Monday, September 24, 2012

Poor Spud

Poor Spud.
I always knew he would be my first kid in the hospital.  I figured it would be a broken arm or leg or some other mishap resulting from his daredevil antics. 

And sure enough, on Friday morning, I stood beside my little guy as he lay on a hospital bed being prepped for anesthesia.  Only, he wasn't suffering from a broken bone or strained muscle. 

He was about to go in for two hours of dental surgery.  Yep, that's right.  My little man is just barely four years old, and after enduring two emergency root canals the week before, now needed care for eight additional cavities and subsequent infections.

I felt like a terrible mother.  Maybe we should have brushed his teeth more.  Maybe we should have brushed them more aggressively.  But I knew that rapid tooth decay was hereditary.  I just didn't think we would be dealing with it at four years old.

The day before the surgery, I was a mess.  A tight knot took hold of my stomach and refused to let go.  My nerves consumed me.  I kept asking God to help me relax and stay calm.  After a long hot shower and a frenzied house-cleaning, I did feel a lot calmer.

But, here, looking at my son in his scrubs and ridiculously large hospital cap, I couldn't stop the tears from coming.  "How silly am I!" I thought to myself.  "He's just going in for dental surgery.  It's really not a big deal."  He just looked so tiny. 

They took him back to the operating room while the Nerd guided me to the hospital cafeteria to get some much-needed food.  I cried the whole way.  People probably thought our child was dying or suffering terribly.

In the waiting room, I read about eight different books, focusing on none of them.  A nurse came out at the half-way point and told us that everything was going well.  I would not be satisfied until he woke up from anesthesia.

An hour later, we were called back to be there when he woke up.  He was so sad and angry at the same time when his eyes first open.  He screamed, "Don't touch me, Mom!" when I tried to cuddle him.  I cried again, but this time, they were happy tears.  My kid is the grumpiest waker-upper in the world, and now I knew he was alright.

The little man handled recovery like a champ.  He demanded and ate a lot of animal crackers as soon as he got home, and he spent the rest of the day playing video games on the Wii without having to share with his siblings.  And aside from one more emotional outburst unfortunately directed at the Nerd, I also handled recovery pretty well.

Maybe I should have started this post out with "Poor me..."

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