Thank Goodness It's Not Friday...anymore.Here's the whole story. A few months ago, Hadley came home with a paper from school announcing the school musical, "Cinderella". She wanted to try out. I might have cried later on, thinking of my child trying out for the musical. She is deaf. She inherited those genes from both of her parents. She is tone deaf. She got that one from her dad. It is completely unrelated to her deafness. Also, like her dad, she loves to sing. She makes up her own words and her own tune and really enjoys herself. I love it when she sings but I was really nervous about those tryouts. On the big day, I went with her. I explained quietly to the woman running the tryouts that Hadley is deaf. She does so well that people don't always realize. Maybe I shouldn't do that. Maybe I should just let her be Hadley and let people come to their own conclusions about her. I'm not there yet, though.
She was cast (with all other applicants) as a member of the 1st and 2nd grade chorus, singing a few numbers at the beginning of the show. There were many practices, dress rehearsals, etc. and the big show finally arrived. Hadley wanted her hair in curls and I gladly obliged. She looked darling and had a great time. On Friday night, while curling her hair for the 3rd night of performances, I noticed a goopy matted spot on the back of her head. When I tried to look closer, she yelled at me to leave it alone. She never complains of pain. She is one of the toughest people I know. I was really worried all weekend long and called the doctor's personal scheduler (oh, yeah, I have that number!) on Sunday night so that she would hear my message early Monday morning. I had my suspicions about what was going on back there. Worst case scenario, her cochlear implant was infected. Best case scenario....I couldn't think of one.
On Monday, we went to the University of Utah Hospital to meet with one of Dr. Shelton's residents. By the way, if you want to know of a job that seems to be only slightly more glamorous than being a garbage collector or a professional toilet cleaner, check out a day in the life of a resident. It's almost funny. They DO pay for becoming official doctors, don't they? Anynow, the resident was concerned, left the room and called "THE DOCTOR", the head honcho, the surgeon, the main man. He called back and immediately said that he needed to see Hadley on the following day. Tuesday came and we made another trek to the University of Utah Hospital. I had to buy a Webkinz to convince Hadley to let them clean the wound and cut away the dead skin and there, poking out of her head, was the edge of her cochlear implant. "Let's take a closer look at her under the microscope," head honcho says. Residents crowd around for a look at something the surgeon has never seen before. If he's never seen it, it must be rare and exciting. Rare and exciting is code for "You do not want this to happen to your child" as far as I can tell. Rare and exciting is what got Hadley published in the Journal of Neurotology and Otology last month for the trauma she went through in 2007. Since I don't currently subscribe to aforementioned journal, THE DOCTOR gave me a copy of the article. Hadley is "Case 3" for those of you who are rushing out to buy your copy of the journal.
As I detailed Hadley's cochlear implant ups and downs, Stewart noticed THE DOCTOR patiently listening. He was sure that THE DOCTOR knew all about Hadley's case since she was one of his most rare and exciting patients. Yay! Go Hadley! But he listened anyway and then gave me worst case scenario news. Surgery. Friday. Big Head Shave. Already on his schedule. Surgical scheduler will give you pre-op instructions. I'm sure you remember them from last time. See you on Friday.
Hadley didn't tell anyone about her upcoming surgery. I asked her to tell her teacher at school. She said it would be too hard to explain. She pretended like it wasn't happening. On Thursday night, she got to choose dinner. She picked Cafe Rio. Over quesadillas and rice and beans, sweet Maddox told her he was scared about her surgery. Here's how the conversation went:
M: "Hadley, I'm a little nervous for tomorrow."
H: "It's okay, Maddox. This is my sixth surgery. You don't need to be scared."
Wow.
Thursday after Cafe Rio, we decided to have a late night, complete with popcorn, chocolate chip cookies and Star Wars movies. I fell asleep on the couch; Hadley made it through the movie. I thought that would help her to stay up late. Maybe she could sleep in on Friday. We didn't have to check in for her surgery until 11:00; she couldn't eat after midnight. Of course, she must have had some surgery related nerves because she woke up at 6:58 am. I convinced her to go back to sleep and then Lincoln woke up. I tried to keep him quiet. He dialed 9-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1...which apparently still works. They called back. "We're fine. Sorry." (We'll be at the hospital soon enough, I almost told them.) The house sprang to life after the phone call and the big surgery day began. Round Six for Hadley.
There's something about watching your incredibly brave and mature seven year old go into surgery. She was happy and sweet, kind to the nurses, friendly to the other patients and parents. When the anesthesiologist came to talk to her, she requested a new flavor of anesthesia that she'd never tried before: Blueberry! He said nobody had ever asked for blueberry before but he was sure he could find some. She held his hand and bounced down the hall with him, explaining to him that she was missing Friday Fun at school. He told the nurses later that she had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen. He was smitten. So am I. I cried as she walked away, remembering surgeries 1 through 5 and hoping that number six would be okay.
Waiting, waiting, waiting. I left my winter coat on the entire day in the hospital. I couldn't get warm.
Finally, THE DOCTOR came to talk to us. "She did really well," he told us. "Things were more infected than we thought they would be. We irrigated and put antibiotics in there." I asked a few questions. No, they don't know why this happened. No, they've never seen it before. No, there's nothing we can do to prevent it happening to the other side.
Hadley is slow to wake up from anesthesia. She wakes up angry at me. For some reason, this makes me feel guilty. She also wakes up sick. We stay in recovery for the rest of the day. Most of the patients have left. Hadley can't drink anything. Many doses of anti-nausea, no pain meds. She's still as tough as nails.
Finally, they tell us we should stay overnight because she can't keep anything down. "I want to go home," Hadley says. They call the doctor who recommends a lot of IV fluid and some medication to make her retain it. After 600ml, we get to leave the hospital with instructions to return in the morning if she isn't doing better.
Home. What a long day. Family, toys, a hot meal are waiting for us. Thank you. I don't know how we would get through life with Hadley without a lot of help. Thank you, thank you to all of the helpers. And now, it's over. I hope we can go a few more years without a surgery. Somehow, Hadley still hasn't noticed that over 1/4 of her head has been shaved. That will be another bad day. But here's to a few good days in between.
