Yesterday, the day of surgery, we ended up getting lost on Hwy 98 west in Wake Forest, NC. I’ve driven that road a thousand times, but what used to be “drive straight all the way to Durham” turned into “hang a right just outside of Wake Forest” due to some construction. Instead of dodging work traffic, we ended up taking Falls of Neuse Rd. directly into rush hour traffic on a miserable, rainy morning. Hwy 540 was bumper-t0-bumper. I pulled over on the side of the road and called my brother to get him to pull up traffic on the internet. “Looks like there are two accidents ahead of you…” he said. Before he could finish, I hung up the phone and hit the gas to take Creedmoor Rd. back up to 98. It was truly the scenic route but at least we were rolling forward. We blazed into the UNC hospital just 15 minutes late, had prayer with our pastor, and watched the staff whisk our little 5 year old back into the outpatient area.

The surgery lasted about 2 hrs (they had scheduled it for 3) and we we discharged that afternoon with about 3 prescriptions: one for pain, one for nausea, and one for antibiotic. Once we made it home, I could tell that the stress was getting to us.

“Okay, I need to goto the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled.” I said.

“After what happened last time we brought her home from surgery, I don’t want to be here alone with her. I’m scared.” my wife replied.

“Okay, fine. I’ll stay here and you go.” I proposed.

“No way, I’m not leaving my baby after she’s just had major surgery?!” she said.

Ultimately, I ended up hitting the pharmacy, the Chinese food place, and Sonic (great fountain drinks). I made it home just in time to see my daughter getting restless.  Within 30 minutes or so, my little girl was vomiting on her bed. I had to support her head to keep it above the vomit so her compression bandage would not get soaking wet.  Feeling the fluids run down my elbow, I knew at that moment what my next post would be for this blog. I need to write something about tips to help parents cope with this whole first 24 hrs post op thing.

“Honey,” I screamed, “she has thrown up on the bed and I need your help to keep it out of her hair.”

Finding myself holding the torch to the “Cochlear Implant Recovery Olympics” once again, I closed my eyes, put my game face on, and lip-synced to my little girl “Daddy’s here. Everything is going to be okay.”

Red was Non-Negotiable

What does Mommy sound like? “A duck,” she said, “Quack, quack, quack!”

What does Daddy sound like? “A wobot,” she said, straightening her forearms and moving them up-and-down mechanically.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that today was C-Note’s big day. She told everyone at preschool that she would be getting her implant today. The thought of being able to hear electronically never really crossed her mind as anything of importance. All that really mattered was that her new ear would be red, just like the cardboard cutouts she picked during her recovery from surgery. The same cardboard cutouts that had become part of her new dress code for every stuffed animal in her possession. The same cardboard cutouts that would come to represent a certain kind of hope that perhaps only parents of a hearing impaired child could understand.

The activation of the Med-El CI itself only lasted 50 minutes, tops. Having been practically raised in a sound booth, C was no stranger to auditory testing. In this case, no soundbooth was necessary in that all of the sound would be occuring within the little cochlea of a little 4 year old girl. A small cord, dangling from my daughter’s implant, connected her to a computer. Beeps were sent from the PC, down the wire, and into C’s head one at a time, at different loudnesses, to help hone in on C’s upper and lower thresholds of comfort.

The remaining time was spent learning all the do’s and don’ts of the equipment. I’m really glad I leafed through the owner’s manual last week so that everything would not be brand new for me. Prior to the activation, my wife and I treated ourselves to some appetizers at the CheeseCake Factory while our daughter was in pre-school. It’s amazing what some cheese sticks, quesadillas, and chocolate cheesecake can do to take your mind off growing piles of medical bills. Considering that the only time we really get to go on a date is during IEPs and CI surgery, we thought we’d mix it up a bit and try something new.

While I was learning how to assemble/dissassemble the device, my wife was rapidly completing forms related to insurance, warranty, and marketing questions. As for C, she was eating a cupcake that her teacher brought her and playing with a toy fan that happened to be in the office from a competitor CI company.

The drive home was pretty uneventful. We’ve often heard that new CI wearers HATE the sound of road noise, but our daughter didn’t seem to mind. The Med-El welcome kit included a stuffed animal named Med-Elephant, a case for every subcomponent, a 3 ring binder, a red bag, a black mini-portfolio for ear stuff, and a toy organ that played animal noises whenever you pressed a key. It was kind of entertaining to hear chirping and baa-ing from a box in the cargo area with every turn of the SUV.

After C’s bath time, we spent the remainder of the evening learning about the cochlear implant by just seeing what it could and could not do. C-Note learned that the head magnet (aka coil) won’t stick to Mommy or Daddy’s head. Similarly, Mommy and Daddy learned that clapping hands (like restaurants do when singing a birthday song) doesn’t sound like hands clapping but more like “bing, bing, bing!”

All-in-all, this was a really good day for us. The hardest part was seeing C miss simple hearing questions that she used to nail with hearing aids. We know that’s part of the adjustment to the CI world but it was really tough to watch. The best part was hearing my wife say “I love you, Carina,” with her mouth covered by her hand and watching in utter amazement as my little girl smiled back and effortlessly said, “I love you too, Mommy.”

Although she wasn’t wearing her hearing aid at all at that moment, the smile on Carina’s face as she looked so beautifully back down at her play table will forever be emblazoned in my heart as something that I so needed to see before going to bed for the evening. It’s funny, my wife just commented that little C looks like she is smiling in her sleep. (C-Note always used to be extra happy at times when her hearing was doing well.) For lack of a better expression, I think we got one right tonight. Yes, I think we got one right.