Recovery

Jane, age 3

 

“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as my husband and I buckle Jane into her car seat on a dark and frigid January morning. “Really, I can do this.”

 

I have been dreading this day since we brought home our twin daughters, Caroline and Jane, from China when they were 10 months old. Upon returning from our adoption trip, we headed straight to our pediatrician’s office, where Dr. E thoroughly examined every square inch of their little bodies. Things were going fine until he peered into Jane’s ears. “Now, what’s this?” he murmured. What was what?     

 

After Dr. E looked more closely, made some phone calls, and referred us to a pediatric ear, nose and throat specialist, we learned that Jane had suffered from chronic and untreated ear infections in China. These nasty infections perforated her eardrums so badly that she was left with virtually no eardrums.

 

Our specialist has scheduled the first of a few surgeries: a tympanoplasty to reconstruct Jane’s left eardrum so that she will have a good shot at normal hearing. It sounds good on paper, but the surgery is complex and time-consuming.    

 

Today is the tympanoplasty, and we are on our way to the hospital.

 

Have I mentioned I am terrified of hospitals?

 

Never mind that. I have vowed that I will hold myself together for Jane’s sake. I will be dependable, even if I am frightened! I will be a rock of strength!  

 

In our hospital room, I watch the nurses prepare Jane for surgery and my knees start to shake. But I hide my discomfort from my daughter, who herself is remarkably calm. When the nurses gently wheel her off to the operating room, I fight off waves of panic. Why did we ever think this was a good idea?

 

My husband and I wait more than three agonizing hours for Jane to come out of surgery. When at last a nurse comes to fetch us, I am wild-eyed. She takes us to the post-surgical recovery room, asking along the way, “Have you both eaten breakfast?”

 

“Yes, of course," I say.

 

“Good. It’s critical to have food in your stomach, because sometimes parents get woozy when they see their children in the recovery room,” she says.  

 

“We’ll be fine,” I retort. I feel like I may or may not be growing pale.

 

The nurse gives me a long look. “If you feel faint, please let me know and we can take you back to your room,” she says.

 

“I’m OK, I promise,” I plead. “I just want to see my daughter.”

 

We enter the recovery room, which contains a long line of sleeping bodies attached to IVs and other ominous-looking tubes. Horrified, I cover my eyes with my hands. I do not want to see this! Patients recovering from anesthesia should have privacy! I am sweating profusely, an unfortunate development that does not escape the nurse’s attention. She’s watching me like a hawk.

 

The nurse guides us to Jane, who lies unconscious on a huge gurney with a gargantuan blood-stained bandage covering her ear and wrapped around her head. My heart breaks into small pieces.

 

“Remember, if either of you feels light-headed, just tell me. The recovery room can be a scary place, and you don't have to be a hero,” the nurse says, fixing her gaze on me again.

 

“Can I please hold Jane?” I ask. I am officially begging.

 

The nurse has me sit in a rocking chair next to the gurney and – in an astonishing feat of spatial intelligence requiring the maneuvering of untold tubes and cords and beeping things – settles Jane in my lap without either of us getting choked by hospital equipment. Finally, I have my precious baby.

 

“I bet it’s wonderful to have her in your arms,” says the nurse.

 

Yes, it’s perfect. Except I am nauseous, have tunnel vision, and can barely breathe. “I think I’m going to pass out,” I manage to pant.

 

“MOM IS GOING DOWN!” shouts the nurse, triumphant. The recovery room springs to action as I wilt. Suddenly there are nurses everywhere, unraveling Jane and her scores of tubes from my arms and rolling me onto the gurney that was just Jane’s. “LET’S GET HER OUT OF HERE!” one of them shouts.

 

A nurse wheels me out and says, “It’s OK, honey. Your husband is with Jane, and everything will be fine.” I quietly faint in the comfort of the gurney’s embrace.

 

***

 

I wake up in Jane’s hospital room, still on her gurney. I think about my desire to be a rock for her and how I have not succeeded. I curl into a ball and began to cry, “I’m a terrible mother. I have totally failed my daughter.”

 

“You are not a terrible mother,” says a kindly nurse (where do they all come from?) handing me a bedpan in case I need to vomit. “You are there for Jane every minute of every day. Let your husband and Jane have this time together.”

 

I pull myself together before yet another nurse wheels Jane into the room. My husband tells me her recovery from the anesthesia was tough, as it can be for many young children, but the nurse points out that he was amazingly helpful in settling her down. He gives me a proud smile and says, “That was my most important moment as a dad so far.”

 

While my unflappable husband strokes Jane’s sweet, bandaged head, I fall into a chair and ponder the morning’s events. Jane has a new eardrum. My husband has newfound confidence as a father. And me? I am a clammy, ineffectual wreck.

 

I had so dearly wanted to rise to the occasion and be a composed and confident mom on this big day, but I haven’t come close. I lost my composure. I lost oxygen flow to my brain. I had to be removed from the recovery room on my daughter’s gurney. “Shit,” I moan.     

 

When your child is recuperating in the hospital, you don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for yourself, so I try my best to rally, chalking up the disaster to a learning experience I won’t forget. I tell myself that sticky situations are bound to arise when the pep talks we’ve given ourselves as mothers are rendered completely worthless, and we might even have a hard time staying on our feet. But does that make us bad moms? No. I think it only helps us develop thicker skin and more compassion.

 

***

 

I’ve come to look at my disaster at the hospital in a positive light – a light that I hope means something to Jane when she’s older and maybe even a mother herself. The light is this: I love her so much it literally brings me to my knees. Or, if you want to get technical, a gurney.

 

On top of that, it's nice to be reminded that I was right about one tiny thing, even if it didn’t keep me out of harm’s way. Always eat breakfast; you never know what the day might bring.