Matters of the Heart
“I won’t be able to come and visit you in March.”
“MOM, why not? What’s going on?”
“Well, I went to the doctor today and…”
“WHAT!?! What did she say?”
“Well, then I visited the cardiologist.”
“Holy shit, Mom! What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“They might need to do surgery.”
The past four weeks have been quite the blur. You never truly think about what it might be like to lose your mother until you face the prospect of potentially losing your mother. Holy Lord. It’s overwhelming…utterly overwhelming. In my head, at that very moment, I was selfish. I wanted to know why this was happening to ME. What about my wedding? My children, her grandchildren? She had to see all of this. I’m sure as hell not going to do any of that without mom. For 26 years, she’s been my confidant, my go-to gal, I can tell her anything. We talk about life, love, transition, religion and all other deep topics. We have more inside jokes than I can even count. She’s my mother when I need a mom and my best friend when I need a best friend. How would I survive? Then my mentality switched. What about her? How is she handling all of this? Is she ok? Is she nervous? Or scared? What’s the prognosis? And then there’s Dad…who would give his entire being to make sure that Mom is well taken care of and happy. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
No one could have ever seen this coming. Mom is one of the healthiest beings…attending personal training sessions twice a week, doing yoga, cardio and other exercises to fill in the rest of the week all paired with a great diet. Come on now. Seriously, folks. Lest I forget the role genetics plays in this.
We got here to Cleveland and I was briefed on the surgery. They. must. stop. her. heart. The words nearly stopped mine. The fact that they were going to stop the organ that keeps her alive, put her on a machine, make the repairs and then make the heart start beating again - well, that kind of science royally freaks me out. This was a time where I had to pull on great faith – faith that the physicians were competent and faith that with mom’s amazingly positive attitude toward the surgery, that she would not only make it through, but make it through with flying colors. I truly believe that with situations of this nature, half of the battle is being in a good mental state.
The morning of the surgery, we woke up at 4 a.m., got her ready (bathing a parent is one of those things that you never think you’ll do in your lifetime, but when it actually happens, you are humbled by all the years that they took care of you) and then headed to the surgical center. I got to wheel her to the waiting area and then we had to be separated while they prepped her for surgery. Dad and I got to sit with her for a little while before the operation and then we had to say our goodbyes. I must have hugged and kissed her a thousand times before I had to turn and walk away. Walking away was the hardest thing to do – especially knowing what was going to happen next.
We received periodic updates from the surgeon and everything was encouraging. After a few hours, we got ready to see Mom in the ICU. I got teary eyed and buried my face in Dad’s chest…which almost exactly 14 years ago, got the same incision that mom’s did. In a flash, I remembered when Dad had his heart surgery. I remembered walking into the hospital room and to this day, I still remember exactly how it was set up. It’s amazing how much detail can be recalled. Dad looked so fragile. I saw tubes, I heard machines beeping, he looked at me and said, “Baby, I’m alright.” He didn’t look alright. I didn’t believe him – at the ripe age of 12, all of this looked so daunting. It was a long, hard road to recovery and I remember telling Mom at that time, “I hope we never have to do this ever again.” And here we are. Doing this again. I put on my brave face, braced myself for the worst and walked into the ICU. Mom, as always, was a super-star. Of course, there were tubes and machines galore, of course she was groggy from the anesthesia, but I looked at her and with her eyes half opened she smiled. Then I knew everything was going to be o.k.
Later that evening, as I watched her sleep in the Intensive Care Unit - her chest rising and falling, heart beating strong (and happy knowing it was functioning properly) - I looked at the curves of her face, the smooth cheeks and the small wrinkles around her eyes. And saw the one harsh line in the middle of her forehead that she always jokingly threatens to Botox. The one that is caused by many years of making the "scolding face” –the one where you know your mom means business. That furrow in her brow can just as easily turn into laugh lines when she’s smiling. It was a comforting thought to know that I will be able to reckon with the brow furrow for many more years to come.
We’re a great trio – Mom, Dad and I – (and will be an awesome quad when NC, who’s already a part of the family, “officially” joins.) I’m sure there will be other obstacles along the way, but we’re tight. We’ll make it. And I have to give NC credit for being there when I was bawling my eyes out to the point of being near inconsolable while we were supposed to be enjoying ourselves in Chicago, when I was angry at the world for this happening and also when I needed a break from reality, no matter how brief - he provided it. I’m also thankful that the day before mom’s surgery he came to Cleveland to surprise us – all I got was a text message that said, “In Cleveland, coming to hotel.” And there he was – amidst his insane schedule for the next few weeks; he made the time and didn’t think anything of spending the money to purchase a last-minute ticket just to be with us for a day. Amazing. Simply amazing. I now know for the rest of my life, I'll never have to go it alone. I've got him right there by my side. That feels good.
I’m uncertain about many things but one thing I do know for an absolute fact is that I can’t (and don’t want to) do this life without her – and I know one day I’ll have to, but now isn’t the time. And for what it’s worth, I’d like to thank everyone who played a part in this - from the diagnosis to the operation and to the recovery. I'd especially like to thank Dr. S with his masterful surgical skills. When he operated on mom, he not only saved her life, but he saved mine too.
------------
I love you, Mom.
