Rachel's Recovery

The pre-op and the op were a breeze compared with the post-op. One of our instructions was to try to prevent Rachel from jumping and running around. The basic response to that was, "Have you seen our child? Nonetheless, we pledged to give it the ole college try. And actually, she's only turned one front somersault without us stopping it in time.

We thought we'd come home and she'd be listless. Not our child! It was obvious she had been through trauma, but you can't keep an energetic child down.

She wanted no part of any Gatorade, but was willing to drink as much apple juice as provided. An early diet of vanilla ice cream would turn into a demand for chocolate within a few days.

And it's nice to know that she listened to us, even if she didn't always acknowledge it. Rachel wanted to know why it was suddenly acceptable to eat "treats" for breakfast.

Speaking of ice cream and milk products, Rachel milked her recovery when possible. She'd be a step from a roll of toilet paper or a box of kleenex and she'd whine/grunt (whunt?) and point to it with an expression like "You don't possibly expect me to expend the energy to walk all the way over there to pick that up, do you?"

But by far, the biggest joy (not!) was the daily dispensing of the medication.

First, there was the pain medication in the red plastic bottle. The bottle was the same color as the anesthesia that Rachel took before she went under. She eyed it suspiciously. The liquid inside it was more a yellowish tint. She offered the least resistance taking this one.

Then there was the milky white antibiotic. It was a tablespoon and a half through a dropper every 12 hours. The stuff was so thick, you could never be sure there was enough in the dropper when you'd administer the second half of the dose. Rachel wanted no part of it. At first, she refused to swallow, letting it dribble down her chin. Then she'd try to run away. You'd grab at her panties, and it would look like the old Coppertone billboard where the black dog is pulling down the little girl's bathing suit bottom. If Rachel did get away, she'd go into the classic duck and cover pose, hunched over with her face pressed against the floor.

But by far, the biggest pain in the, well, ears, were her ear drops. For three days, we had to drip five drops into the ear canals of both ears two times a day. All I can say is, you never can find a lasso when you truly need one! I might as well have been calf roping my kid. As she screamed, bargained and negotiated, it was obvious this was a two-person operation. One person would have to grab her and twist her to her side enough for the other to deliver the drops.

I quickly learned that with the ear drops and antibiotic, it was important to pin the legs as well as grab the arms. This became obvious after legs coiled in a fetal position launched a well-placed foot into daddy's throat a couple of times.

You had to ignore the accusatory finger and angry declarations of "I don't need you!" You had to realize that even as she exclaimed, "I don't need you!" she was still following you all over the house. And when calm returned to her sweet, pale visage, it was comforting to hear her say, "I'm sorry I kicked you, daddy. I was scared."

By the end of the week, we'd negotiate it. "Take this medicince and then sip some apple juice." Or "If you take this and don't complain, we'll call your school and let you talk to your friends."

That was a good one. We called the school and her teacher put Rachel's boyfriend, Cody on the phone. It was like listening to trains traveling down parallel tracks, but never intersecting.

"Cody, I had a surgery."

"I have paneut butter in my lunch today."

So here's the good news. Rachel never coughed up any blood, as we were told might happen. She doesn't gasp in her sleep anymore. In fact, we have to walk in to see if she's okay, she's so quiet. She wakes up in the best mood since she was born, because her tonsils are no longer there to cause obstructive sleep apnea and interrupt her breathing every two minutes. Her nose has stopped running incessantly. The ear tubes must be working, because she hasn't asked us once to turn up the tv, which used to be a constant request. We went to a hockey game and she remarked how loud it was.

We haven't run out of Gatorade or vanilla ice cream. It sure tastes good, but not as good as a healthy little girl who breathes and hears better.