Jocelyn’s Adventure, Part III

I watched surgeon after surgeon come out of the OR area and give families news of their child’s welfare.  Jocelyn’s appendectomy was scheduled to end at 8:30 p.m., and every minute past that time was an hour in my world.  Finally, the surgeon emerged with his characteristic grin.  “You should be glad we decided to take her,” he said. “It would have ruptured in a day or two.”  He handed me some pictures taken with the endoscope.  “Here, for the scrapbook.” I didn’t even have the energy to laugh.  I was too busy breathing a huge sigh of relief.  We briefly discussed how the antibiotics she has just finished were probably responsible for masking some of her symptoms, and how they had caused her to not have much swelling or inflammation at the appendix itself. The lack of swelling was the cause of all the ambivalence we had experienced earlier.  I believe the antibiotics had also contributed to her lack of fever, normally a telltale sign in these types of cases.

A few minutes later, the recovery room paged me, and I was led to the side of J’s bed.  She looked like a small angel with her halo of pale, blonde hair.  She was so very still, I had to lean in to see if she was even breathing.  I have never seen my opinionated, rambunctious girl looking so fragile and dependent as in that moment.  All I could do was say “Thank you, Lord,” over and over.  She had made it. I chatted with the recovery room nurse (probably too much, due to my tweaked nerves), and finally realized that my baby was not going to wake up any time soon.  The pharmacy brought a PCA pump for pain control, and off we went to her permanent room.

The night nurse had already been on duty for a few hours, but she looked as fresh and cheerful as a daisy.  She was pleasant and calm and absolutely wonderful.  After the initial assessment, she left us alone to sleep.  I was so keyed-up, I tossed and turned on the visitor bed for a long time before I lapsed into a restless sleep.  I knew that J would probably be mad at me when she woke up.  After all, I had not kept the hospital people from inflicting pain on her, and she had many questions which I could not satisfy before we took her to the OR.  Before her procedure, she had said to me repeatedly, “I don’t want a surgery!  I don’t like you!  Go away!  Hisssssss!”  I tried not to take her outbursts personally.  She was feeling just as out-of-control as I was, and I really didn’t have much to offer in the way of answers.

Around 4:30 a.m., J woke up and started talking in gibberish.  I offered her water, and she refused, mumbling, “I can’t eat that thing.  I have to keep my tummy empty,” and promptly went back to sleep after I showed her how to push the button to administer her pain meds.  At 5:45, the surgical resident came by, and this time she was alert enough to say, “I’m hungry.  I want a tiny burger!”  It was the first time I had smiled in what seemed like a week.  She was going to be OK, I just knew it.

Because she had slept more than ten hours, she was alert and very chatty, even though it was only 6 a.m.  Every person who entered the room got a speech from her about her surgery.  She had a surprisingly good grasp of the concepts involved. (Jocelyn’s own account will be included as the last installment in the story.)  We attempted to get her up to use the bathroom, and she howled in protest.  I was concerned about her fluid levels when she produced barely a trickle of urine, and I asked the nurse to maintain the IV fluid orders, even though the surgical resident’s usual policy was to lock off the IV after the patient could tolerate liquids by mouth.  I could still smell ketones on her breath, a fruity odor that signifies a lack of hydration as the body breaks down the internal tissues to get water.  As I expected, she became quite tachycardic (rapid heartbeats) after we got her up, and I made it my sole mission to push fluids.  She had a popsicle, water, ice chips, juice, jell-o, and more, all in tiny installments.  She was grumpy, tired, and weak, and so was I.  I had only logged about four hours of sleep, and the unit mysteriously had nothing but decaf coffee to offer its visitors.

I wondered if this recovery was going to take a week.

Advertisement