Leave house. Encourage Eve to drink as much protein-infused Gatorade as possible on the first leg of the ride with hopes of dulling NPO-ness throughout the morning.
Sit in the exit lane for I-40W. Read "What if the whole world farted at once?" bumper sticker on the Volvo in front of me over and over again, coming up with several possibilities.
Arrive at Duke. Put together my bag only to realize I have left my cell phone, my glucose meter test strips, and something else important but too inappropriate to write here, at home. I feel lost without these items. At least I won't need to check my blood sugar since I am NPO and have no hopes of eating until late afternoon. No texting, either, especially since I went over by 400 messages last month.
We get called back for pre-op. Eve is an inch-and-a-half taller than she was 9 days ago, confirming some suspicions about the qualifications of the last person to measure her.
The pre-op nurse has me glance at some forms about anesthesia. There is no mention of ether, so I sign. She asks if I would like a child-life specialist to talk to Eve about the gas mask, since it is noted in Eve's chart that this is an issue. (Can't really blame the kid. Every time that mask comes near her, she wakes up with one less organ, lots of bleeding, and tons of tubes.) I decline the offer. Eve is still so young; I can pin her down and force the mask on her face when the time comes.
Look at clock and realize we have to wait until noon before surgery with this hungry child. I change my mind about child-life. They have toys!
Go to visit the child-life specialist. She pulls out a giant Elmo and tells Eve he is also getting his port out today. Eve fetches a hospital gown and dresses Elmo. I am surprised by how much Eve remembers from her previous surgeries. She knows precisely where to place the leads, IV, blood pressure cuff, pulse-ox monitor, and steri-strips. Eve then gasses Elmo with a bit too much delight. She had the crazy eyes, like someone with a rag and chloroform.
Check into surgical clinic. Lament the absence of phone and strips and unsaid product. Pop out laptop, split screen YouTube and Facebook. Eve gets the right half with all-you-can-eat Mickey Mouse. Lovin' the split screen. Hating the conversation next to me about enemas.
Eve tires of internet videos and breaks loose. I burn calories I have not yet consumed today chasing after her. We return to our seat and I hold her upside down until the blood rushes to her head and she's too disoriented to escape again. Still cannot believe these people are talking about enemas.
We are called back. Eve immediately recognizes the room and is upset. Eve immediately recognizes the nurse who enters the room and gets even more upset. I do not tell the nurse this. Still not sure how to tell someone the sight of them makes my daughter cry.
The surgeon arrives. He thinks it's silly we're here and flips Eve's port with relative ease with his fingers. I am grossed out, but believe I am hiding it well; that thing is not supposed to move. When the surgeon asks if I have any questions, I ask how he got that black eye. I do not get a straight answer, leading me to believe he left one kid NPO too long.
I administer Versed to Eve like she is a cat, blowing in her face and rubbing her neck. She still manages to spit half of it out. It is obvious the half that stayed in has had an effect. Eve could very well be Cheech and/or Chong's granddaughter.
I don the white bunny suit, shoe coverings, hat, and mask so I can either enter the operating room or join Ghostbusters. I choose the O.R. with Eve. There are five television screens, all playing the scariest scene from The Little Mermaid. These folks sure know how to make a kid feel relaxed. Eve has chapstick from the child-life specialist to put into the gas mask to make it smell better. She starts to eat the chapstick to quell the NPOiness. I ask the surgeon if he will save the port for me so I can turn it into a Christmas ornament.
I go back to the waiting room. The enema club has left, perhaps off to perform some enemas. I am informed surgery has started.
The surgeon comes out to tell me Eve did great. I wonder how she have done awful if she was anesthetized, but am told that he has saved the port for me before I can ask. I have a fleeting thought of, "Am I deranged?" but it passes as soon as I spot the enema folks again.
I go back to recovery to a very upset Eve. Apparently, Elmo's port removal was way easier. She is in pain but refusing to take her Tylenol. I consider pinning her down but her incision is in the way. The nurse pages the doctor to sign off on us being discharged.
The nurse pages the doctor again. She brings Eve juice. Eve drinks three consecutive apple juices. I warn her that this is considered binge drinking.
The nurse pages the doctor again. She unhooks Eve from monitors and tubes. Eve starts to rest in my arms while I listen to the people in the next bed. I wonder if they know they have no inner monologue. I start to miss the enema folks.
The nurse pages the doctor again. I listen as the child next to us, who has just gotten out of surgery, has grossed out her mother because the bed pan leaked and the mom got pee on her hands. The mother is upset and has to go wash her hands immediately. The child is left alone to wimper. I want to smack the mother. If you are a mom, especially the mom of a child who has just been put to sleep and operated on, you have more important things to do than make a child feel like crap because you got a little "piddle" on your hands. Wipe it off and get over yourself. And stop calling it piddle.
The dad of the piddle child arrives. He asks the girl if she is in pain; she whispers yes. He tells her there's nothing they can do for her and it's going to hurt for the next few days. I want to fart in his general direction, but that wouldn't be fair to the child who is stuck with those parents. I telepathically communicate to Eve that she is so very lucky to be stuck with me. Because I'm awesome, but mostly, because I'm not THEM.
The doctor arrives. He signs us outta there. Eve is magically "all better." She leaps up to get dressed, disses the Tylenol, and starts to plan what she's going to eat first.
We arrive at the Taco Bell/KFC. I'd tell you I love this place but you already knew that. Eve eats an entire box of popcorn chicken and potato wedges. She burps, and it smells of hospital and fried chicken. I am unsure if that makes me disgusted or hungry. I opt for hungry and apply liberal amounts of hot sauce to my celebratory No More NPO! chalupa.
Home. Time to think about Christmas decorations.