I wrote this post last week, while waiting and thinking…
I thought I could sit and write today. The room is quiet around me and I have a bottle of good green tea. My chair is soft, my laptop on my lap.
But my son is in surgery, for a minor procedure we couldn’t get done this summer, and I find I am unable to write while I am thinking about my child on an operating room table. I sat with him while he went to sleep, his eyes freezing into place and then drooping shut. I do not like to think of my child under the knife, that deathlike sleep where one does not feel, does not think, does not move.
But I am grateful.
I’m grateful for the miracles of science. Two of his nurses had a playful argument while his anesthesia took hold.
It’s “magic air” that we’re giving you, honey, scented like Skittles.
Do you think it’s really magic? I asked him.
It’s more like science, said the other gal. Enough said. We don’t understand it.
Well then, it’s kinda magic.
I wonder if he will remember this conversation when he awakes.
One of the things I love about Regan is how confident he is, charismatic, energetic. He walked ahead of me into the operating room and put himself on the table and grinned. I followed him in my germ-proof bunny suit. What a kid.
And now it is over, and we don’t have to worry anymore.
People say you don’t have to worry at all, just trust, but I have never found that secret. Worry is my love language. That is why, despite the soft chair and the good tea and the ready laptop, the words won’t come. But there is always tomorrow.
How much do you worry about the people you love? Does it help? I would like to talk more about this next time.