Giving your child over to a stranger to perform surgery is extremely conflicting. You know it will be painful. You know it will be traumatic. You know that it’s risky and even dangerous. It goes against every parenting instinct you have, but you know that it is necessary. So you do it.
You sit in an uncomfortable plastic and vinyl chair and hold your newborn baby in your arms and let the tears stream silently down your face while you wait for them to take her. You do your best to memorize every detail of her face- because…. well, you can’t think about why. You breathe in her sent and try to distinguish what’s her smell and what are the smells of the hospital blankets she’s wrapped in. You watch her body rise and fall with every breath and feel the beat of her heart and try as hard as you can to believe that this will not be the last time you get to do this. You pray to your Deity of choice, whether you believe in them or not because it can’t possibly hurt to beg for their intervention on your behalf.
You watch the clock. You don’t want to. You hate the clock. The clock is a physical representation of your enemy. Time had never been a concept that you ever considered overly important until it became vitally clear that each tick of that second hand is not guaranteed. It keeps slipping away which means your moments with this perfect little human are slipping away too. You tell yourself to ignore it. You tell yourself not to look. You tell yourself it won’t change anything to sit and stare at it, but you still position your chair squarely in front of your tormentor because all of your will power is otherwise engaged merely keeping you sitting in this room waiting for a stranger to take away your whole world. So you sit in front of it and volley between memorizing your daughters face and doing the math to figure out how much more time you have to memorize your daughters face.
And then suddenly it’s time. The nurse who had been handling you with more patience and compassion than you ever knew possible gently guides you to the pre op room. They talk about things. They have you sign paperwork and when they ask you if you want to read it, you answer firmly that you don’t. You’re going to sign it not matter what it says because you have to. They introduce you to all the strangers who are going to be holding her life in their hands and they ask you if you have questions. You can only think of one and you’re too afraid so say it out loud. The surgeon senses your question, though, and answers it without making you ask: there is a 80% chance of survival. 80% seems so inadequate- but without this intervention, the odds are 100% that she will not survive.
They begin to wheel her away. You are still giving kisses and making promises to her you’re not at all sure you can keep. You watch until they disappear behind the double doors and you crumple into the arms of your spouse and they crumple into you. You hold each other for a while and cry and pray and push the doubt as low as you can. When you feel like you can breathe again, the same nurse who has been caring for you during this process is there and guides you to the waiting area. She has a box of tissues in her hand and she pulls you in for a hug and you feel like shit because you can’t even remember her name. They explain how you will get updates and they tell you where you can get coffee and snacks and then tell you to go find a spot and get comfortable.
You are calm now. You don’t feel tears tugging at your eyes or the shallowness in your chest. It all somehow seems less real in this room, like maybe this is all happening to someone else. You spot your family already seated and you walk over to join them. You put a small smile on your face because they need to see you strong- they need to see that you believe it will all be fine. They wrap you in a quick hug and then immediately begin conversation about anything to distract you and you find you’re eternally grateful for their presence. You settle in and continue to watch your nemesis tick the time away…. and wait.
End part 2
