VATS surgery day. I had convinced myself that this surgery was all that was needed for Wiley’s recovery to begin. After it, he was going to get better. He had to.
My dear friend Sandra came to spend the dreaded hours of waiting with me. We did not move from the ICU waiting room unless we informed the nurse. The anticipation added to my anxiety. Wiley’s doctor (“Mr. Thoracic Surgeon” whose picture is on a bunch of billboards in town standing with his arms crossed and looking like he could walk on water) was supposed to call me after the surgery was finished.
So we waited. And waited. Two hours, three, four. Nothing. Not one message. Nothing.
ICU waiting rooms are so depressing. Large families from different cultures gather there to “wait.” Some are very quiet and subdued and some are quite loud. But they all bring food. One family even set up chafing dishes to keep everything hot. The smell was nauseating…especially since I couldn’t/wouldn’t eat.
And the conversations! Oh my. With every person on this planet carrying a cell phone, we overheard wailing and crying full out, arguments which should have been handled in private, and regular old gossip about nothing consequential. We tried to get away and move to a different section of the waiting room…but we couldn’t get far enough.
The wait was dreadful and interminable. No call. Sandra left for her long drive home. It was four. Then four thirty. I had to go home soon. As I checked his room one last time, he was being wheeled in. He looked so frail. Tubes were coming out, IVs going in, and he was on a respirator. Nurses were too busy to speak. I was in the way. Feeling that I had been kicked in the stomach by Rocky Balboa I left. Dismayed. Angry. Frightened. Shocked. I dragged myself through the sterile halls and into the endless parking lot. Once in the car, I permitted myself a good cry and I prayed. What would you have me do, Dear Lord?
His response: Press On.
The Missing Handbook 