The Post Where My Watergirl Gets a Tonsillectomy

Last Monday, my youngest Watergirl underwent a tonsillectomy at 21. The past year she had a bout of strep throat that landed her in the ER twice resulting in a hospitalization while they tried to find out why 3 rounds of antibiotics, steroid shots and steroid pills couldn’t seem to touch this infection. The hospitalist, a kind middle-aged guy, came in to check on her and said that one of the reasons why they were having trouble getting rid of the strep was that it was actually two strains that needed two separate medicines in order to work. They needed to get her fixed up, and quick, because she needed a tonsillectomy as soon as possible (which they couldn’t do if there was any sign of infection.

My baby Watergirl is a talented bassoonist, studying music education at the local university. It’s pretty hard to play bassoon with strep throat, and is really not recommended because if the virus makes it into the horn, each time she practices she’ll just get reinfected. I believe that the Spanish term for this is “no bueno.” Anyway, there’s something about being in a hospital waiting room while your kid has surgery that brings out full force nostalgia in this Mama Bear.

Although tonsillectomies are a pretty routine surgery, I’ve worked around hospitals for enough time to know just enough to terrify me whenever my kid goes under the knife. A couple of years ago, actually the date was 11/11/11, Mancub had to have screws put in his arm because he went flying off a trampoline. It was supposed to only take about half an hour but it ended up taking almost 2 hours and I was melting down in the waiting room.My friend Jennifer came and sat with me, even though she barely knew me back then, and has earned my forever loyalty ever since.

To those mamas who have chronically ill kids, you have my undying support and always a piece of my heart.

She’s doing ok. Today she doesn’t feel well (a combination of pain and the prescription for the pain) and she came into the kitchen, looking every bit like the little girl I remember. When I went into labor with her (when I was 21), Dad was deployed with the Navy, and Grandma and Grandpa were miles away in Arkansas, and Lee’s parents on their way, so I went to the hospital alone, riding across the Coronado Bridge with a very nervous taxi driver. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough, and I think was mildly concerned that somebody might think this baby was his.

The whole time I was in labor, this song resonated with me. I don’t even think my Sarah knows that this is “our song.” I had heard it a few months before she was born, and it seemed wildly fitting for many reasons.

Sarah, here’s our song sweetie. Please feel better soon.