This blog post is coming to you from a darkened hospital room. As I look over at my precious sleeping Son1, I can see the shadowy shapes of medical equipment, a screen with flashing, fluctuating numbers, and his finger – glowing red like ET’s as the sensor transmits his vital statistics.
We’ve known for at least two years that Son1 needed a complex surgery to correct some internal plumbing. He was born with a birth defect in his bladder (a diverticulum) and, today, he was operated on in Dubai to fix the problem. To my amazement, other than not being allowed breakfast, he went along with everything like a lamb first thing this morning.
“Will I get my own room, Mummy?” he asked.
“Yes, you will.”
“And a TV?”
“Will there be room service?”
And that’s when I realised he was thinking hotel room, with chicken club sandwiches served Intercontinental-style on a platter – not hospital suite with congealed scrambled eggs and cereal that looks like fish bait.
Then, to his dismay, a nurse handed him a gown to change into.
“I’m not wearing THAT!” he declared. “It’s for GIRLS.”
“Would it help if Daddy wore one too?” I offered, shooting DH a pleading look and at least getting a laugh from my now cross (and hungry) son as we wrestled him into the offending teddy-bear-motif overall with ties at the back.
A few minutes later, the nurse brought the magic potion I’d been waiting for – the pre-op sedative. At first, there seemed to be no effect, until I noticed the grin plastered on Son1’s face.
“I sh-feel diz-shy,” he slurred, with a spaced-out expression. His eyelids might have looked heavy, but his glazed eyes were as wide as saucers. I’m surprised they didn’t start spinning. He then sat up in bed to enjoy the full, trippy effect, and experimented with a few different moves to maximise the dizziness.
“He’s completely high,” DH whispered to me.
“Totally stoned,” I agreed.
“And loving it.”
“So what are you going to dream about?” I asked Son1, who, by now, had dissolved into laughter.
“A duck delivering room service,” he pronounced with a giggle – and that was the thought I held onto as I let him go, into the operating theatre, where he spent the next four hours undergoing (a successful) surgery.
Let’s hope the post-op drugs are just as good.