I continue to be shocked and amazed by this child of mine. Years ago, when Monkey started orthodontia, his sensory issues were such that he gave up food and drink for about a week because it hurt and he is stubborn. So I was ready—as ready as I could be, anyway—for this weekend to be utter hell.
It almost feels like I shouldn’t say it out loud (lest I jinx it), but so far… so good.
It’s kind of a study in the weirdness of his brain, really. We always say he either feels things way more or way less than a neurotypical person, but then, of course, the last few months of hell were (we assume) a result of him not recognizing that Hey!, he was really quite sick, and instead of laying down and drinking juice and whining like a normal kid, he continued insisting he was fine but periodically, you know, punching people.
So it’s not that I didn’t know he might not process his post-surgical pain quite the way we might expect, but still, I’ve been completely astonished.
Save for the first thirty minutes after he came out of anesthesia—which did include one very shaky, VERY pitiful and plaintive, “I feel TERRIBLE!”—Monkey has been… just fine.
I’ve been religious about giving him the pain meds, regardless, because they say if you can keep ahead of the pain you’re all set, but if you wait until it hurts, it can be hard to beat it back. But it’s hilarious to every four hours be all “It’s time for your meds” and him replying, “But I feel fine.”
It’s doubly hilarious because it’s obvious he does NOT feel fine. Not by my definition of fine, anyway. When he swallows, his face contorts in a terrible grimace. The first couple of times I saw him do that, I said, “Baby, is your throat hurting?”
“No, I’m fine,” he answered, like there was something wrong with ME.
Also, I’ve twice tricked him into napping, now, by telling him I’m tired and I think I’ll lay down. “Want to lay down with me in the big bed for a little bit?” I’ll ask.
“Well, I’m not tired,” he’ll say, “But I’ll come keep you and the dog company.” We three will then pile into my bed, and about ten seconds after he finishes telling me how he’s not sleepy at all, he’s out cold.
Otto and I discussed whether this is Monkey being an Aspie or this is your Monkey on drugs, and the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. I think the most interesting part, for me, is that he’s on some pretty hardcore narcotics and it hasn’t made him loopy at ALL. If anything, it’s just made him sort of calm and agreeable. And because he keeps insisting he “feels fine,” it’s actually been a very pleasant couple of days ’round here. He’s watching TV and playing his Nintendo and “not napping” and enjoying his pudding and ice cream and generally being a delight.
I’m thinking maybe we keep the Lortab as part of his regular routine, even after he recovers. (No…?)
[Bonus hilarity: Because Monkey’s dad was unable to be here for the surgery but was, understandably, worried, I made sure to snap/send pictures of him along with regular email updates from my phone while we were at the hospital yesterday. When we finally got home and were able to talk, my ex thanked me for the regular updates, and I said he was welcome, and pointed out that I’d also put a picture of Monkey on the blog yesterday, so he could get another picture that way.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “What’s the address, again? Woulda… coulda?” You know, because he doesn’t have it bookmarked, hasn’t been reading it every day for years, etc. See, I can share this with you on account of he JUST ASSURED ME that he no longer reads here. So NO WAY would he see this and get mad!]
[Bonus bang-your-head-on-the-desk hilarity: The ex showed up this morning to fetch Chickadee for a competition she’s at today, and in spending a few minutes with Monkey, asked how he’s feeling.
“I feel GREAT!” said Monkey. “Really, no pain at ALL!” He beamed at his father.
“That’s great, buddy,” his dad answered. “But you know, I have a friend whose son had the same surgery, and he felt great the first couple of days, too. The third day he felt AWFUL, though.”
A strangled sound of MIGHTY DISPLEASURE may have escaped my mouth as my hands involuntarily flew into the air in the universal gesture for “I give up.”
To his credit, he at least seemed to realize he may have made an error. “Oh, but I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he followed up, avoiding the DEATH GLARE I was now shooting in his direction.
(Again, he can’t even remember the blog address, so it’s perfectly okay that I shared this, right? Right.)]