Sunday, October 5, 2008


Earlier in the week my son had back surgery. I was terrified.

It went alright, but he had a bad reaction to anesthesia and had to be kept overnight.

Big sigh of relief - he's doing very well.

And I came home to find HSO flat out on the couch, having spent the past five days getting progressively sicker.

Off we raced to the local hospital after the doctor at the walk-in clinic in town said, "Go."

"I do not want to." HSO was adamant.

But thankfully he went. They helped. And I was amazed at how many nurses and doctors manage to maintain their compassion and humanity despite seeing one horror story after another.

The nurses who took care of my son took his care personally. They treated him the way they'd want their own child treated. The nurses and the doctor who took care of My Guy were equally kind.

They didn't blow us off when we said his pain was unbearable...they brainstormed ways to help. They gave him all the time he needed to be sure he was comfortable enough to go home. They cared.

Going to the hospital is a combination of fear and trust. We put our faith in their expertise, hoping they'll figure out what's wrong and be able to help us mend. But we are afraid because we are helpless once we're there. We've admitted we can't do this on our own and we have to put our faith in strangers, believing they're competent, they're interested and they won't cause us unnecessary discomfort.

But letting go of control is very, very hard. And watching strangers treat the people dearest to me gnaws a whole into the center of my gut which churns for days afterwards.

It's fear. And I'm grateful that the overworked, stressed, underpaid people who I've dealt with in this past hellish week have done their very best. It was very good.

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