NESTING

It would come to pass that the prodigal son would injure himself severely enough to require surgery.  I omit the 'major, 'minor' aspect while mentioning surgery, as I view any sort of surgery requiring general anesthetic to be major.

Somehow the kid lifted a heavy object and gifted himself with a double-hernia, which must be extremely painful as every time he coughs he makes a noise.  Which means it must be basically unbearable for him.

  I believe this because the year he was working for a landscaper and dropped a chainsaw on his leg, which cut through the meat to the bone before the chainsaw continued its noisy decent to the ground, the kid never made a noise.  He calmly turned off the chainsaw, called for an ambulance, sat down and while applying pressure to the wound, patiently awaited his transport to the hospital.  There he demanded a local anesthetic, and they promptly stitched his leg back together .

This he has to be knocked out for.  He is trying to maintain an air of bravado, claiming he will have Superman Kevlar Abs after the event, but I know he is doing that, "I may not wake up," game most of us play with the first surgery adventure.

I didn't realize just how much the upcoming event was affecting both of us until Sunday evening.   After I had rearranged my tiny bedroom; twice.  When I was done I went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate, and nearly bumped into the kid.  Exiting his bedroom with a mop.   "I just cleaned my entire room," he said.  I peeked in.  My mother would have been proud.  Clean was the wrong word.  Sterilized would have been more appropriate.  Not a speck of dust anywhere, not a knick-knack out of place.  His cats were in there looking confused.

Monday would find me repairing picture frames that had not fared well during the last move, and cleaning the rest of the apartment. It's an automatic overdrive thing.  Keep moving; don't think.  Try to forget he is thirty-two and never out grew of his asthma. That every time he has dental work done they make sure he has a rescue inhaler in his hand in case he has a reaction to the local anesthetic. 

His surgery will be done by laproscope, and will be approximately six hours.  I've done the steps to the Waiting Room Dance far too many times, waiting for individuals in operating rooms.   I am never able to concentrate on a book, though I always bring one.  I find myself watching everyone else, waiting.  The surgeons -  some not bothering to change their scrubs, covered in the blood of their victims - come to the waiting room to retrieve family members, then take them into a glass-walled, soundproofed room,  in full view of those left waiting.   Those remaining in the waiting area know the news is not good if the curtains are slid tightly closed across the windows, and nurses enter the room five minutes later to allow the surgeon an escape hatch.

There is nothing left for me to do in this apartment, but the approaching snow storm that is predicted to be carrying two or more feet of snow our way, will luckily keep me busy nesting outdoors shoveling until 6 AM Friday morning.  At which time I will drive my son to the hospital.  And begin THE WAIT.