Lana Jae

Lana's tonsillectomy went okay.  I suppose it went perfectly.  She is young and healthy except for this, and now once she recovers she'll be a regular ball of fire.

I was late getting there, of course, because they had no ready helium balloons at Dollar Tree that said get well.  They all said Happy Birthday.  Seriously, is that all the world needs balloons for?

So I got a smiley face with bandaids on it, a big heart shaped one that said "You're So Special", a beautiful crown-shaped one that said Princess, and two Disney Heroine shiny mylar balloons.  As I walked through the hospital from parking, everyone admired that hot air foiled bouquet.

I don't like picking flowers.  They die.

Anyhow, everything went normally fine.  Lana did not want her grape Popsicle and didn't care for a Coke but I think apple juice worked a little better, but nothing was as good as the pain killer they gave her.  Now that made it all better.  As we were walking down the hall to her room, the nurse said something to me about being her mom based on, of course, our red hair, but Dana piped up and said she was the mom.  I would have said something, but I was so busy marveling the fact that someone might assume my wrinkled old self had an eight-year-old daughter that I was speechless.

I could technically be her grandmother without even rushing or doing anything illegal.

It was a hard day.  I went through the same thing with Kimberly when she was five, and I had the same procedure done when I was six.  Is there anything worse than seeing your child suffer and being helpless to make it better?  Well, technically, the surgery was making it better in the long run, but it was an intense short run afternoon with a little girl crying and wanting to go home.  I would gladly have laid down on the table for Kimberly in 1995, and I would have laid down for Lana Jae today if I could.  Either of her parents would have, if they could.

But no one can.

Lana told her mom that it hurt and she wanted to go home and Dana comforted her so well, validating her feelings and saying over and over in a gentle voice, "I understand."  That was just so sweet.  I remember telling Kimberly, who woke up screaming "I want my momma!" as soon as they let me in there, "Oh Baby, I know, I know, and Momma wants you."  The nurses came and got me earlier than they had planned, but nothing would calm her down.

And so much for my super autobiographical memory.  Maybe it was the Youth Dew scent still lingering in my nose, but I remembered getting my tonsils out, and I hadn't thought of it in years, decades even.  Back in the days of ether, 1968, I came out of surgery crying and my mother told me, "Now, stop this nonsense.  You won't die."

I cried a little bit today, but I wasn't sad.  I wished we were perfect and Lana was not going through all that, but I was mostly crying because I was happy no one told her to stop, that no one perceived her pain or her tears as nonsense, and I was very glad that she is going to live without her tonsils affecting her health again.

It was good to see what a wonderful mother my friend was.