The Before Shots

I have been so busy working (hence, the radio silence here) that I haven’t had much time to fret in my usual way about Muffin’s surgery. But suddenly, it is upon us, and we are due at the hospital by 8:30am tomorrow.

I’m not really worried she’ll die or anything. It’s minor surgery, and Dr. Waner has never had any of his patients die on him. I’m stressing over the stupid little details – about how we’ll amuse her as we wait, how we’ll distract her from the fact that she can’t have any breakfast, about what time we have to get up to make sure we all get out of the house by 7:30. But really my mind keeps circling around the awful fact that Muffin will be scared out of her mind tomorrow. I will do everything I can to try to make it better for her, but it won’t be enough. This surgery unfortunately coincides with a slew of new fears, like airplanes, loud flushing toilets, and most of all, doctors. During her 2-year well-baby appointment, she started crying almost the second we hit the the exam room. We calmed her down by promising no shots, but I won’t exactly be able to do that tomorrow.


A few people who read this blog (and even some people who have met Muffin in real life) say that you’d never know she has a birthmark. I generally choose photos where it’s not plainly visible, and I’ve become adept at styling her hair so it’s hidden. But tonight we went up to the roof so I could get some shots to remember the strawberry by. It’s funny – it seems like ages that we’ve been looking at it, but I know years from now we’ll squint our eyes and try to conjure up what that thing looked like.


You know what’s weird? I think I’m going to miss it a little bit.

UPDATED: Well, it’s done, and we are all fine. Thank you to everyone who let us know you were thinking of Muffin. She actually handled it all well and was so very brave. The surgery started about an hour late, which meant three hours of wandering through hospital corridors and reading the three books we brought with us approximately 187 times (there’s nothing like having zero left in your bag of tricks to make you welcome the idea of sedation). She asked for food a few times, but dropped it easily when I said I didn’t have any. She was fine with putting on the hospital gown, cool with getting her temperature taken and shy but not scared with all the doctors who came in to see her. She was even okay in the operating room – that is until they put the gas mask on her and she started fighting. Mercifully, it was over in 30 seconds, and then I was treated to the sight of my daughter’s eyes rolling right into the back of her head. That's one that's going to stick with me for a while.

When they brought us in afterward, I could hear her crying from across the room. She was thrashing about and very confused – however, she was lucid enough to ask for her pacifier and her blanket, and calmed down as soon as I gave them to her. Suddenly, everyone was looking at me and asking if I felt ok. I did – until 10 seconds later, when a wave of nausea and lightheadedness washed over me. They actually dragged out a reclining chair – the same kind the adult post-op patients recover in – and made me sit there until I felt better. I fully expect 25 years from now, Muffin’s going to be delving into her mom’s narcissist tendencies in therapy.

She looks pretty worse for the wear, with a big exposed incision, a drain snaking out of it, and her hair sticky and matted from rust-colored antiseptic, which we can wash out in 48 hours. Personality-wise, however, she seems back to normal, asking for Elmo, picking her nose, and demanding meatballs for dinner. It's nice to have her back.