For me, hospitals always have such an air of sadness around them. Even though most people are there to get well, and many of them do, I can’t ignore the solemn faces, the hushed voices, and the seemingly endless maze of corridors. The minutes pass slowly, and I see the same anxious expression over and over as I pass people in the halls. Their faces are a mirror to my own. My mother, who is a nurse, sees things differently. She says hospitals are a place of healing. She says that surgeries, like my husband’s, give people a chance to live better, and longer, than they would without them. I think that is a wonderful perspective.
Baby Z and I did a lot of laps, a lot of worrying, and a lot of nursing. He did amazingly well for a baby that isn’t even two months old, and he charmed the heck out of just about everyone we met. They all marveled at his full head of hair, his breastfed chubbiness, his big, alert eyes, and his adorable smile. My husband’s wedding ring felt very foreign on my finger, though it seemed that was the best place for it, if it couldn’t be on his.
I drank peach iced tea in the café, while I waited for the restaurant-style buzzer to signal that my husband’s surgeon was ready to give me the news – good or bad. When it went off after less than half the time allotted for the surgery, irrationally I thought that something terrible must have happened. But, the truth is that the surgery went quickly because it went well. We are all so grateful for that.