Even the Big One Still Needs His Mom Sometimes

So I’d better step it up.

Here we are. My husband and I are hanging out in the sixth floor waiting room at UCLA Medical Center, while our 19-year-old son is undergoing septoplasty surgery to fix a deviated septum. I’ve already finished Spelling Bee, Wordle, and Strands for the day, so I’m just staring at the drab walls.

The aesthetics of this place leave something to be desired. The worn couches are mismatched (though maybe tied together by their beige tones?). There’s no art, not even a breezy watercolor seascape. Just a handful of “no cell phone zone” signs.

The trio of loudmouths to my left are talking about everything and nothing. “I’ll be done paying off the IRS by December!” High five. “Bill’s gonna need Depends when he gets outta here!” One of the loudmouths answers a call on speaker phone. He’s oblivious to my throat clearing and aggressive head tilting toward one of the no cell phone zone signs.

A woman on the other side of the room is also talking on speaker phone. I’m pretty sure in Russian. It’s a relief not to understand what she’s saying. Now the woman to my right is silently imploding about the din (or maybe it’s the adult diapers comment that’s triggering). I try to catch her eye to express solidarity, but she’s too apoplectic to notice. What has happened to waiting room common decency?

Clearly, I’m anxious. Before our son was rolled out of pre-op, my husband kept asking if I was ok, then telling me everything was ok even though I hadn’t answered. When we got back to the waiting room, he asked again, “Are you sure you’re ok? Because your eyes were glazing over in there.” Actually, I’d been hyper focused on a lock of hair that was out of place on the surgeon’s head. It was all I could do not to reach out and flick it into place.

Maybe I had disassociated a little. I tend to freeze when I’m scared. And pain, sickness - pretty much any bodily issue - really scares me. If you have a cold, I’m certain it’ll lead to pneumonia. Flu might as well be bubonic plague. Croup? Don’t get me started. That sound will haunt me for the rest of my days. The only time I’m not frozen is when there’s vomiting involved. That sends me scream-running out of the house. (More on that another time.)

Because of my unease with disease, while my kids were growing up, I often took a backseat when they were unwell and let my husband provide the warm fuzziness of caregiving. I could throw dance parties, build forts, and play Candyland until the cows came home, but soothing a feverish child was not my forte. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. And I’m sure this time, post-surgery, will be no different.

The surgeon finally comes in. He says someone can now join our son in recovery. He addresses me, assuming I’m the one for the job. I can feel my husband giving me a “Can you handle this?” look. We both know it’s questionable. But what am I going to say? No, I’d prefer to keep twiddling my thumbs in beige purgatory? So I nod, heart racing, and follow the surgeon out.

There he is. My boy. Drugged out and surrounded by wires and monitors. That all-too-familiar chilly stillness spreads from my head to my toes. When my son realizes I’m standing next to him, with his eyes still closed, he manages to croak a surprisingly loud “‘Sup, Mom!” It startles me. And I begin to thaw.

My son usually calls me Jess. He started addressing me by my first name in preschool. That way I’d always know when I was being summoned and by whom, while all the other chumps on the playground were shouting a generic old “Mom!!!!” and just hoping for the best. I swore to him I could recognize his voice and even feel it in my bones when he needed me. He didn’t buy it. I’d be skeptical too if I were four years old.

But today he calls me Mom. He asks me to feed him sips of apple juice. I oblige, even managing not to screw it up. I don’t get the sense he’d prefer my husband to sit with him. Might this time be different after all?

I realize I’d like it to be.

* * *

We’re home now, and the kid is in bed. The square of gauze taped below his nostrils is disturbingly Hitler-esque. I will myself to stay present, as I could easily spiral down a rabbit hole of World War II rumination.

I make a cozy pyramid of pillows for him to lie against so his head is upright-ish. Not tilted so far back that blood drips down his throat, not so far forward that his head will bob if he falls asleep. Just right. Like a good mom should know how to do. We’re off to a promising start.

The anesthesia won’t fully wear off for a while. That gives me time to run out for the stuff no one told me we were going to need - throat lozenges, saline nasal spray, Afrin. And a shitload of Q-tips. (You don’t want to know.) I’m a little harried and unsure about everything. A hallmark of parenthood I guess.

The other night I had the wildest dream. I was standing in a beautiful, flower-filled courtyard, and a little voice was calling my name. I looked up and saw my son smiling at me as he peered over a balcony. He was far away, but I could see he’d somehow travelled back in time. He was five years old again. I beckoned to him, my arms outstretched. He started heading my way, and I was overcome by reflexive, joyous tears. I couldn’t wait to scoop him up and smother him with kisses.

But as he took each step, he got older and older, quickly evolving into a six-year-old, a seven-year-old, an eight-year-old…. I yelled, “Hurry! Hurry!” frantically trying to keep the moment from slipping away. By the time he reached me, he looked to be about ten. Still a relative baby. I took him into my arms and hugged him tight, as I sobbed and laughed and refused to let go.

When I woke up I was shook, as the young folks say. The yearning was visceral, the love overwhelming. How lucky we are that our dreams can bring us to places we desperately want to go. And how heartbreaking when we’re forced to leave.

The boy is lucid when I return from CVS. I spill out my purchases on his bed. He gives me bonus points for the Werther’s caramel candies. Thinking he wants to rest, I head for the door. “Hey, you can stay if you want.” I look behind me. No one’s there. He must be referring to me.

He says, “I’ll tell you about college.” As if I need an incentive. I plop down on the floor right where I was standing. My college freshman wants to talk to me. Tell me things. About his life.

“Mom, you can sit on the bed.” Is this really happening? I stand up to gingerly take my place next to him. Please let me play it cool.

We talk about it all - classes, dating, parties, his fraternity, even how he feels about things. He tells me how happy he is at school, that he knows he’s in the right place, and has made good friends who look out for each other. I lap it up like I’ve been stranded on a desert island for years.

He shows me photos on his phone. Images of a goofball with his buddies. I see how his dorm room has morphed since we moved him in last fall. I can now put faces to names. Names I didn’t know until five minutes ago.

It’s bittersweet. I’m grateful for the peace of mind and the glimpse into his new world, but I’m also reminded that it’s a world I can only observe from a distance. And I’m painfully aware the chasm is only going to grow wider as time marches on.

When my son is all talked out and his nose starts to throb, we get quiet. Each lost in our own thoughts.

He stretches his hand across the bed toward me. I grasp it. And we lie like that until we both fall asleep.

* * *

It’s three days post-surgery. I’ve only messaged the surgeon a few times with burning questions. Like how much Norco is too much Norco? And is it ok to drink root beer? Not only have I found my footing, I’m in Florence Nightingale territory.

I have been a stellar caregiver. Even in the tough moments. When my son couldn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe easily, couldn’t chew, felt nauseous, and had goop streaming out of his nose, the fear I spent decades cultivating crept up on me, but I beat it down. I stayed here - physically and mentally. Surprisingly, it wasn’t even hard.

I poke my head in my son’s room to let him know his dad and I are going to take the dogs for a quick walk and his brother will be here if he needs anything.

“Can’t Dad go without you?” he asks.

He doesn’t want just anyone to stay with him. He wants me. He says I’m a calming presence (something I’ve never been accused of). After all the years of feeling like I was missing a crucial caregiving gene, I’m downright delighted.

So, my husband walks the dogs without me.

Because the big one needs his mom.