I knew when I woke up it probably wouldn’t be a great day. It almost never is when your mom’s having surgery, cause, well. It’s one of those necessary but not fun things. But never did I think I would travel into the land of complete meltdown where I found myself by mid-afternoon. Let me warn you in advance, in retrospect it’s kind of comical. So if you laugh? I’m with you.
So in the morning, I get the kids off to their respective schools. I know the baby has to be picked up by 12:30, so I’m hoping my mom’s out of recovery by then. I stop at Starbucks on the way to the hospital, because I figure I’m going to be much more useful to everyone if I’ve had my Tall Double Two-Pump Vanilla Skim Bone Dry Cappucino. Why yes, I AM a huge PITA! I know, thanks, Barista.
I get to the hospital, find my Dad, who tells me that they just took my mom into the OR and that she’d been asking about me. I told her I probably wouldn’t be there prior, but would see her after. Still. My feeling? Daughter=FAIL.
My Dad and I hang around, wait for the surgeon. We go for a walk. We talk about everything, the bailout, VP debates, anything except my mom. We’re just not sure how. Even though we know she’ll be fine, even though we know they keep saying this isn’t life threatening, it just hurts us to know she’s hurting.
The surgeon finds us, says things went as well as could be expected- they did the largest lumpectomy they could, and the Pathology will be back by mid-next week to see if they got it all. I realize it’s 12, and bail to go get W at school, with plans to bring him back to the hospital. (Note to self: DON’T.)
Here’s where it starts to get funny. I haven’t cried, I’ve held it together better than I have on any of the other surgery days in the past few months. I’m getting to be a bit of a pro, between my two moms and the C word. (No, not that one! Jeez.)
I walk into W.’s school, and his teacher gently informs me that he was bitten on the belly today by another child. Since this is the same kid that scratched his face twice last week, and bit other children today, she says he will be leaving. Instead of a nice, normal, measured reaction, I dissolve into tears like a freaky crazy mom. W comes over, puts his hand on my leg with great concern, and does his best imitation of Jaws. It was sooo awesome. He just made a big chomping sound, as though to say, “See? Like THIS.”
The teacher is understandably confused by my reaction, but trying to act like it’s within the realm of not insane. “It didn’t break the skin…” she says hopefully, while I wail, “I know…it’s not that…” But what is it? I can’t say. I don’t have a name for it, this fear I have of the ones I love being hurt.
I collect myself and my baby, and drive through Chick Fil A so my Dad won’t have a total blood sugar crash at the hospital. My mom’s in recovery, so we go in, give my dad his sandwich, kiss my mom. After about 5 minutes in the cubicle, W begins unplugging hospital machines and it becomes obvious that we’ve reached the point of dimishing returns on our presence. He and I leave, with promises to drop Chicken Out at my folks’s for dinner tonight.
Since we’re across the street from the pediatrician’s and I had to pick something up there anyway, we drop in so they can take a look at his bite mark. Pretty unremarkable, they say wash it with soap and water, we’re good to go. I take W into the bathroom to wash his hands, and as I’m standing there, I get the worst chest pains I’ve had in my life. A hot blade slashing out through my sternum. I hold the sink, wait for it to go away. My baby climbs my legs, reaching for the water as I try to stay upright. I breathe in deeper…maybe that will help? But it doesn’t, the knife keeps coming.
I try to hold back a tide of panic…will I die in the pediatrician’s bathroom? Am I having a heart attack? Or maybe a blood clot in my lungs? All of these things that would have seemed far fetched 6 weeks ago seem real, seem possible. People do hurt, I see it. People do get sick.
I gather W and stumble to the desk of the receptionist I’ve known for 12 years now, the loving voice on the other end of the phone when things go wrong, She takes one look at me and stands as I hold my chest and try to talk without crying. But I can’t.
She pulls me back into a doctor’s office while saying very softly, “Are you OK? What’s wrong?” As soon as I sputter out, “My chest hurts…” she grabs W and wheels around, comes back in 2 shakes with a doctor, the one who did J’s 4 day old checkup 12 years ago. “Now, what have we here?” she says, so soothingly, and suddenly my children’s doctors are caring for me.
I’m feeling like an idiot by now, but am also too scared to hold anything back. “I was just standing there…and my chest hurts…and it still hurts…and I…and my mom…” and then I just stop talking and start crying. She nods wisely to the crowd of concerned nurses in the hallway. “Maalox. Too much hospital coffee.”
I pause to consider. The pains do feel remarkably like the heartburn I’ve had while pregnant, now that I think about it. Heartburn. My heart attack is actually heartburn. I’m both relieved and mortified, embarrassed by the fuss I have caused but so deeply grateful for their care. Over the next ten minutes, I sit on the couch with W, sipping Maalox while nurses and doctors stop by to chat. As I once again collect myself to go pick up the big kids from school, the doctor reminds me, “Now, lay off the coffee.”
“I will,” I say, and I try. I do. I don’t go to Starbucks at all for the rest of the day.
I think of the care humans give each other, of the ways it heals to have your tribe gather. And I feel better.
Song of the Day: Death Cab For Cutie, Marching Bands of Manhattan- It so perfectly captures the flip side of love, the fear that eventually we lose what we treasure. And it’s gorgeous…
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