Well, it’s here. The last couple days have gone by in a blur. We leave this afternoon to head to Philly, to meet with the surgeon and get settled in the apartment/recovery center. It’s on the outskirts of the city, not an area I’m familiar with. So I fuss about that, like you do.
Or I worry about little things: do they provide linens (sheets, blankets, towels), things-to-cook-with. What about meals, what will she be able to eat (knowing Firstborn the answer is not much—she’s never been good with anesthesia and medical procedures in general).
She was told she can get what she needs down there. Of course you can, it’s not a third world country, but where exactly is “down there”?
See how my brain flutters and jitters, spazzing on inconsequentials so I don’t have to think about what’s really scaring the bejeebers out of me?
It’s surgery, an all day thing to boot. There are always risks. And pain. The last thing you want for your kid is pain. And then there’s the other thing, the discomfort of wondering how this will impact her future. Is it going to go as she hopes? Will she be comfortable with the results? Nothing’s ever a given and you go into this journey on the wings of hope and no small amount of faith it will be fine, whatever happens, however it turns out… it will be okay.
And this mother who’s known this gift for decades, has this picture in her head, this memory of years together… will that change? Will I still recognize this person on the other side of a surgeon’s blade? Will those small adjustments make a subtle difference or will it be a sea change of epic proportions?
I don’t know. Wish I did. Make that times two, because we’re sitting here, faffing about on the internet, me writing this blog post, her staring at her notepad, not talking. A day like any other, a day like no other.
I have to pack now. Set the parakeets up with a clean cage and extra food. Make sure our housesitter has what she needs to care for the boys and Little Miss Mayhem. Pack the electronics, the chargers. Fill an ice chest with food, because mothers don’t travel anywhere without provisions.
I want to skip tomorrow, jump into Tuesday, the day of recovery, the day I keep yelling “you’re not supposed to do that” and ask for the bazillionth time “can I get you anything?” I want that day. Not tomorrow, not the day I sit for hours in the waiting room… waiting.
I feel the energy and the kindness of those who have her back. It’s giving me strength.
Thank you to all who’ve wrapped the both of us in understanding and acceptance.