Today's surgery was a roaring success. The surgeon removed my Lucy's tonsils, and because he is a colleague of my husband's- he photographed them, and brought a copy of the photo out to the waiting room. Matt and Lucy's doctor huddled over the picture, and I overheard her surgeon exclaim, "Now those were some big gazongas!" (Note: must check WebMD for latest definition of "gazonga").
When I got to the recovery room, I tried to blot out the images of gurneys being rolled by with little kids strapped down, moaning from the anesthetic. I also tried to blot out my insensitive husband, who sees this stuff every day and would exclaim with glee "Look! Another Casualty!".
This was an outpatient clinic- so all of the kids around us were having ear tubes put in, or their tonsils and adnoids taken out. My lucky girl had all three. When I got to her, she was just coming to. They placed her in my arms, and I cradled her, and I kissed her, and then I tried to give her back.
She was pissed. Seriously, def-con level 3 mad. We tried to explain this to her in the days leading up to the procedure, but to a 3 year old, all you really hear is "What? I get to eat ice cream? FOR DINNER? FOR TWO WEEKS? Bring it on!".
The reality? Not so pleasant. She's grumpy. She's mad because her throat hurts. She's mad because I can't draw a butterfly exactly like her eight year old cousin. She's mad because there are bubbles in her bath, and then sobs when they all go down the drain. The dog licks her and it makes her scream. He scurries away and that makes her sob.
All joking aside, I am so grateful and blessed that this is all I have to complain about. That my little one is well enough to be crabby, and that we were out of there in 5 hours. And since I started sobbing like a banshee when they came to take her to the OR, I'm pretty sure the hospital was grateful to see me go too.