Yesterday though…. My heart was breaking….

To avoid a long story of Doctors appointments, waiting lists, sleep studies and lots of snoring, yesterday I took our little boy into the hospital to have his tonsils and adenoids removed. An operation that we elected on his behalf and an operation we’re pretty sure he needed.

As I sat, 4 year old on my knee listening to the story of how he was going for his ‘big sleep’ while the doctors looked at his throat, I silently bawled, tears streaming down my face as I wondered how on earth I could choose this for my son.

While I am logically aware that this is a straight forward operation, that he does actually need because his tonsils are so big he can’t breath properly at night, and in the overall scheme of illnesses, one night in hospital really isn’t that much.

(How could I choose this for him?)

Over the last 2 months, I have stayed overnight in hospital four times… 2 with each child… 2 emergency… one sleep study… and now one adenotonsilectomy (go on try saying it).

What struck me this time is the fact that we chose it. It’s the first time in my life as a mother I have felt personally responsible for my childs… um…  life…. You know?

The emergency visits didn’t feel so personal. I was there to support and protect him, for mummy cuddles and to answer all the questions and fill in all the forms… But it wasn’t my fault… was it?

(How could I CHOOSE this for him?)

Logically I know he’s going to be fine…

(But what if he’s not?)

Over the course of the day, my logical mind starts to take over. We are spoken to by the play specialist who explains with pictures and words, exactly what the experience is going to be like for D. Then the anaesthetist gives me the grown ups version and finally the surgeon begs consent…

Then the waiting.

The premeds.

Watching the little boy (same age and same problem) head off before us and his mummy and daddy with the same look in their eyes. (How could we choose this?)

And then it’s our (his) turn.

We walk down to the theatre, where D gets to choose a special book, (distraction) look at the fishies and then drive Lightning Macqueen around to his special bed. He meets the theatre staff, hops on the bed, and about 2 minutes later I’m hearing ‘OK mum, give him a kiss and out you go’  (GULP)

Now It’s my turn for some distraction (TV, Coffee, food) and 45 minutes later he’s out.

I find him sitting up in the recovery room dazed from the morphine (and absolutely not prepared to lie down for anyone). I am so happy I could almost laugh.

The next 12 hours are a daze. He is starving and can’t wait to eat, but everthing he tries comes back. After some anti sickness drugs he finally keeps his pain meds down, and settles into a fitful sleep.

I meet the morning with a blend of relief and disbelief (just FIVE more minutes!).

Daniel wakes with gusto. After his cocktail of drugs overnight he’s feeling great.

They wear off though and my grumpy, sore, post-op boy comes back.

He does everything right and we are off home just after lunch.

A day later he’s talking back and wrestling his brother… All is well.

Now I know as far as operations go, this is a small one, and one night in hospital is not much, but it felt like much. I think it was handing my boy over to the hands of another (all be it a professional), and electing to put him at risk that really struck me.

What do you think?

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