then…
When I park at the hospital, I only mean to go in for just a moment to drop off the crutches. Of course, I was the only one home to pick them up, the only one available to drive them all the way up the hill in the middle of the day. I have a lot of free time to myself these days, though not much by choice.
Today’s the day–the big S. I haven’t found myself nervous about the surgery yet; I’ve mostly been preparing the house for the best caretaking. After minimal discussion, we agreed that it’d be far better for me, the jobless mom-friend, to take care of The Boy at home than for him to move back into his mother’s house temporarily (his mother who has two other children and a full-time job).
Someone in the physical therapy department directs me to the waiting room, and I stroll down the hall, crutches in hand, while a player-piano in the lobby clunks out classical music. I turn the corner and I see her sitting there, trying very hard to focus on the first or second page of a paperback novel.
“Hey,” I offer, wiggling the crutches a little bit.
The Boy’s mom is the only person in the waiting room and her head flies up when I speak. Suddenly, she comes alive, bubbling with movement and words of excitement flying out of her mouth. She’s all over me and talks in a tumble of syllables like a waterfall.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she says, and as she admits it, I can see it glittering in her eyes. She’s a nervous wreck.
We chat a bit, catching up since the last time we saw each other. I sit down next to her, and we make small talk to fill the daunting empty space. The longer I’m with her, the more her anxiety leeches into me, like water creeping into paper. We watch the screen tensely, reading the updates: he goes under, then moves to the operating room. His parts and pieces are snipped and cut and manipulated and resewn. I find my stomach flipping when I think about his intricate internal parts being touched and augmented by a human being. Obviously, they’re fixing him, but the concept makes me dizzy–outside things on the inside of a body.
And then, like a thief in the night–clammy, bitter fear finally creeps in. What if something goes wrong? This must be what’s tearing his mother apart. It’s a simple procedure that he’s been through before, but you never really know. What pain will he be in? What if, in his delicate state, he has a fall and something so much worse happens? How would life be different without him, and how would it feel? Panic starts to crawl up my throat and I stop breathing entirely as a wave of realization hits me like a truck.
Oh, shit.
I feel my own heart like a separate being standing in front of me, something I try not to look at but can’t completely ignore. Maybe if I close my eyes, it’ll go away. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t see it, it’ll go away. I hope, even as I know it’s not true. It’s there now, whether I like it or not.
I take a few steadying breaths and try my best to empty my mind. With the strength of a life-saving adrenaline rush, I manage to focus all of my attention on my conversation with his mother. I end up staying with her until they wheel him out of the operating room and wake him up. Then, we both get called back to go see him.
I’m expecting a drug-fueled haziness in his eyes, a filterless jumble of strange topics and words, but he appears completely sober when we walk through the door. The relief washes over both of us–two spooked women worried about someone so precious. A nurse runs checks on him, analyzing data on machines that is completely unreadable to me. The Boy starts to get emotional that I’m there, and his mom coaxes tears out of him by asking him about all of his other friends.
It’s a good thing I’m here because the nurse needs me to sign something mom can’t. She demands my full attention and explains in depth how I’m meant to look after him. She tells me how to watch for symptoms of pulmonary embolism and I try to remember how to breathe. I take careful note of his bizarre cocktail of prescriptions and sign him out. I feel like I’ve just been handed a newborn baby, daunted by my caregiving responsibility. Once the doctors give us the clear, we pack him up and take him home.
now.
Every Thursday afternoon, I drive The Boy to his physical therapy appointments. Today is a beautiful spring day, and I roll the windows down as soon as we get off the freeway. My playlist has been specially curated over the last few weeks to maximize the enjoyment of these drives.
After I park the car, I walk around the back to help The Boy get out, handing him his crutches and hovering nearby to spot. I have to cut my pace down to 30% the usual speed to walk alongside him as he hobbles across the parking lot.
The doctor isn’t very gentle with him. He has an abrasive demeanor, but he makes a lot of jokes; he reminds me of a strict teacher who secretly enjoys his job. He pushes The Boy’s leg this way and that, and my heart jumps when he occasionally cries out in pain.
It’s an accomplishment when he’s able to walk down the hallway without his crutches, only resting a hand on the wall. He does half-squats on a specially-engineered machine that only puts a few pounds of weight resistance on his joints. He’s working hard to improve quickly, learning how to walk again, trying to regain his strength.
When we’re released, The Boy asks if we can go to the comic book store–his new hyperfixation. Of course, I agree; I would probably take him anywhere he wanted to go. When we walk in, the cashier greets him informally, commenting that it’s been a while since he’s come in. I hold onto the books The Boy picks out, following him throughout the store. I browse for something of my own and end up grabbing a couple that strike my fancy.
To my surprise, after we checkout, he’s not quite ready to go home, and we drive across the parking lot to the churro and crêpe shop. There is only one other pair in the small restaurant, and they soon depart, leaving us alone in the room. The Boy chats happily in Spanish with the cooks. We both order a crêpe and he gets a second one to take home.
As we sit at our table, sharing bites of each other’s dishes, I realize that in all six of our years, this is the first time we have ever shared a meal in a restaurant–just the two of us. I take my time eating, savoring the sweet treat. Neither of us are in a rush, and we enjoy the food lazily. Once both plates are clean and there is no reason to stay, we begrudgingly get up and move out, concluding our outing for the day.
These days, I spend a good amount of my free time doing little chores like getting him ice and reminding him to take his meds and bringing meals to his bed. These days, I appreciate every little moment and wear my heart like a jacket. And I can’t help but feel grateful to be the person he can rely on when he can’t rely on his own footing, to help carry him through each uncertain step. To me, it doesn’t weigh a thing; it’s as easy as breathing.