All Hail the Tonsil Troll!

The tonsil troll took something away from my beautiful, chronically strep-infected child; as of 10am yesterday, Hannah is tonsil-less.

Everything went very well, as long as I try really hard not to remember Hannah's reaction just before, or immediately after, her surgery! :)

As soon as we took her back to the pre-op room and she saw the stark white, metal-railed beds lined up in an impersonal row practically glowing in the harsh fluorescent light, she freaked. And you could forget about removing her clothes and wrapping her in the sheet-like hospital gown, no matter how many cute little yellow ducks were swimming all over its water-blue expanse.

She's definitely no fool, y'all.

Craig and I, along with the nurse, held her down to squeeze thick, goopy valium-syrup into her uvula-vibrating mouth, pushing her bottom jaw against her top every so often and blowing in her face like lunatics to try and get her to swallow. I thought her straining neck veins were about to explode out of her skin like a cable fraying and busting loose.

I desperately fought my paranoia, hiding behind a level-headed facade, while I secretly wondered if this outburst wasn't ominous, somehow.

Another nurse came and whisked her away in foreign arms and I kept picturing Hannah as she clung to this woman like a koala in her delirium, not knowing what awaited her just beyond the double doors and down the hall.

I didn't even get to be there for her final descent into gas-induced slumber. Now you'd think I wouldn't be quite this melodramatic given my own medical history of like, two dozen surgical procedures, including the one Hannah just went through, and my other two children's history as well, but, well, we've been going through a lot lately and that's my excuse. Emotional overload!

I wrung my hands in the waiting room and waited, gradually relaxing as I prayed that I'd done the right thing. Amazingly, time flew by and suddenly the doctor was sitting next to me, telling me she was doing great, surgery went fabulously, and he had removed some very ucky, quite-infected tonsils. This, despite the fact that she'd been on her 8th day of antibiotics.

He said with all things considered - the relentless infection in her skin and the recurring strep - maybe she has an immune issue. Something to think about if she continues to get strep (yes, even without her tonsils). We're looking into some things right now I told him and he nodded, like that made sense. ?

Recovery was long and dramatic. Hannah took her time coming out of it, and her Oxygen Saturation dropped a bit, which didn't bug me until the anesthesiologist bustled in and insisted that the nurse put the oxygen mask back on her.

Hannah was not too happy with us. On the drive home, she kept drifting in and out of sleep, confused. We got her a frosty because she insisted she was hungry and she tried ripping it out of my hands, first demanding that I make it into a drink (!?), then claiming ice cream was all over her legs when it wasn't, and finally wrestling me for the flimsy yellow cup until cold white lava squeezed up to the top and splattered all over me, her, the seat and the door. Fine, I said like a petulant child myself, make a mess. Go for it.

So she bends over and tries to drink from the end of the spoon.

Part of me felt sorry for her, but the other part of me found this absolutely hilarious. Finally, something funny to laugh about.

Hannah was pissed; her head spins until her face is inches from mine and her features scrunch into each other like a cabbage patch doll's, eyes narrowed. Then she snarls Don't laugh at me!

Sadly, that only made me laugh harder.

I said DON"TLAUGHATME!

This came out in a rush, grating against the back of her throat, a deep, gutteral growl. I cringed. Craig started to laugh from the safety of the driver's seat. Okay, mister, you asked for it, I thought, reaching around the seat and slathering the side of his face with the slippery white frosty coating my hand. He took it well, considering. By the time we got home, my fingers were sticking together and I was grossed out and slightly agitated.

The rest of the evening, Hannah clung to Auntie Joan a lot, not really too into mommy or daddy, at first - kids can definitely hold a grudge and mine wasn't too keen on the fact that we had led her to the cause of her pain. Finally, she relented and snuggled down into my arms and we both drifted off in blissful oblivion, her mouth moving up and down like a rabbit's nose (a weird effect of surgery?). I loved this time, even though I was too zonked to enjoy most of it. :)

Today, Hannah is acting like nothing happened. The only hint occurred this morning when she claimed there was a frog in her throat. I've been constantly lurking, telling her to stop running, don't jump like that, and for goodness sakes, don't forward roll so your neck scrunches in on itself like an accordian - that can't be good for your recovery! Doctor's orders: no running or jumping for two weeks. Oh yeah. Might as well tell a fish not to swim.

So Hannah's back in the running - HA!; the weather is absolutely beautiful; the windows in my family room are open to a refreshing breeze; Hannah's best friend stopped by earlier to bring her a new care bear, movie and handmade card; as I type this, I can hear Hannah's reassuring post-surgery snore through the baby monitor (Hooray for mommy time!!); and the world is slowly, slowly spinning still. I guess it never stopped :)