There was familiarity to the morning: crisp, cold, and early. As we buckled my little guy into his car seat, I couldn’t help but remember the day he was born. Also, a chilly January morning. My jumbled nerves kept me up the night before. But, this time, I didn’t want him to know I was tense. He knew we were taking him to the hospital which we visited only a few days earlier. We wanted him to get a sense of the day of surgery. It was meant to calm his nerves, just as I hoped it would calm our nerves.
Benny is stoic: a tough little guy. We knew the surgery to repair an umbilical hernia was the best thing for him. He’s very active, so the hernia could become a hindrance for him. On the morning of his surgery, he didn’t cry or ask to be held. He seemed to bravely accept the situation. That is, until he was given a relaxation drug. He laid back, as if to rest, when suddenly he sat up and said, “I’m really angry at you all.” I looked at my husband, who said, “We better be prepared for the fangs after surgery.” As I said, he’s tough!
Ironically, my father, who lives in Virginia, is transitioning to another chemotherapy treatment, while Benny is undergoing surgery.
He has battled cancer for almost five years. The first treatment, immunotherapy, seemed like a miracle drug. But, cancer fights back with a vengeance. Those of you with ill parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, know this as well as I do.
This same scenario — ailing parents — happened during Benny’s birth.
My father-in-law, ill with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, died a few weeks after Benny’s birth. We were still reeling from the sudden death of my mother-in-law only six months earlier. It’s not as if I should be surprised. We are part of the sandwich generation. We married late and had babies late in life. So we have parents who are part of the aging baby boomer generation. My own mother died while still in her fifties. It still doesn’t make it any easier. Mortality is a hard concept to accept when it becomes a reality. Is it not?
On the day of Benny’s surgery, my dad didn’t want to worry me. So, he said, “We’ll talk later.” I knew that was a sign that he wasn’t doing well. But, the day called for the love and care of Benny. For both patients, it was important to stay calm. Isn’t that the hardest part of being an adult? We must stay calm when our insides feel like jelly. When your parent is sick and your child needs special attention, the pressure squeezes from both sides. My dad, always the one to handle his nerves in quiet fortitude, has now become the one who needs me to have those steely nerves. So, I leave him to his thoughts and ask him questions when I can, usually when my boys aren’t around.
As for Benny, he cuddled with me and we sang songs which calm him (to be honest, the songs calm me, too). The surroundings were similar on the day he was born and to the room where my dad has his treatments — a sterile hospital room, bright lights, and cold. And just like on the day of his birth, it didn’t take long before it was time for surgery. We walked with him to the prep area where we met the nurse anesthetist and spoke once more to the surgeon. Both of my boys were born by caesarean section; the familiarity of the cold, sterile environment makes me shiver, but I had my little buddy on my lap. We kept each other warm.
Later, as Benny is in surgery, I think about my dad and one of his earlier treatments. On that day, my stepmother sent a photo of him; he’s wrapped in a blanket and sitting by a window. My heart feels comfort knowing he is loved and cared for by her and that he’s warm while the chemotherapy drug pumps through his veins.
During these times, I have no real control. I’m not the expert. I’m not the doctor, the nurse, or in my dad’s case, the oncologist. So I have to place my worries aside and just have faith. In the words of Duke Divinity professor and author Kate Bowler, “I’m here. I’m in this with you.” All we can really ask of ourselves is to have hope and strength so that we can comfort our loved ones.
