The Tonsillectomy

After six visits to the doctor in three months because of recurrent throat infections, Dr. O’Neil stared into my throat, wooden tongue depressor depressed, and announced to my mom, “That’s it. She needs her tonsils out.”

I sat on the crinkly-white-paper covered table and tried to hide my excitement. I knew this was the type of thing that was serious, and I wasn’t supposed to feel giddiness bubbling up inside me. I could see on the doctor’s face, and in my mom’s furrowed brow, that this was GROWN UP TALK. They threw around impressive, elegant words like, “anesthesia,” “hospital,” and, my personal favorite, “surgery”.

I knew exactly what it meant to get my tonsils out. I had seen my fair share of 70’s and 80’s television shows. This meant I would spend a week in bed, ringing a bell to make everyone in my family jump to satisfy my every whim. I would dine on nothing but the best ice creams, popsicles, and Jellos the world had to offer. No vegetables! No sandwiches! Just cold junk food for a week.

But the junk food wasn’t even the best part. The pinnacle of excitement was the delicious prospect of NO SCHOOL! No school for a week! My friends would be so jealous! Maybe my whole class would write me cards and letters.

I could picture the notes saying things like,

“Dear Andie, we all miss you so much. I have always liked you, but never told you before because I never knew you would end up having to get a part of your body removed.”

After all, I would be recovering from SURGERY. And when I returned to school, they would form a big circle around me and ask how I was feeling, and what it was like to go through SURGERY. Even the kids who never talked to me would have to come see for themselves what a girl who had SURGERY was going to say about it. It would be better than bringing cupcakes to class on my birthday. Everyone brought cupcakes to class, but nobody had brought in stories of the marvels of modern medicine, as told by someone who had been there.

I did a great job of pretending to be concerned about this serious matter around my mom, but I couldn’t wait to get to school to tell everyone.

When the bell rang for morning recess, I ran to the meeting spot where Julie, who was my best friend, would meet me. The words tumbled off my lips the second I saw her.

“Guess-what-I’m-getting-surgery-and-I-have-to-go-to-the-hospital-next-week-and-I’m-getting-surgery!”

“What kind of surgery are you getting?”

This was a very smart question that I knew she would ask. She knew all about medical stuff. Her dad was a pharmacist.

“I’m getting my tonsils out!” I happily proclaimed, while opening my mouth wide, lest she want to take a good look at my soon-to-be history, tonsils.

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s not good,” She said.

Not good? Of course it was good! She must have been jealous.

“Do you even know what they have to do to you to get the tonsils out?” She asked, eyes wide.

I hadn’t thought of that for one second.

“No. What?” I was feeling slightly less giddy.

“First, they lay you on your stomach. Then they cut open the back of your neck. Then they reach in and scoop out your tonsils, like how you scoop the guts out of a pumpkin!”

Oh crap.

I spent the next week obsessing about having the back of my neck cut open. I would run my hand under my hair, against my neck, imagining how it would feel to have a big open wound there. I no longer cared about Jello, or notes from my classmates. I just wanted to LIVE.

On the day of the surgery, I had a pit in my stomach. I sat stoically, clad in my loosely tied hospital gown, stuffed bear tight in a hug. My dad sat next to me to say goodbye before they wheeled me to the operating room. I offered to lie on the gurney face down.  They told me it would be fine to be on my back. I nodded. They would roll me over after I fell asleep. I gripped the sides of the gurney tightly. This was going to be hell.

I woke up to my dad calling my name and telling me it was over. I felt groggy, but remembered why I was there. I slowly lifted my hand to the back of my neck. It felt…normal.

“You’re going to have a sore throat for a week or so,” the nurse was saying. “Do you have any questions?”

“There isn’t a cut on my neck? Why?” I croaked.

“No, there wouldn’t be a cut on your neck, the doctor removed your tonsils. You know, through your mouth. Why did you think there would be a cut on your neck?”

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” I sighed. “No reason.”

I smiled, snuggled my stuffed bear tight, and asked, “Can I have a popsicle now?”