I am a survivor. I am a survivor of out patient surgery.
Well...to be more specific...I am the mother of a survivor of out patient surgery! My little Lilly Girl had her tonsils and adenoids removed the day after Christmas. And to say that I was a nervous wreck during the procedure would be an understatement.
I went outside for fresh air.
I considered throwing up in the bucket of ice melt by the door, that the man shoveling the hospital sidewalks had left behind.
I paced in front of the elevators.
I called my mom.
I sat beside James and closed my eyes and tried to meditate and find my calm center...but couldn't manage to stop the shaking in my legs.
I thought the worst part would be when the anesthesiologist--clad in green scrubs and a surgery cap--came to take Lilly away from me. That was rough, heartbreaking even. But, in actuality, the worst part was the waiting. And waiting.
I was overjoyed when we were called to meet with the surgeon afterwards. I was elated when he took us to Lilly's post-op recovery room. I was eager to see her as we waited, yet again, for a nurse to bring her to us. And I was utterly startled by Lilly's condition when that nurse placed her in my arms!
She cried. She moaned. She fidgeted and flopped. She rambled incoherently. She wailed. She kept saying the most bizarre things like: "I don't want that number two in here." (There was NO number two anywhere!) And, "I wish that dog would leave." (There was NO dog anywhere!) She continually asked, "Is this my new voice?" Then demanded that her "old voice" be returned to her at once! She asked if her tonsils were gone at least twenty times, and she couldn't seem to remember where she was. (Apparently, the probability of someone acting like a "wacky doodle" as they come out of anesthesia is very high!)
When we were finally told we could leave, I helped Lilly out of her hospital gown and into her pajamas. She watched closely as I put her socks on, then started bawling.
"Ooohh," she weeped, "I just really love you..."
James and I exchanged knowing smiles as we realized our daughter's tender heart (and drug-induced state) was invoking an outpouring of love and affection for us. We were there for her. We would take care of her. Our shared smiles seemed to say, We are terrific parents.
Then, before we could respond with our own sentiments, she finished (and slurred) her sentence:
"I just really love you so much, Tiana."