Showing posts with label wisdom teeth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wisdom teeth. Show all posts

Friday, 27 January 2017

Extraction

Yesterday was a day where my daughter conformed to a great load of PWS clichés, and defied a whole lot more.

We’d been at the hospital from morning long into the evening, on account of her having an operation to have all four of her wisdom teeth removed.

She was allowed breakfast, but no food after 7.30am. 

I’ll just give any Prader-Willi Syndrome parents reading this a couple of moments, as there’s a high liklihood they’ve just fainted with horror...
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...There you go, pick yourself up and sit back down, breathing deeply, you’ll be fine.

To be fair, my girl was remarkably good about the lack of food. She did talk about it pretty much constantly, and checked with me numerous times what soft, liquidy snacks I’d stowed in a packed lunch box to give her when she came round after the op.

We recognised the dental surgeon who spoke to us about the operation he was about to carry out. “Where do I remember you from?” he asked, and then we all twigged that he was the same fellow we’d seen when we were referred to have her teeth out in his dental practice, and who had unwittingly instigated the mother of all meltdowns from my girl when he decided that the procedure instead needed to be carried out at hospital. (I wrote about it here, along with a random sheep and genitals-related anecdote. Don’t ask).

But yesterday, my daughter was pleased to see him, and was keeping a lid on her anxiety. The lid did start rattling alarmingly when the anaesthetist was having trouble finding a vein for the cannula, and mentioned ‘maybe needing to use gas’. One look at her horrified face (you can stick needles in her all day, but a hint of a mask gets her all wibbly wobbly), coupled with me aiming my special Laser Focused Red Alert Warning Raised Eyebrow straight at him, and he reconsidered. The cannula went in on the second attempt, the drugs went in, and she sank into unconsciousness. I told my eyebrow to stand down. 

The op went smoothly. 

My girl was in recovery for quite some time, as there was a bit of a logjam of patients and not enough beds on the female ward. I’d already read a couple of hundred pages of a book, and chatted with a couple of fellow waiting room attendees, one of whom amazingly turned out to know TWO children with Prader-Willi Syndrome. My girl told me later she’d been a little bit upset in recovery and had wanted her mum, but she hadn’t cried “much”. I wondered about this uncharacteristically touching affection towards me, but understood more fully when she mentioned the man had told her to “listen” and that she “really must stop taking the bandage things out of her mouth”. I could just imagine her stubborn face as she awoke to find two big bits of gauze in her gob, soaking up the blood, and her thinking, “Well, for a start, I’m not having these in...”

But back on the ward she was in surprisingly good spirits. The surgeon appeared and told me the potentially tricky bottom two gnashers had come out far more easily then anticipated. My daughter smiled shyly at him, and he wagged his finger and in a mock strict voice told her: “Just you leave that gauze in a bit longer, Madam!”

She had some nectar from the gods (otherwise known as a yoghurt in a squirty packet thing). I gave her another. She rolled her eyes in an even bigger ecstatic reverie. We waited around for another two hours for the pharmacy to prepare her antiobiotics, and then we were out of there. Home, for a mashed potato and gravy supper. The ‘squishy’ diet for 48 hours has and will continue to provoke much conversation, but she’s getting her food at normal food and snack times, even though it’s ‘different’, so in the grand scheme of things, it’s OK.

She’s been off school today. She doesn’t seem to have any swelling, and has only had a couple of painkillers. I took her for a haircut, then she basically Netflix binged on Call The Midwife.

She discussed it with me, having worked her way through most of Series One. 

“Mum, it really, really hurts having a baby, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does. I take it there are lots of women screaming in Call The Midwife?”

“Yep. It’s full of ’em.”


Song is Timmy Thomas - Liquid Mood

Thursday, 22 September 2016

Wisdom

Approximately three minutes after explaining to the dentist that my daughter’s syndrome means that she has difficulty controlling her emotions, she put on a pitch-perfect demonstration, and it was a corker. We had a full-on meltdown, with angry sobs and streaming tears. And it wouldn’t stop.

Her usual dentist had referred her to a chap at a different practice who is apparently the bod to go to for wisdom teeth extraction. We’d booked the day off school, and it was expected that her two bottom extra gnashers were going to be wrangled out in the surgery after a numbing injection.

But upon examination, the nice man explained very patiently that actually, now he’d seen the position of my girl's teeth for himself, he felt it best she be booked into hospital and have all four of the buggers out at the same time, under anaesthetic.

Oh dear. He tried to get across that this was necessary and would be the most comfortable for her (even taking into account her high pain threshold), but that really didn’t matter. Because the ‘best plan of action’ was not the expected plan of action.

I should have given my daughter a Plan B scenario beforehand. I normally do. It was a rookie error. I should have primed her with a: ‘of course, that’s what is supposed to happen today, unless...and if not...then this will be what we’ll do.”

But I hadn't. So the change threw her into a tizz. “What was the point of coming if they don’t take them out?” she half-sobbed, half-shouted. “Why did the other dentist say I’d have my teeth out TODAY?” She was fully distraught, fully blinkered, and totally unable to listen to any rational reasoning from anyone in the room, including, especially me. 

I did the only thing I could. Hugged her, waved the worried dental nurses away with a wink, mouthing: ‘She’ll be fine”, and walked my crying daughter out to the car and home.

She was fine. Later. After two hours. The waves of emotion had white-watered and crashed, and rolled back out to sea, and she was ready to take in the logic of the new plan.  Her inconsolable devastation at a ‘Big Change’ seemed like it had happened to a different person.

And, as always, always happens, a difficult day was very soon followed by a good ’un. 

She returned home from school this afternoon to say she’d enjoyed working on the school farm (yes, her school does actually have a farm attached to it - you calling us Country Bumpkins, loverr?).

“We were doing sheep stuff, Mum - you know, sorting them.”
“Sorting them how?”
“Putting the girls away from the boys.”
“Oh, I see. And...er...how did you tell the difference?”
“Well, the boy sheeps have testicles.”
“Oh, right.”
“And a penis.”
“OK.”
“But the girls don’t.”
“Wow, well, I didn’t realise you knew how to tell the difference so well.”
“Oh it’s easy. It’s just exactly the same as sorting humans you know - you look between the back legs for dangly bits.”

Song is Julie Byrne - Wisdom Teeth Song