[…] let us visit the mind of […] three-year-old Amy, who has just had surgery.
Amy's parents love her dearly. After she was born, when the doctor said she had a cleft palate, they vowed to make the impending medical procedures as comfortable and nontraumatic as possible for their little daughter. It is now two in the morning on the day after Amy has had an operation intended to improve her speech. She is waking fully for the first time since the surgery, in a private hospital room, where both of her parents lie asleep on cots beside her bed. But it is pitch-dark in the room, and Amy does not know her parents are there, nor does she know where she is. Groggily, the last thing she remembers is going with her parents to a scary hospital, and getting a shot. She wonders whether she is now somehow at home in her bed. She starts to lift her head, but when she does, her neck hurts - a lot. She puts her arms out, and they hit hard, cold things close to her on both sides. Frightened, she jerks her arms back, and lies still. The darkness mercifully prevents her from seeing the IV needle in her left forearm.
Then she remembers what they told her about having an operation and staying in the hospital. They told her she would sleep in a bed there. But recalling this information does not help her. She is becoming more scared. Why is it so dark? Is it night? At home she has a night-light. She wants a night-light, and she wants her mother. She tries to call "Mommy," but all that comes out of her is a small, soft sound, not "Mommy" at all. And for some reason, it hurts to try.
She stops attempting to speak, and lies still again. And then the real pain starts. Quite unknown to Amy, her analgesic medication is running out. In about fifty minutes, a nurse will come into the room and administer some more painkiller; but this is going to be a long fifty minutes for Amy. The pain starts to swell up in her mouth and head so much that she cannot stand it. What is happening? Why does her head hurt so bad? Tears pool in her eyes and overflow in streams to her ears. The room is dark; she cannot see. And she is alone.
She stays as still as she can, and tries to understand. What is wrong with her? What did Mommy and Daddy say was wrong with her? Something about her mouth, her "palate," they kept saying. What is that? She cannot remember. But she remembers that she is not like other kids. There is something wrong with her. She remembers that there is something really wrong with her.
The pain gets stronger, and Amy wonders whether she is dying, like when they had to put Winston to sleep at the animal hospital. Maybe Mommy and Daddy left her here just the way they left Winston. There was something wrong with him too. She tries to call out again, but no sounds come, just more pain. By now it hurts so much that she can hardly breathe. She crawls inside her head and watches the pain. It is a bright light, and gets brighter and brighter when she looks. After a minute or two, Amy's body seems to disappear, and the only thing left is the light.
By the time the nurse arrives, right on schedule, to give a pain reliever, Amy's body temperature has dropped to ninety-six degrees. Thinking that Amy is asleep, because she is so still, the nurse quietly adds another blanket to her coverings. Then, the nurse realizes that Amy's eyes are open. Having promised Amy's mother and father that she would alert them, the nurse switches on a dim light, and gently rouses them, where they have been exhausted and asleep on their cots. Amy's parents jump up immediately. The mother sees that her little girl's face and hair are damp, and wonders in consternation whether she has been lying there crying.
Amy's mother squeezes Amy's hand and whispers in her ear, "Mommy and Daddy are here, sweetie. The operation's over. You did great. Everything's okay."
[…] Amy's loving parents soon take her home, where they continue to care for her solicitously.
She will never tell them about her fifty minutes of terror; three-year-old Amy has no words for this. And her mother and father will never coax her to tell them, because from their perspective, nothing happened.
