180

Day two started off poorly.  Refusal of soft food.  Refusal of all drinks.  I'll save you all the details, but let's just say a staff member not involved in her case suggested we put a tube down her throat to get food in.  Ludicrous.  And when we told the surgeons, their eyes popped out of their heads. There was no way we were putting anything down her nose or mouth when she just received 70ish stitches there. That would compromise the surgery and IV fluids are enough.  It'd only been 24 hours.  Common sense.

You are your child's best advocate.  Don't ever be afraid to speak up or question things.

So, she didn't want to drink.  Who could blame her?!  We knew we'd be in the hospital for one more night anyways. We weren't going to push it.  But, once she was cleared for Motrin, her mood did a 180.  I guess you can't give it on the first day due to bleeding.  Within ten minutes of it kicking in, she ate ice chips and had drops of juice we tapped into her mouth from the tip of a straw.  By the next morning, she'd eaten two boiled eggs and a bowl of oatmeal.  Motrin was the golden ticket.

Friday night, we had visitors!  Thankfully, it was during her great mood.  She loved seeing her brothers.

And Brent wrapped his mother in the curtain.  (We take hospitals so seriously, huh?)

 Where are the kids?

Two nights were expected because of her age.  She is old for this procedure.  Usually, palate repairs are done within the first year.  She's nearly 3.  Her age worked against us in the sense that babies aren't as bothered by the No-No's (since they aren't using their arms as much as a toddler) and are still breast or bottle feeding.  She was old enough to be aware of the restraints, to throw or push a cup away, and actively mobile, not allowing herself to rest.  Two nights were needed for IV fluids and pain management.  They were looking at 3 nights had she not awoken a different child.

Saturday morning, she was jumping in the crib and singing to herself.

  
We were cleared to go home just under the 48 hour mark.
Victory stance.

She's a trooper.  Second major surgery in her 34 months of life.  Her bilateral cleft lip was repaired in China at 14 months old.  It looks beautiful.  Now here, she has a newly constructed roof of her mouth.  Though the palate was what was medically necessary, the lip was done first to get her (and like others) adopted.  Sad, but true.  At the risk of some feeling I am overexposing my daughter, I will share my own iPhone before and after pictures.  If you don't care to see them, don't look.  These are not the ones Brent received, as those were taken during surgery and are more graphic.  

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You can see in the before picture how the cleft goes all the way from her front teeth to the back of the mouth, on both sides.  The right (her left) does go all the way through, but is more collapsed.  She is missing teeth, maxillary bone, and gums on either side of her front teeth.  They can't grow because there is not bone or soft tissue to support them.    

They cut the gums from inside her back teeth, pulled the tissue to the middle, and sewed.  Filleting the gum tissue exposed a lot of bone, both her teeth and more so, her jaw. That's the white you see.  Her teeth didn't magically get bigger, they're just more exposed since the gum was removed.  That is what's painful, because bone doesn't like to be exposed.  The tan stuff is new tissue already growing. (Maybe a little oatmeal too.)  Behind her tongue is a triangular piece tightly sewn near the throat that you can't see in this picture.  The gap between her front teeth and this constructed palate will fill in with gum tissue.  Amazing!  

The dental work will require additional surgeries.  Bone graft.  Implants.  Years down the road.  She'll probably go through her elementary years toothless across the front. Brent jokes we can get her a "flipper" like beauty queens do.  

And your second-hand medical lesson for the day has ended.   

        

Morphine Miracle and No, No to the No-No's

She was awake when we went back to recovery.  Already awake.  They said she had a high tolerance for the sleepy drugs.  In true E fashion, she did not rest all day.  She tossed and turned, giving it her best fight.  She was understandably whiney and ticked off.  Her cleft was, in the doctor's words, "A big cleft, on both sides, that required additional dissection."  The surgery took four hours.  And they anticipated a huge amount of pain.  The surgeon took before and after pictures for Brent, to which he commented, "Imagine a chainsaw tearing apart your mouth and then putting it back together."

Though she drank initially, probably because she was still loopy, she has refused since.  She is calm in my arms, which is substantial on many levels.  For the first time since she joined us, she feel asleep in my lap.  It felt magical to rock my baby.  I talked the staff out of her arm restraints, also known as "No-No's."  They seem a bit inhumane to me.  We used socks and hairbands to give her mobility of her arms but enough bulk to keep those hands out of her mouth.  For now it's working.  She struggled in the afternoon and more into the evening, miserable.  They called in for morphine at 7pm. Within minutes of injecting it into her IV, the crying stopped.  Again, she climbed into my lap, curled up, and snuggled.  We rocked for two hours watching TLC.  She stayed awake, but content and out of pain (and arm restriction) for the meantime.  We looked into each others' eyes for minutes on end.  The positive of this experience is the emotional reliance and bonding that is taking place.  I just put her down for the night (hopefully) and she complied.  She keeps staring at her wrapped hands, wondering what she's to do.  But at least she can bend her arms and flip over.  Removing the No-Nos made a huge difference in her comfort.  No, No to the No-No's.  Glad the nurses listened to this mama.  Instinct always gives you the answer.

