Flashback Friday: Speaking in Grunts

The operation left the Bean's throat so raw and sore that he refused to talk.  It was easier for him to walk around with cheeks filled with saliva and pantomiming everything than it was to open his mouth.  I could hardly blame him.  But the trouble was that because he was only 3 1/2, he didn't know how to properly pantomime.  Everything was a series of grunts, either long or short depending on the severity of the request. 

“Ugh, ugh ugh. Uhhhh ugh uh uh.”

Yet this was the only way in which he would communicate.

Through all of this, there was a couple of times where I'd been quite impressed with myself because I'd been able to understand what he was trying to stay.  This went beyond requests to get his Lambie or to put Cars on (again).  Like the night he wanted me to sleep in his room.  I have no clue how we did it, but we managed to have a full conversation based on me asking the right questions and him grunting in response. 

There are not many people that I could do this with. I’ve never been very good at charades.

Post Op

One side of the couch had become well worn. Nestled within the indent on the cushions was the prone body of young boy who, after just having being rendered tonsil-less, kept vigil in front of the TV hoping that the pain would subside. Lightening McQueen and Curious George kept him company. He wanted nobody else. His mom sat by his side during the week. His dad replaced her on the weekend. He hardly acknowledged their existence. They both encouraged the young boy to drink water. Or juice. Or chocolate milk. Anything. But even the allure of sugar was not strong enough to overcome the pain that came with moving the liquid past his throat. There were many tears and many sleepless nights. This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to the boy in his young life.

It all started so well. His father had bought him a book. It was a pleasant little story about a girl losing her tonsils. She received a snow cone maker, presents and copious amounts of ice cream. Her relentless optimism was contagious. The book not only soothed the boy, but it made him excited. His face lit up with joy when he learned that soon he too would be having an operation. This excitement remained while he was in the hospital waiting room. It was present when he drank his “happy juice”. It lingered until the minute when he woke up after the surgery, fuzzy and disoriented from the drugs that had put him to sleep. It was at that exact moment that the torture had begun.

To say it wasn’t easy would be underselling the next ten days. The narcotic prescribed to keep the boy’s pain at bay had a foul taste and combined with the fact that swallowing felt like a dagger of fire that was being doused with a bucket of razorblades, administering it was an impossible task. At some point the boy must have realized that the promise of all the ice cream you could eat was an empty one. The will to eat anything had vanished along with his tonsils. If he was mad at his parents, it did not show. His dad managed to coax him to eat a few bites of Jell-O, which was just enough to stave off dehydration. But even this was a struggle.

Realistically, the boy’s parents knew that his agony would end, and so too would end their servitude to a boy who was to weak and in too much pain to be anything more than an immobile fixture on the couch. But those ten days felt epic in length. Dark circles formed under all of their eyes. The boy’s mother spent most nights on the trundle bed in the boy’s room, sleeping fitfully.

Finally, the tenth day arrived and as promised, the boy was almost back to his usual state. Now came the task of de-programming the child, who had started to grow accustomed to a life of all the TV and all of the sweets one could consume. Slowly, steadily, he began to spend less time on the couch. And the recently vacated indent in the cushions started to return to normal.

Aftermath

I had my vasectomy in the morning, which meant I got to spend the rest of the day in bed, with a bag of frozen corn on my crotch. (Yes, I know frozen peas are the industry standard, but I had to work with what we had in on hand—and what WonderWife™ would willingly spare from the freezer.)

That day, I had a decision to make--I could hide in the bedroom or I could sit on the couch, which meant that the Bean would see me when he got home from pre-school and probably ask me to read him Curious George books for the rest of the day. Even though it meant that I was without access to the HD TV and Blu-Ray player, robbing me of the perfect opportunity to finish watching season 1 of “Mad Men”, I decided the smart play was to stay in the bedroom.

In the evening I emerged, slowly and tenderly, from the bedroom while the Bean was eating dinner. Sure enough, all he wanted to do was climb into bed with me and read. Upon seeing the frozen bag of veg on in my lap he stared at me with titled head and asked, “Why?” I told him that I had gotten hurt and the doctor helped make me better. Then I asked him kindly to stop bouncing on the bed.

The next day at breakfast, the Bean wanted to know more.

“Did you have an owie on your penis?” he asked.

“Uh…yes. You could say that.”

“How did you get it?”

My mind raced through possible explanations, but I drew a blank. All I could think about was that whatever I told him would most likely be repeated to his friends, his teachers, anyone who looked at him in the mall…

WonderWife™ giggled from the kitchen. She called out, “I’ve never seen you so flummoxed answering a question before.”

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 4

Over at Hot Dads today is the thrilling conclusion to the epic tale of the closing of the Geek Boy baby-making shop.

Here's a little bit:

At the doctor’s office, I was outfitted in the classic open backed surgery gown and a pair of blue socks that had puffy paint treads on the bottom, similar to what can be found on the soles of the socks of my infant daughter. I was led to the operating room and left to wait, bare assed, blue bootied, shorn and nervous.

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 3

The saga of my adventures to neuter myself continues over at Hot Dads today. Now with extra humiliation!

Here's an excerpt:

During my consultation, I had been instructed to shave the night before the surgery. This was a surprise. I had listened to many anecdotes about vasectomies and none of them included self-shaving. Nonetheless, I arrived home from work that night and headed into the bathroom, armed with determination, electric clippers and my Gillette Fusion.

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 2

Click over to HOT DADS today for part 2 of my epic journey to get neutered.

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 1

Hey everyone. Click on over to Hot Dads today for the first in a multi-part series about a very sensitive subject. Check it out.