At the end of July, Rudy went in to Boston for day surgery to correct the tightness of a muscle in her left eye so that it wouldn't turn in as easily. This eye continued to turn, sometimes barely perceptibly, but as time went on, and especially in pictures, pretty obviously,
even when she was wearing her glasses, and
even when those lenses' prescriptions were continuously corrected. So, last month, we got up very early on a Friday morning and brought Rudy, along with the Doc McStuffins doctor's kit I had pre-awarded her for her bravery, to the
Tuft's Floating Hospital. All she knew was that the eye doctor she had been seeing since the spring would be fixing her eye in a hospital instead of his regular office, and that he would give her special medicine to make her sleep while he did it. And even that I had told her just the day before. On the way in, she repeatedly checked Hat Lamb's eye with an otoscope, probably approximating what she thought was about to happen to her.
While we waited for the elevator upstairs, a cadre of residents turned a corner and strolled into the opening doors alongside us. I am old, now officially older than people who are doctors, and certainly older than medical students. But I swear. These guys (and they were all men) might as well have been walking in slow, heroic motion. I was ridiculously impressed. Like, here are these guys, all young and handsome, and they're going to be doctors. They had a very casual confidence. And then when we got off on our floor, I saw this sign:
And I was like, "Oh, it's the
Paul Pierce center. She's going to be fine." As if that made it clear to me, in a ridiculous misplacement of trust and security, that she was in good hands because
The Truth Fund had helped make this center possible. (And by the way, my heart is broken, BROKEN, because of KG's and Paul Pierce's trade to the Brooklyn Nets. I am really, really going to miss them. And it is all sadness. I mean, Ray Allen leaving for the stupid Heat was an entirely different thing. That felt like betrayal and spite. But KG? And the Captain? I irrationally want the best for these two, and I'm sad the best for them isn't in Boston, but I'm not mad.)
Anyway: Rudy. Everything leading up to the surgery went smoothly. She thought the tiger johnnies were so fun, and the bed she was on while all the doctors wearing blue kept coming in and out was on wheels! And Hat Lamb was there the whole time, and the people kept saying something about watching a movie later. She got to wear a silly blue hat, and then Mommy put one on, too.
When Jackson saw this picture, he looked at Danielle and asked, "Jenny's a doctor?" And no, I'm not. I cannot, for example, picture myself walking in slow motion with all those guys on the way to the elevator with seriousness for even half a second.
But I am no stranger to a doctor's office. So in way, Jackson, yes I am.
The surgery was quick and occurred without incident. The only truly terrifying moments happened in the OR while I watched my little Toot succumb to general anesthesia. All of the anesthesiologists who spoke to me in the examining room where Rudy and I first put on our silly blue hats had told me about the things that kids do as they're going under, because they wanted to be sure that I was prepared. They encourage parents to escort their kids to the OR because it helps the patients feel relaxed, and I was happy to do it, going on about the fun ride she was getting to take down a hall while she was
in a bed, for crying out loud. And then, that OR is big, and cold, and there are a lot of people in there wearing masks, and then I was
really happy that I was there for Rudy because she was looking more apprehensive as she was wheeled in. The anesthesiologists even asked me to hold the small mask over her nose and mouth to deliver the nitrous oxide that would relax her enough to change up the anesthetic cocktail and to eventually insert an IV. And for a few delirious seconds, Toot was clearly high. Her eyes were wide and happy, and she laughed while looking around the room and at me. "Okay," I thought. "We're
doing this!"
But just as quickly, she started doing the other things I had been warned about: contorting, moaning, and whimpering; rolling her eyes and looking so very fragile and small. It was so fast that she was practically out before I had even processed how scary it all was. It was behavior that would make any parent scream and cry for someone to call 911 in any other circumstance. So I kissed her and told her I loved her so much, and then I walked out of the room in a trance, humbled by what those doctors can do and by the trust that I was placing in them.
Less than an hour later, Todd and I met up with Rudy in the recovery room, watching her sleep off most of the anesthesia's effects while we read (Todd) or played on
Pinterest (me). That was the best part: when we knew she was safe; when we had leisure time we couldn't spend cleaning, working on house projects, or accomplishing anything important with any sort of efficiency; and when a kind nurse was still in charge so that the medical responsibilities were not yet our own. That nurse even placed a tube of oxygen near Rudy because of her nagging, rattly cough, wanting Rudy's sleep to be as restful as possible.
We were home a little after noon. And Rudy vacillated between cheerful snacking and TV-watching, and howling with agonizing pain and pleading for an ice pack or medicine. If you consider that one of her muscles had been detached from her eye and then reattached further back to create less tension, you can begin to imagine the sorts of aches she must've been feeling. Poor Toot. And she wasn't happy about the antibacterial ointment I needed to apply on her eye that day either. In fact, she was miserable. But over two weeks later, she is done with ointment, back to patching, and once again splashing in the pop-up pool we bought from Heather. She's fine. She's Rudy Toot. She's playing with Hat Lamb and Twist and all her guys. And at her second follow-up appointment in the fall, we'll get a better sense of how well she's doing with that de-wonkified eye.
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