My mom’s surgery is over. We wait from 8am-noon patiently, understanding that 3-4 hours is the standard length of time for a valve repair of this kind. It is the wait from 12-1:15 that is excruciating. We are in the “Surgery Waiting Area” we’ve been instructed to sit in so we know we’re in the right place. A hospital volunteer comes to check in with us and tell us the surgeon is on the way to see us no fewer than 6 times. She is very apologetic, but we can tell she is confused about why the doctor hasn’t come to reassure us yet. She can’t give us any information about Mom’s condition. The confusion makes me worry there has been some complication. I try to tell myself (as does the volunteer) that the doctor may have had to urgently attend another patient (the most likely scenario) or even, that he needed to eat lunch, though that scenario only makes me more irritated.
He finally comes to tell us that everything went fine – no complications. They will be monitoring her closely in the ICU for several days. We won’t be able to see her for a few hours, but we are relieved. We drive into the old downtown and walk around with no particular destination in mind. We stumble upon a Japanese place with a patio, and it’s one of those unseasonably warm February days that feels like June. We share some miso, a green salad and some ramen, and it is the best thing I have tasted in a long time. It feels so nice to just sit outside in the sun with my Dad after so many hours in the hospital. Even the soundtrack is right: that Fleetwood Mac I’ve been longing for? It may be from their 80s discography, but I’ll take it. Cotton Fields by CCR is playing as we finish eating – though released in 1969, this song is deep in my 80s childhood. I can remember singing along to it with my parents in the backseat of our car, so I must have been 7 or 8. I pay the bill ($36), we take some selfies in front of the restaurant and head back to the hospital.
February 25 It’s been years since I have spent this much time with my dad. It’s wonderful, and terrible, and we irritate each other after a few days. I am a morning person and he is a night owl, and we finally have to reckon with this. We resolve our differences by agreeing to drive separately on the 4th day and this resolves a lot of tension. I miss our talks on the 30 minute drive, but also relish the opportunity to listen to my current audiobook: Build the Life You Want. As a self-help enthusiast, the “how-tos” of personal development are endlessly fascinating to me.
We return and are finally able to see Mom. She is pale and wrung out, hooked up to so many tubes and monitors. Somehow I was not prepared for this, though in my brain I knew to expect it. But the emotional impact is something else. We sit with her until the nurses shift change and then drive home. I am asleep 20 minutes after we walk in the door.
February 26 Mom is recovering slowly in the ICU. The nursing staff are great, and tell us everything is progressing as it should. I text updates to my mom’s sister Jennie in Minnesota. We eat hospital food.
February 27 This is my 7th day spending 8-10 hours in the hospital. I have taken a few days leave from work, but I start working remotely for a few hours in the afternoon. Mom begins some physical therapy today. I accompany her, the nurse and physical therapist, both of them holding all her tubes & wires, down the hall and back. She laughs for the first time watching a few minutes of Seinfeld after dinner. More hospital food.
February 28 A fellow customer at the coffee shop ($6) points out that I have a flat tire, which I take to Les Schwab. They charge me $0 for the repair. I love Les Schwab. To celebrate, I go across the street and spend $30 on coffee and baked goods for me and my parents. By the time the repair is finished my dad is ready to go so we drive together. Mom is doing better today, and can walk a little farther. We watch a little bit of Nacho Libre and she laughs – but wants to skip the wrestling scenes.
February 29 – Mom is finally out of ICU and in a “step-down unit.” I am reading to her from an Alexander McCall novel. Today I branch out of the hospital cafeteria and buy lunch at a peruvian food cart ($16). It is chock full of sodium – and heavenly.
March 1 Minimizing my spending has certainly taken a back seat to the convenience of eating out since my mom’s hospitalization. I pack leftovers for lunch today, and spend $2.85 on coffee on the way to the hospital. Mom walked without a walker today. She is back to her old self.
March 2 Without realizing this is my plan, I announce to my parents that I need to go home. I make a lunch, pack up and get on the road.
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