“MOM, why not? What’s going on?”
“Well, I went to the doctor today and…”
“WHAT!?! What did she say?”
“Well, then I visited the cardiologist.”
“Holy shit, Mom! What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“They might need to do surgery.”
The past four weeks have been quite the blur. You never truly think about what it might be like to lose your mother until you face the prospect of potentially losing your mother. Holy Lord. It’s overwhelming…utterly overwhelming. In my head, at that very moment, I was selfish. I wanted to know why this was happening to ME. What about my wedding? My children, her grandchildren? She had to see all of this. I’m sure as hell not going to do any of that without mom. For 26 years, she’s been my confidant, my go-to gal, I can tell her anything. We talk about life, love, transition, religion and all other deep topics. We have more inside jokes than I can even count. She’s my mother when I need a mom and my best friend when I need a best friend. How would I survive? Then my mentality switched. What about her? How is she handling all of this? Is she ok? Is she nervous? Or scared? What’s the prognosis? And then there’s Dad…who would give his entire being to make sure that Mom is well taken care of and happy. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
No one could have ever seen this coming. Mom is one of the healthiest beings…attending personal training sessions twice a week, doing yoga, cardio and other exercises to fill in the rest of the week all paired with a great diet. Come on now. Seriously, folks. Lest I forget the role genetics plays in this.
We got here to Cleveland and I was briefed on the surgery. They. must. stop. her. heart. The words nearly stopped mine. The fact that they were going to stop the organ that keeps her alive, put her on a machine, make the repairs and then make the heart start beating again - well, that kind of science royally freaks me out. This was a time where I had to pull on great faith – faith that the physicians were competent and faith that with mom’s amazingly positive attitude toward the surgery, that she would not only make it through, but make it through with flying colors. I truly believe that with situations of this nature, half of the battle is being in a good mental state.
The morning of the surgery, we woke up at 4 a.m., got her ready (bathing a parent is one of those things that you never think you’ll do in your lifetime, but when it actually happens, you are humbled by all the years that they took care of you) and then headed to the surgical center. I got to wheel her to the waiting area and then we had to be separated while they prepped her for surgery. Dad and I got to sit with her for a little while before the operation and then we had to say our goodbyes. I must have hugged and kissed her a thousand times before I had to turn and walk away. Walking away was the hardest thing to do – especially knowing what was going to happen next.
We received periodic updates from the surgeon and everything was encouraging. After a few hours, we got ready to see Mom in the ICU. I got teary eyed and buried my face in Dad’s chest…which almost exactly 14 years ago, got the same incision that mom’s did. In a flash, I remembered when Dad had his heart surgery. I remembered walking into the hospital room and to this day, I still remember exactly how it was set up. It’s amazing how much detail can be recalled. Dad looked so fragile. I saw tubes, I heard machines beeping, he looked at me and said, “Baby, I’m alright.” He didn’t look alright. I didn’t believe him – at the ripe age of 12, all of this looked so daunting. It was a long, hard road to recovery and I remember telling Mom at that time, “I hope we never have to do this ever again.” And here we are. Doing this again. I put on my brave face, braced myself for the worst and walked into the ICU. Mom, as always, was a super-star. Of course, there were tubes and machines galore, of course she was groggy from the anesthesia, but I looked at her and with her eyes half opened she smiled. Then I knew everything was going to be o.k.
Later that evening, as I watched her sleep in the Intensive Care Unit - her chest rising and falling, heart beating strong (and happy knowing it was functioning properly) - I looked at the curves of her face, the smooth cheeks and the small wrinkles around her eyes. And saw the one harsh line in the middle of her forehead that she always jokingly threatens to Botox. The one that is caused by many years of making the "scolding face” –the one where you know your mom means business. That furrow in her brow can just as easily turn into laugh lines when she’s smiling. It was a comforting thought to know that I will be able to reckon with the brow furrow for many more years to come.
We’re a great trio – Mom, Dad and I – (and will be an awesome quad when NC, who’s already a part of the family, “officially” joins.) I’m sure there will be other obstacles along the way, but we’re tight. We’ll make it. And I have to give NC credit for being there when I was bawling my eyes out to the point of being near inconsolable while we were supposed to be enjoying ourselves in Chicago, when I was angry at the world for this happening and also when I needed a break from reality, no matter how brief - he provided it. I’m also thankful that the day before mom’s surgery he came to Cleveland to surprise us – all I got was a text message that said, “In Cleveland, coming to hotel.” And there he was – amidst his insane schedule for the next few weeks; he made the time and didn’t think anything of spending the money to purchase a last-minute ticket just to be with us for a day. Amazing. Simply amazing. I now know for the rest of my life, I'll never have to go it alone. I've got him right there by my side. That feels good.
I’m uncertain about many things but one thing I do know for an absolute fact is that I can’t (and don’t want to) do this life without her – and I know one day I’ll have to, but now isn’t the time. And for what it’s worth, I’d like to thank everyone who played a part in this - from the diagnosis to the operation and to the recovery. I'd especially like to thank Dr. S with his masterful surgical skills. When he operated on mom, he not only saved her life, but he saved mine too.
------------
I love you, Mom.
posted by mkp @ 6:03 PM
4 comments
