On October 30th, I drove 5 hours by myself, leaving my husband and kids at home, to be there for my mom’s surgery the next day. On Halloween, she had a double mastectomy. I still find myself pausing when I say those words. Still trying to comprehend it all, I guess.
This trip was the first time I had ever spent a night away from either of my children. Even when I stayed a few days in the hospital, after Evan was born, Leala slept at the hospital with me.
It was so hard driving away from my sweet kids and husband. They are my life. Leading up to the day, Evan kept telling me that he wanted Tuesday to come, but he didn’t want it to come. He didn’t want me to go, but he wanted me to be there for Memaw. His understanding of the situation made the whole ordeal much easier. He was sad. I was sad. We were all sad. But we all knew I was doing the right thing. I was leaving them in the comfort of our home and in the care of their awesome dad, where they could continue to do their schoolwork and have some normalcy.
This was not going to be a pleasant visit. This wasn’t going to be a visit filled with tons of hugs and laughter. This was serious. We had our visit full of laughs and loving on Memaw just weeks before this. We had given them that time. This was a visit for surgery. For me to help my mom in any way she needed. For me to be there, for better or worse. For me to be there, physically and emotionally, uninterrupted and without distraction.
So, I left. I left my beautiful kids. I left my supportive husband. With his time in the Navy, we’ve had to say bye many times. Now, it was my turn to walk away. To leave. I’ve only done that once before and that was when I had to board a plane in Japan to go home. It was the hardest thing I ever had to physically do. To walk away from him.
This time was different though. It wasn’t necessarily me walking away from them… or leaving them… it was me going to my mom. It was me supporting my mom. Still very hard, but different.
5 hours on the road… Lots of trees, silence and double yellow lines. I stopped for gas. I skipped lunch. I got my first ticket. I cried. The realization of exactly why I was driving there hit me like a tons of bricks. I kept driving.
As soon as I got to my childhood home, I threw myself into helper mode. I did all that I could to make my mom’s last night before surgery easier. We had dinner. We talked. We went to bed. I woke up a handful of times in the handful of hours I slept. Morning came quickly and we were all on our way to the hospital, before the sun came up.
Nurses, doctors, anesthesiologists, and more all came in for talks, confirmations, and monitoring. My sisters came too. We all three got to say our goodbyes and get in one last hug before they kicked us out of the room. Dad got to stay with her a bit longer before they took Mom back. Just like that, that was my last time seeing her before her surgery. I didn’t know I wouldn’t be able to watch her be wheeled away. Scary, unwelcome thoughts filled my head as I walked away from her hospital room. All three of us broke down in tears. Of course. Like there was ever a chance that wouldn’t happen.
A part of me held my breath from that moment on, until we got an update hours later.
We tried to keep the conversation light in the waiting room. The energy was unsettling. Of course we all hoped for the best, but I think we were all slightly secretly preparing ourselves for the worst. At one point, my dad and I did talk about how we thought my mom would do… we sat there in silence as we both thought to ourselves and tried to form our thoughts into words. We knew she would be okay, but overwhelming fear was ever so present. We had just managed to get out the words “she will be okay” when the first surgeon came out to talk to us. His part of the surgery was done and she had done great. Minimal bleeding and she was doing well with the anesthesia.
A loud sigh of relief. Vigorous and gracious handshakes. Happy tears.
She’s doing okay.
It was now the next surgeon’s turn. This part would take longer. Conversation was flowing more freely now. A little laughter. Some smiles. Lots of horrible hospital coffee.
Again, just my dad and I were in the waiting room when the second surgeon came out to speak to us. All was well. My mom was okay. She had done great. Surgery was a success. Her lymph nodes were clear. She would be going to recovery soon and we could see her after that.
A huge sense of relief swept over all of us. More tears. More hugs. More smiles. More laughter.
Seeing them wheel her bed out and seeing her face was solidification that she was okay. The last time I had seen her, I didn’t know if I would see her again…
She made it through the surgery. She was still with us. She was okay.
As the only non-smoker among the daughters, I immediately jumped in as the caregiver. I helped get her situated in her new bed. I freshened her wash cloth on her forehead with cold water. It helped with the nausea. I helped her with her water and ice chips. I was there for anything and everything she needed. I watched them empty her drains. I scoured the hospital for some hard candy. I kept my aunt updated. I notified the nurse when she needed to go to the restroom and I helped her go. I was there solely to help her. To help ease some of her troubles. To help make at least some of this easier. She is going through the unimaginable and if I could take any of that away for her, I wanted to do it.
I stayed at the hospital for the remainder of the day. We shared some laughs and giggles. We shared special looks that needed no exchange of words. I saw her incisions. I emptied her drains. I fed her dinner. I did everything I could, until she finally kicked me out and sent me home for the night.
She looked good. To have just had surgery… the kind of surgery she just had… she looked great. Her spirits were up. Her pain level was manageable. She was okay. She’s a trooper. She’s a warrior. A beautiful, loving, strong woman. My mom.
I left the hospital that night wanting to just cuddle up next to her and hold her until she fell asleep. But I knew I’d be right back up there the next morning, so I made my way to the house to sleep for the night.
The morning was a whirlwind of getting paperwork finalized and getting her discharged. She was doing great and we had all of the information we needed to continue her care. She was ready to go home.
The day was filled with lots of rest, phone calls, alarms reminding me of her next dose of medicine and even walks outside. She was doing amazingly well. She IS amazing! The next day was filled with much of the same. Through it all, I cherish our walks the most. Walking and talking and collecting pretty fall-colored leaves. Our talks got deep and she opened up to me more about how she feels. Those moments mean more to me than anything else from this trip.
The day came that I had to go home. It was such a bittersweet and somber realization that I would have to leave her and go back to my life in Victoria. I wanted to see my kids and husband again, of course… but leaving my mom at such a tough time was hard. We had one last walk. Gathered more leaves and an acorn. We talked. We bonded. We stalled.
I am beyond grateful that I was able to be there for her. This trip will forever be in my heart, memories and soul… leaving its mark… making an imprint that will forever be a part of who I am. I love her so very much. I hate that she is going through this, but I’m glad I was able to help her. To support her. To love her through this part of the journey.
