Waiting On A Loved One Is Terrifying

Today, we waited. I’m the opposite of good and patient when it comes to waiting for big things. For anything, really. I get twitchy and itchy, and my mind goes to terrible places. I can’t help but visualize each far-off, not-even-a-percent-of-a-percent likely to happen “what-if” scenarios. Then, as if I control fate with my thoughts, I worry that even thinking them will make them come true. 

Like sinkholes.

Trees falling, because I traveled alone.

“But sometimes, they do happen,” my brain whispers. “Sometimes, the very very worst.”

Waiting On A Loved One Is Terrifying

“Shut up,” I reply to irrational worries. But the worries stay. The worst-case “what-ifs” are there, and even as I try to bury them under pink love thoughts, they’re there. It’s like my brain turns into this grid, where I stack All Good Things thoughts on top, but instead of erasing the horrible ones, the grid just grows. Something like this:

Today, we waited for it to be time to head to the hospital. We waited without breakfast, without a snack, without even water after 9:30 a.m. because I’m not a monster who makes food and eats it when my 10-year-old isn’t allowed to.

We waited willingly, knowingly and with intent, while wanting to run the other way. Life’s weird that way. We wait to do something terrible that will end up being The Best Thing, in the long run. 

This morning, we had an appointment at Children’s Hospital because Tucker’s two broken bones shifted in his cast, and had become “quite displaced.” Without surgery, his arm would forever be more prone to break, and he’d have a slightly visible crooked place just below his wrist. 

Mostly, I was worried about anesthesia. I mean, opioids! Come ON! He’s 10, FFS. I asked the anesthesiologist about non-opioid sleeping gas and he looked at me like I’m an idiot. Said something like “well, we want to manage his pain and keep him comfortable.” Duh, yes, yes we do. I dropped it, and then visualized the very worst reactions to anesthesia, vomiting in his mask, all of it. 

The nurse asked whether he has any loose teeth, and I told her he lost a baby molar last night. “No problem,” she said, but of course my brain said “there may be a scab-thing there, and if he inhales and, he could choke and and ___.” Even typing, I can’t admit where I go with this stupid crap, that’s not actually all the way stupid, because as everybody knows, terrible and unanticipated things happen all the time, without warning, and without even a little foreshadowing in life’s story.

I mean, it’s why we have unexpected grief and butterfly magic. So I go there. I don’t want to and mostly, I know everything will be fine but also the percent of a percent of bad things happen, or else it’d be zero percent, right?

Out loud, all I said was “Um, there might be a scab where he lost his tooth. This one bled a lot.” “Noted,” she said, without laughing, so maybe it’s good I said something. Or maybe she’s used to freaked-out mamas with their babies (even when they’re no longer a baby) in the hospital, getting surgery and anesthesia for the first time. 

I was mostly holding it together, until they said they were ready to wheel him back. “You’re not coming with me?” he asked. “But I’m nervous.” “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay to be nervous, Buddy,” I said. “It’s okay to be afraid, and they won’t let me back there because I’d probably be the opposite of helpful when I see how they need to fix you.” 

“What about dad then?” he said.
“Dad’s not allowed either,” the nurse replied. 

I kissed him and told him he’ll be fine. That we’ll be waiting. “I love you!” I said as he wheeled away from me. That’s the only time I cried. I mean, at least today. I cried when they said he’d need surgery, and I cried when they tried to unsuccessfully squeeze his bones together when they learned they’d become crooked on Tuesday. When he screamed. Gah. 

“Are you okay?” Robert asked. “Don’t.” I replied. 

I realized how off-putting I sounded and followed up with “You asking just makes me more emotional.” “Okay,” he said. 

And then we waited. We ate, and I only went with him to the floor above because no food was allowed in the waiting room, and the front-desk nurse overheard him and said “We have your number. Go. He’ll be in there a while.” “But I don’t have a cell signal,” I said. “We’ll text then,” she said. And I went. 

We ate, came back, and waited. 

Thankfully, we got good news, and although it was a little bit awful to watch him come out from the fog of anesthesia, he was fine. In pain, but fine. “The sleeping gas must’ve gotten better since you had it,” he said. “Because I only counted to three and then don’t remember anything.” He said this like it was a new revelation no less than nine times. Not that I was counting. We waited for him to come out enough to go home. 

“I’m so hungry,” he said. “Can I have Smash Burger?” 

And he had Smash Burger. With fries and brussels sprouts. He’s still in pain, but he’s home, and it’s so much easier waiting for him to heal than it was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, as kind and gentle with us as they were. Tonight will likely be long, and possibly hard, but the waiting is over, mostly (I mean, duh, there’s a risk of infection because underneath his new, so much better because it’s now a below-the-elbow cast, there are little metal pins sticking out from his bone to the skin). I’m trying to not worry about that though. I’m trying to not wait, and to simply witness tonight and be there if and when he wakes. 

Thank you so much to all of you who have sent messages, information, hugs, prayers, and good vibes to him and to all of us. While I worry about way too much, I believe in the power of these things, and appreciate each of you. 

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, with the prompt “when it comes to waiting…”