day before, and she was talking much more coherently, and had almost all of her personality back.  Still did not want to open her eyes, though.  I was trying to describe it to my mom.  It's not quite relaxed, sleeping eyes, and it's not a forced scrunched close.  And it varies depending on what she's trying to do -- like there's still so much emotion there!  

Including smiling.  She is remarkably happy.  If it were me, I probably wouldn't be.

Today hasn't been terrible.  Matt had to check in this morning at work, and surprised us both with treats on the way home.

Feeling around, trying to figure out if it really IS a donut, like we've told her (and insisting on eating it herself, from the plate)

This is why the world needs Dads.  I'd have come home with something smaller, and probably secretly whole-grain.  Knowing a donut would not have impressed me, I got an extra-large Starbucks.

Being stuck inside, immobile, is driving me mentally and physically crazy.  I'm glad Matt has been home the rest of the day from work, so I was able to get a quick run in, and, like, go to the bathroom.  With her not using her eyes, she needs constant supervision, and gets nervous when she's not 100% sure where you are.  It's been a bit fascinating watching her feel around for things and figure out where things are.  We've had Elmo on (sometimes audio-only...) for most of the day, and it is UNCANNY how much she has them memorized.  She'll say something like, "here comes ____" and on cue, whatever character she's mentioned arrives on screen.  

There have been a couple of moments today where I've been convinced she's either been peeking, or she has supernatural powers.  We sat her in a different spot at the table during lunch today, which she, in theory, wouldn't have necessarily known, and I sat in her usual spot, and out of nowhere she says to me, "Mom, why are you sitting in my chair?"  I also tried to lie to her when she asked me if her penguin pillowcase was on her pillow when it wasn't, and she quietly felt it and replied matter-of-factly, "no, it's not.  This is the white one."  Touche, salesman.  I do honestly think that her eyesight has been compromised enough her entire life that it's entirely plausible she has heightened her other senses.  She's nuts.  

I've been taking as many pictures as I can of her so that I have a record of her recovery for myself.  I'm terrible at remembering details of things like this, especially under any kind of stress, and the photos help remind me what happened when.  

Stevie Wonder is not impressed.  

UPDATE: She's now in bed, and we had zero success trying to bribe her to open her eyes.  I don't know what made me think that we would be successful, especially considering we've already failed at bribing her to poop in a toilet, but I guess it was worth a shot.  The doctor called us this evening to check in and when I told him that she hadn't opened her eyes he said, "Oh, she's one of those," and kind of laughed.  He said she "should have them open by the weekend."  So I get to live the nightmare about what it would be like to have a blind child (who needs constant supervision and must be reprimanded about attempting to dance and jump off the couch with her eyes closed) until the weekend.  YES.