I looked through the pictures from her seventh birthday party and it wasn't there. I'm not sure exactly when it started growing, all I know is that it had grown from nothing to 5 millimeters in less than a year. Right on the bridge of her nose.
Now five millimeters may not sound very big, especially for those of you not actively familiar with the metric system, but believe me, when it's on your nose, five millimeters feels gigantic. When she looked down her nose, she could see it.
The pediatrician wouldn't touch it, of course. She sent us to a pediatric dermatologist for a consultation. The verdict? Probably benign but should be removed. It wouldn't go away by itself.
The dermatologist said she could remove the cyst. Which was good. But she would have to use a circular punch. This was bad. A circular punch is similar to a hole puncher and would leave a circular scar. I think a circular facial scar on the bridge of her nose would make a lousy present for a girl whose eighth birthday is just around the corner.
My girl immediately put in a pitch for magic cream. She would be very good with magic cream. She would put it on every day, however many times a day we wanted. Magic cream now, please.
Or maybe she could just wash her face more often? It's important to wash our faces every day, maybe she got this by not washing her face often enough? "I'll do better" she promised. And then she looked at the doctor and me with purpose: No Matter What, We're Not Taking This Off with Needles or Anything Sharp.
Well honey, let's take it one step at a time. We won't take it off now. We won't take it off until you say it's okay. Unless of course you never say it's okay and then I will have to tell you in my nicest mommy voice that we're taking it off now. But there is no such thing as magic cream. And sweetheart, you did not give this to yourself.
Next stop: the pediatric plastic surgeon.
Fast forward past several doctor's appointments, pre-screening phone calls, anesthesia phone calls, registration phone calls, a cancelled procedure (cancelled after she'd not eaten for 15 hours) and 20 different people asking "are you sure she isn't sick? No fever for the past 10 days?" and you get to surgery day.
It's minor surgery he and I said to each other. Nothing to worry about. We promised her there would be no shots, nothing to hurt her. We promised her this because they promised it to us and this is a world famous children's hospital. They work super hard to not hurt the little children.
She woke up enthusiastic but soon became upset. She was very hungry and declared it "not fair" that she couldn't eat. She pouted during her antiseptic bubble bath and finally stamped her foot. She would not have the procedure. She would have breakfast.
We left for the hospital with wet hair.
Everyone at the hospital was super nice to her. The doctors and nurses spoke directly to her, not over her head, using simple terms she could understand. They explained what would happen before and after the surgery. One nurse went so far as to explain the IV. I still have mixed feelings about that. Although she would not be awake when they put in the IV, she would be awake when it came out. It was important, I think for her to know that the needle would not be in her skin, that it was a little plastic tube. She listened intently and was clearly torn on how to react. She absorbed the information, but did not like the idea of anything staying in her arm. When the nurse put the IV needle through her own shirt to demonstrate, I thought I would faint. Xav looked at me and rolled his eyes. My girl looked for the exit. She and I held onto our composure with fingernails. Xav played "Angry Birds."
She changed into very cute penguin hospital jammies and they put a tiny hospital gown on her stuffed bear. She and the bear got matching hospital bracelets and I could see that made her feel a lot better. She wasn't going through the experience alone. We walked across the hall and into the pre-op room. They covered her with one of those wonderful, pre-warmed blankets and gave her the TV remote. Things were looking up.
The sleepy medicine did it's work quickly and after a few minutes she was slurring her words. At one point she tried to get out of bed, something the anesthesiologist had warned us about, but still surprised me. We talked her out of exploring the hospital and she settled down. We held hands and waited.
There was a tough moment when they wheeled her away but I can't tell you if it's because she wanted me to come with her or because she wanted to stay awake. She was teary-eyed and frustrated and hungry and nervous. I watched her glide away and promised to be there when she woke up.
They gave us a pager and took our cell phone numbers which was totally unnecessary. We weren't going anywhere.
In the waiting room Maury Povich was on TV. I don't think I'd ever seen his show before and it was as awful as I suspected. Sitting there, unable to leave, I felt trapped. It was so loud. A promo flashed constantly at the bottom of the screen asking "Is your lover involved in secret orgies?"
Today's topic centered on women confronting the men who had cheated on them. How original. No one was married. Everyone had kids. Polygraph results were read. Secret videotapes of illicit kissing were shown. Can you spell entrapment? Fist fights. Security. Woman punching and kicking the air - strangely missing the target. Men slouching in their chairs before storming off stage - followed by cameras. How can this genre of TV not be dead yet? Who, besides the captives of the hospital waiting room, watches this garbage? And who are the people who go on the program? What a freak show.
Forty minutes pass until the board shows her status as out of the operating room and on her way to recovery. They will be calling us soon.
The surgeon talks to us in the private consultation room. Can I just say how nice it is to have a private consultation room? I don't care how "minor" the procedure is, when your kid is being operated on, and the doctor comes to talk to you, you need a moment without Maury and the other parents being able to see the tears springing to your eyes.
He says the magic words, "subcutaneous cyst. Benign."
The bandage will stay on for two weeks and the stitches will dissolve. She will have a pink scar on her nose for a year but over time it will fade to white and mostly disappear. No, the silicone scar patches don't really work. Don't worry, she'll heal. She is fine. Everything is fine.
We are escorted to the recovery room and we sit by her bed. Her face is splotchy and red. It takes her a long time to wake up. I call to her, gently. Again. Again. Again.
Sometimes it can take awhile to wake up, the nurses say. This is normal.
I watch the monitor display her heartbeats and respiration. I stroke her hair and call her name again. I use every pet name I've ever used for her: Pumpkin, Boo Boo, Pookie, Lambchop.
Come back. Come back. Come back.
Forty-five minutes later her eyes open. Twenty minutes later, somewhat reluctantly, she accepts an orange popsicle. It takes time for her to rejoin the world.
She discovers the IV in her wrist and starts to fret about what will happen when it comes out. She wants it out now. But don't take it out yet. Is That Blood?
She is ready to leave. Instructions are given, along with a doctor's note for school. Do they still want those? Better to have one, just in case.
Richard, the wheelchair guy, escorts us to the pharmacy. We get bored waiting for the meds and Richard teaches her how to operate the wheelchair. In three minutes she's a pro, turning circles and navigating the tiny pharmacy. She's feeling much better and it's clear that Richard can go.
Don't push me, she says. I can do it.
And she does.
I am glad she is alright. Actually, she would be. I am glad YOU are alright. Moms are the ones that need IV infusion of courage after such events.
She'll be fine.
Posted by: Lakshmi | 01/28/2011 at 02:36 AM
Give her a big hug from us.
Give yourself one too mommy. Very very good mommy.
Posted by: Patty | 01/28/2011 at 10:03 AM
Quite the adventure. Glad to hear she'll be fine and there's nothing worse.
Posted by: Margy Rydzynski | 01/28/2011 at 02:00 PM