First and foremost let me say this—a tonsillectomy at age twenty can be compared to being banished to the gallows and hung by a rope made out of spikes. Or being beheaded by a rusty guillotine. Or having your throat slit wide open by a dull kitchen knife.
Well, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic.
Nevertheless, my daughter’s been on the couch for seven days now, speaking only when necessary, using a series of hand motions to communicate that might give a mime a run for his money. Eating has been an adventure. In the lineup of importance, fluids and pain management have been top of the list, but as soon as her appetite returned, we started giving her tiny portions of Jell-O, applesauce, and mashed potatoes. She’d nibble away until nausea got the best of her. The last couple of days she’s been able to tolerate more solid foods and is sitting up, slowly returning to the land of the living. Her eyes are brightening with newfound liveliness, but she still struggles against the irritating cauterized holes in her throat.
I’ve appreciated the time spent with her, braiding her hair, rubbing her feet. Taking her temperature just like I did when she was little. Her daddy held her hair when she threw up, (he’s the cooler head in the family when it comes to this kind of thing) but I was always on the sidelines ready to administer a cold washcloth and glass of water. The saying rings true. Our children, no matter what age, will always be our babies.
As spring approaches, I’m hopeful she’ll finally get the reprieve she so deserves from the constant stuffy ears, sore throats, and swollen glands that usually come with the season. I pray for health and happiness for all of my kids. Without their peace, I won’t rest.