Early am, a cranky beep alerts us that it's time to get up. We rolled out of bed, practicing quiet so as not to wake the baby we were not allowed to feed. We had hastily thrown together a bag for her and us the previous evening and were pretty much ready to go. 30 minutes later we were on the road, an annoyed baby babbling in the back seat.
And now we wait.
Passing the time in a hospital is easier than it sounds, so long as you don't think about where you are and for what. So I decided I would focus on work and pour my energy into some paperwork. Success! Mostly.
Have I mentioned that I (and my mother) have over active imaginations before. About 2pm, an hour past the estimated surgery time, my mom mentions she had this vision of the old medical theaters. You know the ones where the early mad scientist presented a procedure to other mad scientist with the innocent
Minutes later the pager finally goes off and thirty minutes later we meet with the doctor. He is one of the best in the country, if not the world, so we are very lucky to have someone who is so meticulous. Seattle Children's Hospital is known for its skilled people and the wealth of knowledge they share across borders. We are very blessed to have Dr. Tse and his AMAZING team. He explains to us the reason he took a little over an hour extra on her procedure and as expected it's all perfectly normal. He runs down the do's and don'ts again and then tells us we'll be able to see her soon.
"Soon" in hospital time means when they are good and ready. After about an hour of waiting for her I risk it to run to the showers and clean off the days worrying. When I get back Ondine is still not there. My husband tells me there is a new policy for cleft pallet surgeries and we wont be seeing her for at least another hour.
At her last surgery, it was very easy to see where the pain was coming from, it was very easy to show her that she couldn't touch because it was on the outside and it hurt the moment you bumped it. This time the only evidence is a tear streaked face and a tiny crust of blood at the corner of her mouth. There are no outward signs that she's in pain.
I hold her, cuddle her, so does daddy. She is very disoriented, but seems to like the TV for the first time in her life. How to Train Your Dragon seems to calm her. But we know it's food time, so we prepare a bottle.
I've talked extensively about how different and difficult it can be to feed a baby with a cleft. This new surgery means for the third time in her tiny life she has to relearn how to feed. We have been using what's called a pigeon bottle. It had a valve inside the nipple so that when her lips or gums press together liquid is pulled through in a suction form, something she has never been able to accomplish alone. We use the same bottle now.
But when she tries, she immediately cries in pain. Her hands are bound up tight to keep her from accidentally tearing open the surgery just performed, compounding her frustrations with her pain so she cries more. Some of the milk mixes with saliva in her mouth and blood leeks out. It circles her lips and leaves a bright red reminder that what can't be seen is still very fresh and painful.
She cries. I cry. Daddy tries not to cry and our friends and family reassure us it's going to be ok.