All posts by ihatehardware.

Out Like a Light

We arrived at the hospital at 6 a.m., after driving the requisite 3 times around the block to look for an unmetered available parking space.  I had no expectation that we would find one but Ben just has to do it so I’ve stopped objecting.  Next, we tried the garage but the machine was out of tickets, so we ended up with the valet, which was a whopping 10 bucks.  Score one for the Greene Team.

We checked in at admissions, but the receptionist wouldn’t let us go upstairs even though we had been told to arrive at 6.  He said they didn’t open until 6:30 or at least 6:15 and sent us to the admissions waiting room.  A few minutes later I got a call from home saying that the hospital was looking for us, so I told the guy that we needed to go and he waved us through.  The surgical center actually wasn’t open so we looked around until we found someone to let us in.

There are 5 waiting rooms with various types of activities (toys, books, TV), including one with food and coffee (yay – I grabbed a few Baileys nips last night so I can sneak into the bathroom and add one to my coffee).  We saw Dr. Breuer on his way in, so Ben was able to meet him and Norah was able to get reaquainted.

They weighed Norah and took us into an exam room, where the radiologist came and explained her job and took Norah’s order for which smell she wanted in her mask (cotton candy).  At one point there were 5 medical people plus us in a really small exam room, with Norah hiding behind the door.  She wasn’t afraid, she was just fooling around.  We met the OR nurse, the anesthesiologist and her resident, three other pre-op nurses, and saw Dr. Breuer again.  He asked if there was anything else I wanted to discuss and I was like, “No!  Let’s get it done!  Watch out for those nerves and the parathyroids!  Good luck!  I hope you ate your Wheaties this morning!  Go-go-go!!!”

The nurse gave Norah some Versat to make her sleepy, which actually made her drunk.  I asked for some for myself but so far they haven’t come through on that.  Norah put on some hospital pjs and a hair net, and I gowned up to go in with her.  We walked down to the OR with the nurse, and I went in while they gave Norah the gas.  I’m really glad I showed her photos of the OR and doctors with masks beforehand, because she wasn’t afraid.  Maybe it was the Versat.  It looked just like Grey’s Anatomy without the hanky-panky.

The resident lifted her onto the table, the anesthesiologist put the mask on her, and Norah started taking deep breaths.  She got a tiny bit teary at one point, and right before she went under she started to struggle a bit.  Luckily, two of my friends had warned me about this so I was ok.  Then the nurse escorted me back to the waiting area and here we are.  There are a lot of other families here too. 

When it’s over, Dr. Breuer will come out and take us up to the PICU and explain how everything went.  It has already been almost an hour, so I hope they’re getting some good work done in there.  And if you’re wondering about my cracks…a dose of Clonazepam really takes the edge off.

 

Click here to read the next post about Norah’s thyroid.

Click here to start at the beginning and read the first post about Norah’s thyroid.

New Haven

We’re here in the Courtyard Marriott in New Haven, and Ben and Norah are passed out.  We left home late (9ish) so Norah slept in the car, woke up briefly to have her last food for 36 hours – Cheez-Its, and went back to sleep.  When we left home she asked me when she would see Aliya again, I told her Friday, and when I looked in the back seat she had tears rolling down her face.  When I asked what was wrong she broke out in sobs and said she missed Aliya and Grandma Ginny.  She confirmed that she did not miss Adlani – it may take more time away for her to start missing him.

Norah doesn’t seem to be too concerned about the procedure.  This morning I asked if she was worried about anything and she said that she was worried about the doctors and nurses seeing her underwear, and afraid that she might fall off the bed.  When Dr. Rivkees called today I told him that Norah had a question for him (“Uh-Oh”)…will she have to get naked for surgery?  He said to tell her to wear clean underwear so I guess Mom was right.

We have to be up at 5 and at the hospital at 6 for surgery at 7, so I’m going to hit the hay.  I think this will be my shortest hotel stay ever – just under 6 hours.  I don’t usually frequent the pay-by-the-hour joints.  I’ll keep you all posted tomorrow, and I want to say thank you to everyone who called and emailed today to help keep me intact.  It means a lot. 

