Tonsil town

The door to the waiting room opened. “Gibbons?” the nurse said to us.
My wife and I nodded and began to walk to the door. “She’s not very happy,” the nurse said.
In fairness to our daughter, if you had a big chunk of your throat carved out, you’d be a little peeved, too.
Yes, Allie had her tonsils removed, and first and foremost – save her the ice cream spiel. She feels all the talk of ice cream was cruel bait to lure her into this trap.
Her tonsils had been a problem for a long time. Poor thing looked like she had swallowed two golf balls.
She was nervous about the surgery but was also looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep and going more than a week without a sore throat.
My wife and I have gone through this several times with both kids – tubes, adenoids, hernia surgeries, tubes removed – so letting go of our children as they are wheeled back into an OR doesn’t have quite the sting it did the first time.
Sure, you still worry, but once you acknowledge that (a) it’s a relatively minor and routine procedure and (b) she is in very capable and caring hands, you realize there is really no reason NOT to finish your Sudoku.
When we got back to her room, we found that “not happy” was being gentle.
She had decided hand-to-hand combat would be a nice way to express her discomfort to the nurse. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?” she yelled at the nurse, who, of the four in the room, was really the least to blame.
The nurse, bless her heart, stayed cool and calm, trying to get my daughter to calm down.
My wife and I tried to soothe her (Allie, that is), but she was having none of it. It was a combination of anesthesia and extreme throat pain. And it manifested itself in abject nastiness.
“Allison,” the nurse said, “you’ll feel better if you just take a deep breath ...”
“I’LL FEEL BETTER IF I LEAVE!!!”
Her disorientation aside, it was clear she was in pain. Her head, she said, was pounding. The nurse said she was going to give her some medicine. And that’s when Mr. Syringe met Mr. IV, and a delightful and peaceful sleep fell over the land.
After a few minutes, Allie had calmed down and drifted off to sleep. I leaned back in a chair and did the same thing. (Gotta show solidarity.)
After a quick power nap, I stood by my daughter’s bed. I watched her sleep the most peaceful sleep I had seen in years.
My wife and I both remarked that we heard – nothing. No labored breathing. No snores. No coughing in her sleep.
A drug-induced one-time hit? Or a tonsillectomy silver bullet. I sure hope the latter.
She woke up a short time later, smiling, reaching out for a hug. We informed the nurse that Allie’s evil twin had left the building.
Allie seemed to somewhat recall – yet not completely believe – the “not happy” response. But all better now.
Allie is now home for the next week, where we have a huge pile of rented movies, a bunch of books, her handheld video game and a huge helping of ice cream and popsicles.
I also hope to read the first Harry Potter book with her during this time, as I think she is finally at the age where the story of a child forced to live in a closet under the stairs won’t scare her.
(In case you are wondering, Parker does not mind that Allie is getting all of the attention right now. Why, you ask? Because he got to have a sleepover at Grandma’s AND was taken to school by his aunt and cousin. As he said, “It was a big day.”)
I’m just glad the surgery is over. While it may be routine, it’s a good milestone to pass. So I guess Allie was right about one thing – we did feel better when we left.