My mother had major abdominal surgery yesterday. We knew she needed a procedure, but it ended up being more involved than we originally thought. Mia and I sat with my Dad in the waiting room while Mom was in recovery.
The day before, I asked her how she was holding up. She was nervous, but Mom has always been a bit of a weenie, so I listened to her concerns, all the while thinking about the three C-sections I have survived. She would be fine.
The doctors came out and told my Dad that the operation went smoothly, “textbook” was the term they used, and Mom would be asleep for awhile. We grabbed Mia by the hand and headed down to the hospital cafeteria – one of the best I have ever seen – and we had salads for lunch. My daughter talked Grandpa into a chocolate chip cookie as we headed back to the elevators.
Mom had been moved to a room, so we made our way to her new digs, happy to drop off the books and clothes that we were lugging around. We found the right room number, walked past her roommate in Bed #1, looked behind a curtain, and there she was.
I didn’t actually make an audible noise I don’t think, but inside I experienced an emotional hiccup. My mother looked so small, so pale, and she had all kinds of gadgets attached to her. She was still sound asleep, but her breathing was shallow and hindered by the tubes in her nose.
After a quick glance to check my daughter’s reaction (she was helping Grandpa find a place to put Grandma’s suitcase) I looked down at my mother. Her body had experienced a trauma, and I thought of how it was working frantically to heal itself, red blood cells rushing to clot and brain synapses alerting her to pain.
For the very first time, I was shaken into considering what life would be like without my Mom. I would really miss her if anything ever happened to her. Really. I stood there wanting to cry, realizing that I was, in fact, the weenie. I wanted to take away her pain and anxiety, to thank her for being great, to wake her up.
As the minutes ticked by I started to get over the initial shock of it all. I focused on figuring out how to use the TV remote, watched a cooking show with Mia, became perturbed because Mom’s IV drip alarm kept malfunctioning, had a discussion with my Dad about the new book he is reading, and patiently listened to the beautiful sound of my mother’s snore.
The day before, I asked her how she was holding up. She was nervous, but Mom has always been a bit of a weenie, so I listened to her concerns, all the while thinking about the three C-sections I have survived. She would be fine.
The doctors came out and told my Dad that the operation went smoothly, “textbook” was the term they used, and Mom would be asleep for awhile. We grabbed Mia by the hand and headed down to the hospital cafeteria – one of the best I have ever seen – and we had salads for lunch. My daughter talked Grandpa into a chocolate chip cookie as we headed back to the elevators.
Mom had been moved to a room, so we made our way to her new digs, happy to drop off the books and clothes that we were lugging around. We found the right room number, walked past her roommate in Bed #1, looked behind a curtain, and there she was.
I didn’t actually make an audible noise I don’t think, but inside I experienced an emotional hiccup. My mother looked so small, so pale, and she had all kinds of gadgets attached to her. She was still sound asleep, but her breathing was shallow and hindered by the tubes in her nose.
After a quick glance to check my daughter’s reaction (she was helping Grandpa find a place to put Grandma’s suitcase) I looked down at my mother. Her body had experienced a trauma, and I thought of how it was working frantically to heal itself, red blood cells rushing to clot and brain synapses alerting her to pain.
For the very first time, I was shaken into considering what life would be like without my Mom. I would really miss her if anything ever happened to her. Really. I stood there wanting to cry, realizing that I was, in fact, the weenie. I wanted to take away her pain and anxiety, to thank her for being great, to wake her up.
As the minutes ticked by I started to get over the initial shock of it all. I focused on figuring out how to use the TV remote, watched a cooking show with Mia, became perturbed because Mom’s IV drip alarm kept malfunctioning, had a discussion with my Dad about the new book he is reading, and patiently listened to the beautiful sound of my mother’s snore.
3 comments:
I love my mom a lot too.
I certainly identify with your feelings. Mom's are the most precious people in our lives. Tell her I am thinking of her and praying all is well.
pssssttt IV drip alarms ALWAYS go off with air in line air in line...repeat 20 times ..... tell your mom to be well from me and if she needs any blue monkey sheets to comfort her you know where they are.
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