Daddy's punching in for the night watch. It's something of an unofficial tradition that Pedde fathers take first watch for a child coming out of surgery. The Builder was the first person I saw when coming to after my facial reconstruction surgery fifteen years ago. I will always remember his first words to me: "Puke, you'll feel better." This sage (and very effective) advice was followed by, "Now go pee before they stick a tube up your penis."
I shall be refraining from both of those pieces of advice. For one, she doesn't seem to react to anesthesia with nausea. And unlike her father, her surgery did not result in a liter of blood landing in her stomach. The pee or get catheterized ultimatum also doesn't apply because she already is.
This morning started with a coffee and a half Klonopin. After hiking over and starting the registration, we realized that Daddy had forgotten to bring the souped up Wubbanub. A quick check of Daddy's vitals also showed half a Klonopin wasn't cutting it. So, I ran back to the extended stay to wash down the second half and pick up the reinforced Wubbanub. Upon entering, I received a text from the Shieldmaiden saying she was heading back to pre-op. When we arrived, the Dot was given her own happy medicine while Mommy and Daddy talked to the doctors and nurses. Unfortunately, at this time, Baby Einstein ran out, and the loopy Dot decided that the interruption was unforgivable. So, the doctor picked her up and whisked her away to the OR.
Rather than wait for four to five hours, the Shieldmaiden and I decided to hop on the DART bus and head to the nearby WaHo for our usual order. We hit the hotel to rearrange things, then embarked on our first MTA ride together. Fortunately, it went much better than my first solo attempt last night, in which I spent half an hour in beautiful Garland after hopping the wrong bus, only to end up being picked up by the same bus that dropped me off.
We arrived at the hospital shortly before they started closing.
Dr. Fearon gave us the report on the surgery, the gist of it being that we had definitely made the right decision. After rearranging her skull to provide adequate space for her poor brain, he apparently struggled to stretch the skin over it. For my less medically inclined readers, that means her brain was considerably squished. The neurosurgeon also decided to do the suboccipital decompression for the Chiari. As far as she was concerned, the radiology was not conclusive enough, and she would make the call upon actually seeing the bone structure. Apparently, the bone structure said, "Cut me! Cut me!"
Nice to know there was, in fact, no other option.
By that time, the Dot was in PICU, so to save the Shieldmaiden the lovely images of a toddler returning from general anesthesia, I volunteered to go in first.
I'm glad I had taken another Klonopin. It's one thing to have a sobbing, disoriented, combative toddler in pain. It's quite another to not be able to do anything about it. After making sure the worst was past, I tapped the Shieldmaiden for her turn.
Afterwards, we had yet another meal at the hospital's tasty and reasonably priced cafeteria. Then, we split up with the Shieldmaiden taking the Squirt to our home away from home and me taking the night watch by the Dot's bedside.
Now, nothing to do but wait for her Ativan to wear off and welcome her back to the land of the living.
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