Click here to read the next post about Norah’s thyroid.

Click here to start at the beginning and read the first post about Norah’s thyroid.

Cracks

Twenty-four hours from now I’ll be lying awake in a hotel room, with alarms set on my travel clock, my phone, Ben’s phone, and a wake-up call scheduled as back-up.  Tomorrow we’ll find out exactly what time we’re supposed to be at the hospital, but it will likely be between 6 and 6:30 a.m., and I’m already stressed that we’ll oversleep.

I know we’re doing the right thing by having Norah’s thyroid removed.  It’s the only option for her – there isn’t anything else to try at this point.  But cracks are starting to form in my cool, confident, well-informed veneer.  Last week my friend Lana offered me a bribe of coffee and a hug if I would help her at school and I told her that hugs make me cry.  I don’t know why sympathy has that effect on me – I’m sure it’s rooted in my childhood somewhere. 

This morning the preschool nurse asked if she could hug me and – you guessed it – I cried.  I went from discussing the details of the surgery with a teacher (Norah had told her that she was going to have her neck cut open) to hugging to crying in less than 60 seconds.  The school social worker happened to be standing there and she used all of her anti-crying techniques to get me to the front door in one piece.

Then there was yesterday’s crack.  I was getting yelled at by a facility manager for something that wasn’t my fault, which NEVER happens, by the way.  When he asked why I had emailed him a response instead of calling him, I said, “I’m sorry…I called you twice but you didn’t answer, and I wasn’t in a position where you could call me back.  I have a really sick kid and I emailed my response from the doctor’s office.”  A tiny crack opened up, but talking about hardware for a while got me back in control. 

As the call was ending, he said, “So, what’s wrong with your kid anyway?”  Oy vey…couldn’t he just hang up and let me fall apart in peace?  NO!  I said in a teary Mini-Mouse voice, “I really don’t want to talk about it right now…”  I felt like such an unprofessional idiot but I just couldn’t discuss it with him at that moment.  I sent him an email immediately and he felt bad and I still felt like an unprofessional idiot but whatever.  We’re fine now.  And I bet he won’t yell at me again.

I’m not having cold feet or second thoughts or a premonition.  I’m REALLY looking forward to getting this over with and moving ahead.  I’ve read and read and read some more about the procedure, the surgeons, etc., etc., etc.  There’s just some underlying instinctual *thing* that makes it painful to think of putting my baby’s life in someone else’s hands, no matter how capable those hands are. 

It reminds me of the first time I brought each of my kids to day care.  Even though I wanted/needed to go back to work, and had spent 12+ weeks at home with each baby, I cried when I visited the day care provider and I cried for the first few mornings.  It feels just like that – knowing that she’ll be fine, but feeling that gut-level pain just the same.

Ben has been grumpy as hell, which means that he’s worried too.  He doesn’t want to hear about it, talk about it, or think about it.  He said tonight that he wished he could go to sleep now and wake up on Friday.  I do too.  I wish that I could at least take an anti-emotion pill so I could make it through the anesthesia without crying and freaking Norah out.  I’m supposed to be the strong one, and here I am falling apart while she’s not concerned at all.  She told the acupuncturist tonight, “I’m going to Yale!  And Bugaboo!” 

I don’t really blame Ben for shutting down.  In Morocco, surgery is nowhere near as safe as it is here.  The treatment for Norah’s condition in Morocco is to get some special dirt from a sacred location, and rub it on the goiter.  I’m sure they have big-city hospitals that would use modern treatments, but many Moroccans don’t have access to them.  Just one more reason to hope and pray that everything turns out great.  If it doesn’t, Ben will be saying, “This is all your fault!  I told you we should have used the special Moroccan dirt!!”

In 36 hours Norah will be out of the OR and awake, and I will crack.

Click here to read the next post about Norah’s thyroid.

Click here to start at the beginning and read the first post about Norah’s thyroid.