Drugs and Bubbles

Arrival time was 5:30 am.  First patient of the day!  It made holding her off on food and drink a non-issue.  The girl went to sleep last night happy as a clam.  Woke and drove down here happy as can be too.  She had no idea what was coming to her, and that ignorant bliss is exactly what we wanted.

While other children slept or watched a movie from their hospital bed, Everlee was up and at it.  Only child running a marathon and choosing the loudest, music dispensing toys before the sun is up in the shared pre-op room.  Oh, E.  Brent said he never believed in ADD before this morning, as she lasted less than 5 seconds with each toy or activity, moving from thing to thing.  In the car.  Out of the car.  Color the page.  Get back in the car.  Grab the binoculars.  Squeeze the frog.  Back in the red car.  Squeal.

Ignorant Bliss.

If the pictures are an indication of her happiness, imagine the same level of intensity from her morning breath.  It was enough to melt the paint off the hospital walls.  Hey, they said no fluids after midnight.  Brushing teeth requires water.    

Just glad she enjoyed herself and wasn't afraid.  They finally gave her some Versed, and within five minutes she had slowed down.  Fluid movements of her head with dazed eyes assured us it had kicked in well.  Then, she sat down and put her head on the play table in a drug-induced defeat.  The anesthesiologist plucked her from the chair with a blanket, she reached for me once, relaxed herself and waved bye-bye.  She was easily distracted by a nurse leading her down the hallway with a stream of bubbles.  I love children's hospitals.  They told us if a child has a hard time coming, they can drive that red sportscar into the surgery room.  They've got all the tricks.

Now, if you know us, we are not the pacing-the-waiting-room type.  Neither of us are nervous.  When it comes to medical stuff, we check our emotions at the door.  Maybe we are heartless.  Maybe we believe in medicine.  Maybe we are just realistic and don't over react.  Maybe we just trust our God.  I'll go with the latter three.  Whatever the reason for our lack of concern, it comes in handy at times like this.  She was taken back, and Brent and I went to breakfast.  Hey, 3-4 hours as a couple alone is a date in our books. 

And... I just got a call from the base with her lab results about that pesky, persistent, parasite.  It is gone.  Hallelujah. No more nasty tasting medicine or the battles that came with it.  Let the shared tubby times commence!

Now say this tongue twister five times:  (Courtesy of my dear team-teaching friend, Chris Kramer, in Minot, ND)

"Sweet and Saucy's" successful surgery and speedy recovery.  

Hooray for alliteration!

Honesty and the Gap

Baby blues aren't limited to moms after delivery.  I'm experiencing my own postadoption slump.  Everlee continues to do well, so well in fact, that I feel guilty for struggling myself.  The hard part for me is managing two so close in age.  I know moms have their kids back-to-back all the time, so I certainly am not crying 'Oh, woe is me.'  I know I'm not alone.  Many of you are pros at this, but it is a new, frustrating dynamic for me.  One I am trying to navigate with patience.  And I fail.  My boys are four years apart. There was never the competitiveness, the vying for my lap, fits over not having the same color popsicle, shoving for the same toy, wanting what the other has constantly... all the things that come with children close in age.  God Bless you mamas who experience this daily.  I was meant to have my gaps.

Had a heart-to-heart with my boys too, while I've been in this rut.  While E was napping a couple of days ago, we sat on the porch swing and talked.  I felt an overwhelming sensation to ask them if they felt loved.  

Beck said, "Not as much as I used to.  Ever since Everlee came, you have to take care of her all the time."  

"I'm sorry.  It's hard to share my attention... but do you feel loved?"  

"Of course Mom, but I miss you."  

Dagger to my heart.  I miss them too.  

Penn had a specific complaint.  "When I sit in your lap, I don't like how she always comes and tries to sit on you too."

I didn't want to taint their mind with the negative, but I did want to know how they felt.  Wanted to be real.  To hear them, their perspective.  So, after we shared our sad feelings, I turned the conversation around to the warm, fuzzy ones. (Because you do feel both.  Just like postpartum... Uncontrollable joy about your new addition in one moment; disconnected, wanting to cry for no reason the next.)    

"What is your favorite thing about Everlee?"

Beck loves her laugh when Daddy is silly with her.  Penn said playing with her.  (Which is ironic, because their playing equates to me refereeing.  Interesting.)  They smiled in agreement when Beck mentioned liking to help wake her from her nap.  They'll race up the stairs to partake!  They both do sincerely enjoy having her in our family.  

My favorites are her dimples and her mischievous smirk when she continues to do something I've asked her not to.  I also love her determination.  And in an appreciative way, I like how her arrival has slowed our pace down.  Certainly hasn't slowed my steps, but has slowed our family's pace.  

Now, we've always said four.  Four children.  And I still feel that.  But, give me a couple years.  I need my gap.