Quality of Life

Some months ago, frustrated by our youngest son’s inability to stop coughing and concerned that Hong Kong’s poor air quality might be responsible, I took him to a doctor. It was a visit that merited a World’s Apart post on the differences between seeing a GP here and doing the same in London but like many things that never made it to the pages of my blog, I didn’t quite get round to it.

Suffice it to say, I rang up, was offered a choice of appointments for that same afternoon, took my son along, was seen immediately and was given medication by the in-house pharmacist. I was then presented with an eye-wateringly large bill for all that convenience.

The doctor thought his problems might be bronchiole. I imagined a future held hostage by asthma or allergies. She also mentioned that he had unusually large tonsils and referred him to an ENT specialist, just in case.

Last week in the waiting room of a new town hospital in the New Territories we were the odd ones out. Every other person was wearing a surgical mask. Then a hospital orderly appeared and handed us each a mask so we shrugged and put them on.

The five year old wondered why we had to wear our masks and I explained it was because of swine flu. He then pretended to sneeze and I got the giggles. Not only did we look absurd but you can’t hear what anyone is saying from behind your mask so you pull it down to say, I’m sorry, what did you say? and then presumably pass on all your deadly germs in so doing. I put my sun glasses on and the five year old laughed and said I looked like a gangster.

The South African Consultant looked down my five year old’s throat and declared they were the largest tonsils he had ever seen.

He then explained that a tonsilectomy could improve our son’s quality of life. The golf ball sized tonsils that are currently clogging up his throat may be responsible for his tiredness, for his bad tempers, for his snoring, for the constant coughing and throat clearing, for his lack of appetite and general lack of energy and possibly even his unusually deep voice, although I’ll actually be sad if he loses that too.

I had thought it unusual that my five year old still requires a two hour nap most afternoons and had wondered how he would survive a full school day on our return to London but it was a relief to know there might be a solution to hand. As for the bad tempers, I had thought he had inherited that from me, so I was relieved about that as well.

You don’t need to decide now, the Consultant told me.
I’ve already decided. How soon can you do it?

So it was that we checked in to another Sha Tin hospital yesterday morning. Far from being apprehensive, the five year old was excited at the prospect of being rid of the tonsils that bother him so much. He had spent the last week asking, how many days until I have my tonsils out? He was so delighted to be told, Just one more day now, that his little sister asked if she could have hers out too.

We were shown to a private room (thank you Mr Bupa), covered with schmaltzy images of Pooh bear and Mickey Mouse. Clouds of pastel-clad nurses wafted in and out with papers to sign and questions to ask. They took his blood pressure and bought him toys. We read and played together and finally more nurses arrived to dress him for surgery. On the trolley he laughed and joked with the orderlies who couldn’t quite believe how cheerful he was as they wheeled him to theatre.

In an anteroom I too was gowned up with a shower cap on, another mask and slip on covers over my Birkenstocks. Don’t try it at home; it’s not a good look! My boy laughed again and we went into theatre together. Only when the anaesthetist put the respiratory mask over his mouth did he decide the game was up and attempt to struggle but his lids grew heavy and I was shown out.

Waiting outside I reflect that this is the second time in his short life that my five year old has gone under general anaesthetic. He was 16 months old and we were on holiday on the island of Amrum off Germany’s north west coast. He took sick and began throwing up. Instead of getting better he was flown by helicopter to a mainland hospital for emergency surgery for an intussusception of the gut during which they removed a Meckel’s diverticulum and whipped out his appendix. It was a long operation and I wept buckets of anxious tears as I waited for him to be returned to me.

This time it’s over within thirty minutes. I am ushered in and he’s coming round, disoriented and in pain. The nice South African tells me it all went well and that he took out his oversized adenoids as well. Then, in case I don’t believe them, they hand me the adenoids and tonsils in souvenir plastic pots and we are returned to our Disney room.

The patient is doing well on a diet of ice cream and DVDs. He is exhausted but after an overnight stay we are home and looking forward to that increased quality of life we've been promised.