Anatomy of a Tonsillectomy

We sit huddled in a corner behind a curtain striped in shades of orange. For all the noise in the large room the din seems muted. M is watching A Bee Movie and trying her best to ignore the steady stream of questions from doctors, nurses and parents. It’s hard to tell if she truly is unconcerned or if it is all bravado.

The time comes for us to part ways. I hold her hand and we walk to the end of the corridor. I kiss her and her hand slips from mine. She disappears behind the cold doors. A moment later the doors reopen and I see her, my oldest baby, halfway down the hall. Her hand is in another woman’s. She’s walking away from me, looking both old and small in her dog-patterned hospital pajamas. Her step is still confident. I imagine she is smiling.

Back in the waiting area, I approach the desk to find out my daughter’s patient number. They will post the progress of my precious child’s journey on a screen, my only link to what is happening to her. I find her number and read “839059 has entered the OR” and that’s when the tears cannot be held back any longer. Moments later I have regained my composure and sit directly in front of the screen to wait for word that the reason we are here has started, the moment that my baby is essentially being hurt with my consent.

It is perhaps 10 or 15 minutes later and the highlight changes to green: “839059 procedure is under way.” With that, I return to my youngest baby who is waiting with my mom in a family room. It is impossible to not think of what is happening down the hall; impossible to not have second thoughts no matter that it is too late to stop it.

One half an hour later, an eternity and a blink of an eye, and I hear my name. We gather a few things, her father and I, and follow the nurse to see our baby.

There are no words of warning. Turning the corner into the recovery room I see my daughter’s tear-streaked face. She’s screaming but the scream doesn’t come out as loud as she’d like it to.

She pulled out her IV so we had to put another in. She’s pretty emotional.

I hold my baby girl’s hand and try to whisper to her. I stroke her head and smooth her hair. She decides she no longer wants her tonsils removed. She is not really present.

Medication is injected into her IV line and she starts to get sleepy. Too sleepy. Her respiration slows. Take big breaths M, the nurse begins to urge. I try to make it a game for her. Make a breath bigger than Mommy’s. Make the beep get high pitched again.

The nurse’s husband comes to give her keys. They are trading cars. I can’t talk now. She is curt, dismissive, and re-enters the room to stand by M's side again.

I begin to realize that there is a slight problem. This is not quite routine. The tone of the beeps lowers again. See if you can make a bigger breath than Mommy, M. The breaths are as much for me. The nurse does not leave the room even for a minute until finally she seems to breathe easier…the nurse, M, me.

And suddenly she is sitting up, asking to sit in the chair, then asking to go for a walk. She’s regained her fight and feistiness. She eats one cup of chocolate ice cream, then another. Then pudding. Then apple juice. She needs to use the restroom. She smiles and smiles again.

My breath returns.