A Dose of Anxiety

And, it’s done.  Just like that.  Sophie had eye surgery this morning.  A simple procedure, but one that required her being put under. 

This was the real issue.  Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve been a wreck.

The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.  Then, a call late last Thursday wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.  It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah, blah, but yes, let’s move it up.  Less time to think about it.

And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was fine.  Then, the nurse called on Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof, thankfully).  It was going well until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.  And bring her favorite stuffed toy or blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re frightened.”

The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was enough to turn on the instant tears.  The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.  “She’ll be fine.  Really.  It’s so much harder for us parents then it is for them.”  

I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a clue what was coming and I did.  I was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.

We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.  I had experienced this long before ever having children.  However, after having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.  And not just stronger, but ferocious, too. 

There have been several instances when I have felt threats to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face (please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.  Things of that nature.

Never before have I had to turn over either of my children to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.  This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.  Because really, at the end of the day what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility. 

Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with the utmost care.  I don’t doubt their intentions or capabilities.  But, mistakes happen.  Unpredictable reactions can occur.  There is an unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say, “yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”  It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the slight possibility of that even happening. 

Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten myself up over signing such a document.  Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.  She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose (poor girl), but she was a total champ today.

And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit by a truck.  I’m exhausted.  I forget how we hold fear and anxiety in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we robbed it of rest and peace of mind.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do differently.  Saying, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.  There are some things I cannot force my body to do.  It’s okay.  Sometimes surrendering to the emotion is much less tiresome than fighting it.

In this instance it didn’t matter.  It drained me.  It won.  But I don’t mind.  Even when Sophie could barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your tickies (our term for her toes)?”  She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her toes in the air.  Somehow, that one small act reassured both of us that she was fine.  We needed it.  Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us with a smile.

The day has only gotten better.  We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either: One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.  I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have come along with a woozy Sophie.  You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.