Jocelyn’s Adventure, Part II

(Continued from Part I)

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the attending surgeon entered the room.  We nurses have a saying about most surgeons: “That guy has the personality of a doorknob.” Thankfully, that was not the case with our new friend.  He was friendly, compassionate, and had a gentle smile that set everyone at ease.  He shot straight from the moment he entered the room. “Here at Children’s, we do more appendectomies per year than just about anybody else, about 12,000, and I do many of them myself.  A child with this ultrasound and these labs has an 8 out of 10 chance of being infected.  I will personally apologize to you if I am wrong.”  He went on to explain the risks of rupture, most of which I could recite from memory. “If this was my daughter, I wouldn’t hesitate to take her to surgery.  If she ruptures, she may be infertile for the rest of her life.”

Suddenly everything became clear.  I had prayed with my husband for wisdom, and this was it. She was going to surgery.  The surgeon agreed that she could wait to get her IV until she was lightly sedated in the OR, since the first stick hadn’t been easy or fun.  We waited another two hours.  At 7 p.m., a new nurse came on duty and informed me that the OR was almost ready for Jocelyn, and, oh by the way, they don’t accept patients without an IV.  Since time was short, the Child Life team was not on hand for the second IV start attempt.  Thankfully, this one was good.  I was grateful that the nurse honored my wish that they not use Jocelyn’s dominant hand, since she had been sucking her thumb during the visit to comfort and soothe herself.

Up till this point, I had been very restrained, but I snapped at the night nurse when she returned to ask if Jocelyn had eaten or drunk anything in the past 8 hours. “No, she hasn’t, not since yesterday!”  She disappeared.  When she came back, I apologized. “I thought you could have found that information on the chart.  After all, I have already answered the same question 15 times.” She accepted my apology, smiled with a look that said, “I get that a lot,” and left.

About 7:15, the OR team came down to transport us upstairs.  We saw another surgical resident, who gave J some Versed (a sedative that helps the patient forget the procedure and also a few hours prior), and off she went to surgery.  I must have looked like a lost lamb after she left.  I never even kissed her or prayed for her or said goodbye. She was just gone.  The whole time we had been there up til that point, I had been strong, professional, vigilant and calm.  As soon as my baby was wheeled away, I realized that I was ravenously hungry.  When we entered the ER, I knew that J would not be allowed to eat or drink, and I agreed to wait for food until she, too, was allowed to eat.  Now I felt all the hunger and thirst I had saved up all day, along with the fear and annoyance and second-guessing and every worry about all the things I knew all-too-well could go wrong.  The weight of all this, along with the knowledge that I was completely unable to control anything, hit me in three seconds, and the tears started to flow.  I cried as I called my cousin, who prayed with me and encouraged me.  I cried as I bought a sandwich to replenish my plummeting blood sugar.  I cried as I wandered around the surgical floor, trying in vain to find a waiting room with unoccupied chairs.  I cried as I sat at a vacant concierge desk, eating my food and ignoring at least four signs that declared, “NO FOOD OR DRINK.”  My baby was in surgery.  I was not there.  I wanted to trade places with her.  I wanted to make it better, but all I could do was wait.

Advertisement