Thank goodness it's over
Noah had his surgery last Monday, March 24. They had to do what they held out as the worst-case scenario: two small incisions to insert a camera to look around, then one long incision to actually get at what they were there for.
And they had to take out more than they were expecting: His cyst was bigger than they had thought, and it was attached right where his small intestine meets his large intestine (which they said was the least likely and worst possible spot). Then, they discovered an outpouching on his small intestine called a diverticulum -- which they said only 2 percent of the population develops genetically -- and that happened to be attached to his appendix, so they took that out, too.
So basically, they were just ripping stuff left and right out of my baby's belly.
When we got to the recovery room to see him, he had a tube in his nose that went to his stomach -- which they then attached to a suction so that nothing could get into his system for 24 hours. The tube was taped along one whole side of his face, and I almost cried when I saw it because I wasn't expecting it.
He had an IV in his foot because, well, baby veins are awfully small, and that was the only place they could find a good one other than in his head. He was hooked up to an IV machine for three days, getting fluids and antibiotics.
And he was supposed to be outfitted with an epidural, but they couldn't get it in, so instead he was given shots of morphine as often as every two hours.
Have you ever seen a baby on morphine? It's sort of like "this is your baby; this is your baby on drugs." His eyes were dull and unfocused, and he had no interest in anything. I worried obsessively that I was setting him up for a lifelong heroin addiction.
So for two days, I held him. Not too tightly, of course, because I didn't want to hurt him. I'd put him down for a little while, knowing he sleeps better when he's by himself (which is a trait that I don't understand and don't really like), but then I'd scoop him up again and sway and hum and smooch his head nonstop.
I hated it.
Wednesday morning, not quite 48 hours after they started ripping stuff from his belly, he got to start eating again. Just an ounce at first -- which he inhaled in 45 seconds, literally -- and then 2 ounces after he kept the first batch down.
And suddenly, he was like his little self again. He smiled and cooed and sucked his fist. He was bright-eyed and full of concentration. He squeezed some toys and tried to eat them. He stuck out his tongue and wiggled it at everybody.
It was beautiful.
And then the all-important thing happened: He pooped. I can honestly say I've never been so relieved to see poop in my life. I was actually giddy as I changed that nasty-smelling diaper.
He's OK. He's great, in fact. He's had pain medicine only twice since he came home Thursday, and one of those times I wasn't sure if he was in pain or if he just didn't want me to put him down.
I'm amazed by his little body -- that it could grow extra things when he was just a bunch of cells inside me and that it could heal itself so quickly and easily after they were taken out.
But, in the end, I'm just glad it's over.
Janet · April 7, 2008 8:07 AM
Oh Amy! I am so glad it is all over and was successful. Way to go Noah!