Take Two

Last week the incision on Muffin’s head didn’t look quite right to me. “No touch, Mommy,” Muffin kept saying, swatting my hand away, but after a few days I made her sit still for a closer look and it was clear it was not healing as it should be. We took her back to Dr. Waner’s office, where they took off the steri-strips to reveal an angry half inch-wide gash on her head. They had used dissolvable stitches, but because the strawberry was even bigger than it looked on the surface, they didn’t hold, and the incision had opened up. That was a Thursday. We spent Friday flogging ourselves for making the situation worse when we could have left well enough alone. On Saturday, Dr. Waner himself called to say he wanted her back in for surgery first thing Monday morning.

Although the dread factor was increased this time, knowing exactly what we were getting into, the actual procedure was much easier to bear – at least for me, but I think for Muffin too. An emergency that morning meant her surgery was 4 hours late, so by noon, we were in pre-op with a famished baby who had not eaten or drank anything since the night before and was rapidly approaching naptime. So they took pity on us and gave her “goofy juice.” I’m not sure what it was, but all I can say is that, dude, she's a natural stoner. She laughed maniacally at everything, offered sloppy kisses willingly and completely forgot about the forbidden fruit of the blood pressure cuff. You could tell she remembered having been in that room not long ago, and probably had an idea of what was in store. But hopped up on the goofy juice, she couldn’t really be bothered to care.

Since I held it together better than I did last time, I was coherent enough to behold what a tough little cookie we have unleashed upon this world. She took ages to go under, and even as my throat started to swell, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride as the nurses and doctors looked at their watches and wondered when this kid would finally be gassed already. In recovery she woke up pissed as hell, and when the Canuck and I joined her, two nurses were holding her down as she administered enough kicks to make them very sorry they had ever cut her head open and made her wait four hours for the pleasure. Offers of juice and cookies couldn’t have been more enthusiastically rejected than if we had offered dirt pies with grasshopper garnish. That is, until she decided she was good and ready, and then she downed two cups of apple juice and six cookies in 4 minutes flat.

While she was under, the wonderful nurse that assists Dr. Waner gave her little French braids so she’d look cute until we can wash her hair next week, which was the one time I did almost cry (what can I say? Hair is close to my heart). Even right after surgery, she looked amazing; the incision is so clean and thin that you almost can’t tell she’s had anything done. By the time she went to bed that night, she was back to normal, and has been kooky and chatty and delicious this entire week. We are back to thinking we did the right thing. But even if we didn't, I know she'll be just fine.