The Day I Had My Tonsils Out

The year was 1976. I remember because we had just moved to a new county and I was getting ready to start a brand new school. It was the summer before I started first grade. My mom bought me a pink giraffe nightgown with navy blue trim on it for my night in the hospital.

When you’re 5 years old, the details you remember are sketchy but specific. The things I remember as a 5 year old are different than the things I would remember as a 40 year old. But I know my memories must be somewhat interesting because my 4 3/4 year old son (as he says) loves to hear my stories.

The most interesting story to him in recent times was the time I had my tonsils out. And I can see why it would be interesting: the dramatic build-up to the heartwrenching conclusion. So I decided it’s worth telling you too.

I don’t remember being sick much as a kid but the way my mom told it, our local pediatrician, in our rinky-dink town, was surgery-happy. He gave my mother the news that my sister needed to have her tonsils out. And while we’re at it, my tonsils should come out too.

I don’t remember being happy or sad about it. I just remembered the critical factors:

• I would be rooming with my big sis Tonya and we would have the tonsillectomy done at the same time.
• My mom was going to buy us special nightgowns for our night in the hospital.
• We could have all the ice cream we wanted once we were out of surgery.

As a kid, that last point obviously stuck. Nightgown, surgery, blah, blah, blah, ice cream. I seemed to have the important points down.

Once my sister and I were checked into our hospital room, we enjoyed the remote control TV we had all to ourselves. This was going to be a vacation.

Until they came for me.

Yes, for some reason, I was to go first. Under protest, I rolled over for a shot in my derriere. Then I was quickly whisked away to the operating room, or O.R. for you medical drama fans.

(Name the movie: “These are my O.R. scrubs.” “O R they?”)

I remember the anesthesiologist placing a mask over my mouth and nose and asking me to tell her when it smelled like my mom’s fingernail polish. By the time I was ready to answer her, I was passed out.

I awoke sometime later in a room I didn’t recognize. It was the recovery room and I had a strange pad attached to my arm and needles in my hand. Someone should have told me about this in advance because I was very disturbed. The nurses kept trying to tell me to lay down and that was not something I was interested in.

I made it back to my room and so did my sister. We had sore throats, as to be expected, but that was okay. Because it was the moment we had been waiting for. Unlimited ice cream.

Just one problem.

The freezer on that floor was being defrosted that day. There was no ice cream available and we were served warm Jello.

Do you know what it does to a child to endure surgery only because there is a promise of unlimited ice cream at the end of the rainbow only to find out, the rainbow is an illusion and the only thing at the end of it is warm Jello?

For some reason, this is the part my son loves. Perhaps at an early age, he has a sense of irony.

From what my mother says, my tonsils were so bad, they were documented for the medical journals.

Finally… I have a claim to fame.

I recovered fully and haven’t had an issue since. The only downside is that my son keeps asking for more stories. I’ve told him his birth story and my tonsillectomy but he likes the way I tell them and he wants more. I’m headed back to a medical spa tomorrow. Perhaps I can dramatize my procedure for his afterwards. But this time, there will be ice cream.