Tonsil Trouble: Part Four

Something that struck me, as I lay awake at 5am this morning having woken up for the third time in one night, is how dependant I am on a variety of external things to see me through difficult times. My three biggest vices – smoking, eating and booze – have always played a large part in my life’s celebrations or commiserations. Good news? Crack open the wine. Bad news? A cigarette and big piece of cake will help. This was by no means a revelation for me. I’ve known for years that I’ve got a fairly addictive personality. But now, as day 11 post-op rolls around and I’m still unable to talk properly, let alone eat or drink without screaming the house down, I’m more aware of it than ever. In all honesty, I’m quite miserable and my usual go-to remedies are definite no-nos.

However, I’m able to get out of bed now, and cutting back on the pain meds a bit means I can at least go up and down the stairs without a chaperone waiting to catch me (codeine turns me into a bit of a space cadet). So, I’m getting there. Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey and all that. A couple of things I wish I’d known before/have learnt since, though:

* Ice packs are a brilliant help. I’ve only been using them for the last two nights but wish I’d had them at the beginning.

* Despite the myths, ice cream is arguably the most painful thing I’ve eaten so far. It burns. But that didn’t stop me chaving my housemate’s Cornetto last night. I suspect that harks back to the food = happiness thing, though.

* People telling you ‘It’ll get better soon’ is both reassuring and infuriating. So if you can afford to, hire a nurse to look after you for the first week or so, because you will get grumpy, and your loved ones won’t have the foggiest idea of how to deal with you. Everyone ends up frustrated. Trust me.

* Tell the hospital, upon your departure, that there’s no point calling you to find out how you’re doing, because you can’t talk. You’d hope that they might look at their notes, see that you’ve had throat surgery and realise that telecommunications are a bit beyond your current remit, but they won’t. So you’ll end up answering the call thinking it might be important, and end up grunting at a non-English speaking person who makes no sense and keeps asking you to repeat everything, and you’ll get so frustrated that all you want to do is throw a bottle of wine down your neck and chain smoke between eating huge mouthfuls of gooey cake, just to cope with the idiocy. But you won’t be able to. All you’ll be able to do is drool into a tissue, look angrily at your nicotine patch and punch the next person that cheerfully points out that ‘It’ll get better soon’, as they tuck into their dinner with a beer in hand.

Tonsil Trouble: Part Three

Day five after the operation, and I’m about ready to punch a wall down.

The first couple of days were… alright. No worse than the ickiness of chronic tonisllitis really, and my main concern was for my tongue, which is still numb and weird looking.

However, talking is completely off-limits now, despite a brief window of squeaking earlier in the week. This is maddening for me, as most will know I do enjoy bestowing my big fat opinion on to everyone about everything. Annoyingly, this is the week The Boy has had a brainwave about something, so I can do nothing but lie here and flap incoherently at all he says. I suspect he planned it this way.

The pain though, now that’s something else. Even my gums are swollen and angry. And for some bloody reason I’ve got an infuriating rash on the palms of my hands and shins, and my face is itchy. I cannot even imagine what I must look like to Housemate N and The Boy, as I lie in bed making Emily Rose-esque gurgling noises, itching my hands together uncontrollabley and flailing my arms around as I attempt to communicate my need for ice.

I’ve been following a few tonsillectomy forums and have picked up on what is apparently called ‘5^th and 6^th Day Post-Op Horror’. True, I guess I’d been a little too gung-ho about it all, having visitors over and making the most of the time off (within limits, obviously), but when I ventured this information on one site, I was smacked down immediately by a wave of smunty tonsillectomy survivors.

‘Just you wait until day five or six!’ one user spat. ‘That’s when you’ll know REAL pain’.

Alright. Jesus. Chill out.

‘I’ve given birth to three kids and day six was worse than all of it put together’, offered another, kindly.

Uh, okay? Somewhere down the thread appeared an entry from a girl who – fool like me – had dared to believe it wouldn’t be too bad either.

‘I’m so sorry!’ She practically pleads. ‘I’m on day six now and now I know what you’re talking about. I was wrong!’

I almost expected Lady Three Births to interject with ‘NO. You doubted the wisdom of the elders and now you will be sacrificed to the Tonsil Gods’, while eerie Monk chanting emanates from nowhere and Real Pain Boy looks on in glee mumbling ‘Now you know. NOW YOU KNOW’ maniacally under his breath.

So I won’t be going back to that site again.

Apparently days seven and eight will see ‘the first signs of scabbing and scab deterioration.’ So, yay. Never thought I’d be excited about scabs, but here I am! Scabs! Woo.