What have I DONE!?! When good mums think they’ve gone bad

My heart is aching for Beth over at BabyMac at the moment. Her wee little moppet is recovering from having her tonsils and adenoids out and while some would say pfft, routine, I would say FUCK YOU! Any operation with a child which involves post-operative pain management is officially HELLZONE.

You see, you take your cub into a big scary place where you make them wear a dress with no back in it. You’re already on the downward slide in your child’s mental list of favourite people. If you’re lucky the premed makes them all woogily and so you don’t have to endure the (often multiple) attempts at getting a cannula in or the psychologically never-able-to-unsee experience of having to pin your child to a theatre trolley with them looking at you with pure terror as you try to stay calm and reassuring and ‘oh this mask! how fun! just take some deep breaths!’ This comes in a very close third to the awfulness that is seeing your child ‘go under’ when the anaesthetic starts to work which is a very close second to actually witnessing your child stop breathing and watching a resus team work on them.

Yeah, hospital with sick kids. Such sweet sweet memories.

Anyway, Harper’s not opening her mouth for anyone or anything bar the medicine (small mercies) and some juice. It was this fact and a photo of the gorgeous cherub that bought all the memories flooding back.

It started out as one of Oscar’s routine dental procedures but some 2 1/2 hours later the dental surgeon came out saying cheerily, ‘it all went really well, we only had to extract five teeth.”

FIVE TEETH.

The extent of preparing Oscar for this had been something involving a hand puppet of a tiger and a toothbrush. Monumental fail.

The poor kid had gone in feeling absolutely tickety-boo to then wake up in recovery, in a dress with no back, a cannula in his arm and a mouth full of blood and stitches. To say I was the bottom of Oscar’s barrel of awful would be showing a generous heart.

I actually think he went into shock. He didn’t talk, eat, open his mouth for days.  To force in some water through a straw was akin to NATO negotiations to get humanitarian aid into Homs, borderline fruitless.

My recollection is the surgery was a Friday and he didn’t talk until the Wednesday, but that may well be traumatic memory embellishment.

I was beside myself. We’d broken him. There it was, in cold hard brutal truth before us. We had broken him. I cried and cried, buying him ridiculous treats and presents he’d barely even acknowledge. He’s just silently move about the house

There have been a couple of incidents in Oscar’s life which have rocked me, made me question why we did something or why we were doing something, made me feel the lowest of low because far out, here’s a child already carrying a heavier load of Unfair than anyone else and we just go and throw another biscuit of doom onto his cart.

But then the darnedest thing happens. They get better in their own cotton-pickin’ time. Whatever the procedure you’ve put them through damn well goes ahead and achieves what it was meant to (normally) and the self-flagellation abates ever so slowly.

I will never forget the morning after that hideous dental disaster when he came in, stood by my side of the bed and said, ‘Ogga eat?’ It’s something Oscar utters a minimum of 50 times a day but that morning, that day it was the sweetest of sounds I’d ever heard.

 

Thinking of you lovely lady, it will get better.

 

Onward.