You’re 21 and You’re Having a Tonsillectomy
A fresh new pro-suicide outlook on life.
Operation Day
00:00 hours
So right now you can’t eat or drink anything until the operation. I would have to be at the clinic by 9:45 and wouldn’t go into surgery until around 11:30. It’s not so bad, you’ll live without eating or drinking for a few hours. No big whoop.
09:45 hours
You hear all those little kids screaming? Yeah, those are kids who just got their tonsils taken out. Since most of them have the operation when they are mere toddlers, they don’t understand that screaming as if you were in the depths of hell does not help the pain and swelling going on in the back of your throat. Nevertheless, they will continue to scream and gag on their own blood (which is a result of the screaming) in a shreiking loop that you will swear never ends. I can’t even begin to think of a better thing to have to sit through for almost two hours while anticipating your own surgery. Note: It is normal to beg the anesthetist to drip her magic juice into your blood stream at this time.
10:30 hours
Well, by now about 4 nurses/doctors have come by and gone through the same set of questions and instructions with you. You’ve got an IV coming out of your wrist, but they won’t dose you up for another hour or so. “No, that’s not the same kid” and “yes the recovery room doors are shut” will be answers that you are given from each of the visiting physicians.
11:30 hours
Finally a nurse will come to wheel you into the surgery room. The fact that this may excite you (as if you had been waiting in line for a long time to see a concert and are finally entering the venue) will trouble you, but at the same time confirm your belief that screaming children can destroy one’s sanity. Soon you will be hooked up to a number of monitors while the surgeon briefly explains why you are about to hate life for the next series of days. Finally, the much awaited anesthetist will drop her goodies into your IV stream. She will ask you how you feel, and you will respond with “I’m ready for a night on the town.” (or so they said) before you pass out.
13:30 hours
You will awake in the recovering area, still hooked up to monitoring machines. The nurses will chat with you, and between the drugs and your witty sense of humor, you will entertain them for the next few minutes with jokes. Your mother will arrive and you will tell her “there were some complications” just to see the look on her face before admitting “just kidding mom” Slowly, but surely, the pain will come. Unfortunately, they won’t let you leave until your prove to the nurses that you can take in fluids, so be sure to drink quickly. The best way to get out early is by saying you have to use the restroom, prove to them that you can walk and such, and when you get back, ask if you can put your clothes back on.
14:00 hours
You’re in the car now on the way home. You are starting to feel pretty miserable until your mother holds up your prescription for your painkillers. “Yes, mom, that is a lot of oxycodone” (over a liter in liquid form) you will say while trying to force back a very wide grin. Once arriving home, chances are that you will not see the light of day for another 12 hours.
Operation + 1
Is it just you, or did someone glue a bunch of glass shards to a golf ball and shove it down your throat? Yes, it hurts. No, it’s not going to go away any time soon, and no, the pain killers don’t really help that much. The only real relief you find from the pain is by drugging yourself to sleep, only to wake up with a dry painful throat mere hours later. You won’t even want to think about eating or drinking, yet you know that you must keep putting down fluids. At this point the combination of your over-caring mother and your drug side-effects will put you in a not-so-cheery mood. You will go through a cycle of sleeping every 3 hours for each hour you manage to stay awake. This will last for the next 48 hours or so. That thing that hangs down from the back of your throat will grow to be about the size of your thumb. It’s like having a loogie in the back of your throat for 24 straight hours. Your inability to cough or clear your throat or sinus’ will only make matters worse. Right now is where you begin to plan your suicide.
Operation + 2
“No, I’m not feeling any better.” is a phrase you will become annoyingly familiar with. You haven’t eaten since the night before the operation, and you want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep until the pain has gone away. It still hurts like a bitch to swallow anything, and for some reason your teeth have become extremely sensitive. You begin to wonder just how long this is going to go on.
