What happened when No. 2's tube wouldn't fall out of her ear

I should have posted this a month ago when it happened, but I wrote this down and stuck the notebook in my purse and forgot about it. This is from the day No. 2 had the tube in her right ear removed because it wouldn't fall out on its own.

5 a.m. Alarm goes off, but since No. 3 was playing with it yesterday, I get static instead of music. It takes a few minutes for me to wake up. Takes even longer before I actually get out of bed.

5:45 a.m. Wake up No. 1 and tell him to get ready.

6 a.m. Finish getting ready. No. 3 wakes up; fortunately she’s not fussy this morning.

6:05 a.m. Wake up No. 2 and remind her that she can’t eat breakfast this morning and that she can’t even drink water when she brushes her teeth. I can see the fear finally showing in her face. I stay with her and help her brush her teeth and show her how to swish the water around in her mouth and spit it out.

6:21 a.m. Get No. 3 settled in her high chair with breakfast and finally check my sugar. 226! WTF? I was 187 before bed. Ugh, this is insane. I wash my hands and test again. 199. Sigh. I had a baked potato with dinner last night, but I also took Novolog to cover it. Blech. Whatever. At least I don’t have to eat breakfast before we leave and I can leave my appetite in tact for when we take No. 2 out to breakfast after her procedure.

6:40 a.m. We rush out the door five minutes later than we planned. Fortunately, the hospital is only blocks away.

6:48 a.m. We arrive in the Ambulatory Services Unit almost right on time. A nurse takes No. 2’s temperature and weight and then shows us to “our room.” Another nurse comes in and checks her heart. First nurse comes back with a gown for No. 2. I help her change and I can tell she’s even more nervous than before. They tell us to hang tight and that anesthesia will be right in.

7:10 a.m. The Mr. is happy and the kids are all crowded on the bed watching cartoons. “Seems like if they want us here at 6:45 that we should be doing something other than sitting around,” I say.

7:15 a.m. Anesthesia finally shows up and asks the same questions the previous four people asked. “Dr. B usually comes in a little before 8.” I look at the clock. “A little before 8?!” I say exasperated. “We’ve been here since 6:45. That’s when they told us to be here.” The nurse looked surprised. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes they have a lot of kids in the morning, but they don’t really this morning.” I sigh. “It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who told us to be here so early.” The Mr. starts to scratch my back in an effort to say “Chill out.” The nurse leaves and I grumble a bit and then settle in for a long wait in a small hospital room with three children. Thank God for cable.

7:25 a.m. The actual anesthesiologist comes in. She barely looks at me, paying more attention to her nails than her patient. (She actually took a nail buffer out of her pocket and worked on her nails while she was talking to us. Talk about offering an atmosphere of confidence.)

7:40 a.m. Dr. B comes in. I was surprised actually that it wasn’t 10 minutes later.

8 a.m. I wheel No. 2 down the hall to the surgery area in a wagon. She’s nervous, but hanging in there. It's less than 30 minutes before she's back with us, all smiles and drinking juice.

By 9:30 a.m., we’re home and I’m off to get the breakfast I promised her we’d get after the surgery. A corn dog and french fries was her request. Strange, but I obliged.