We are in a waiting room at the outpatient surgery center. You are wearing a tiny gown. It is at once the cutest and saddest sight I can remember. Outside, it pours, water cascading down the window. The weather fits the gloominess of the morning.
We are worried, your mother and I, wondering constantly in silence if this is the right choice. It would be so much easier if it were me having the surgery. I make the decision, I live with the results, good or bad. But you never asked for any of this. We brought you here. And you've been so happy the past few weeks. Why do something to risk messing that up?
But before that, there were the five rounds of antibiotics. A whole lot for anyone, but especially someone your age. Seven months old. I finally decided better to have something done that might allow your body to fight for itself, rather than keep pouring that poison down you. If you ever wonder why we did it, that is why.
Routine. Minor. Simple. These are words people use to describe your surgery. But when a complete stranger takes your only child from your arms, then disappears down a hall behind double doors, those are not words that come to mind.
That is what happened. I did not look at your mother, because I knew she was crying. If I looked at her... well I had to pretend to be the strong one.
The doctor came to talk to us after an eternal fifteen minutes. Everything had gone fine. You would be in recovery for ten minutes, then we'd probably hear you before we saw you, in his words.
He was right. You were screaming I guess as loud as I've ever heard you.
We are worried, your mother and I, wondering constantly in silence if this is the right choice. It would be so much easier if it were me having the surgery. I make the decision, I live with the results, good or bad. But you never asked for any of this. We brought you here. And you've been so happy the past few weeks. Why do something to risk messing that up?
But before that, there were the five rounds of antibiotics. A whole lot for anyone, but especially someone your age. Seven months old. I finally decided better to have something done that might allow your body to fight for itself, rather than keep pouring that poison down you. If you ever wonder why we did it, that is why.
Routine. Minor. Simple. These are words people use to describe your surgery. But when a complete stranger takes your only child from your arms, then disappears down a hall behind double doors, those are not words that come to mind.
That is what happened. I did not look at your mother, because I knew she was crying. If I looked at her... well I had to pretend to be the strong one.
The doctor came to talk to us after an eternal fifteen minutes. Everything had gone fine. You would be in recovery for ten minutes, then we'd probably hear you before we saw you, in his words.
He was right. You were screaming I guess as loud as I've ever heard you.
But at that moment, in that situation, it was the best sound I'd ever heard.
