When I planned to write this blog post, I intended it to be an update on my move. A post about my graceful transition into a much smaller, newer, nicer apartment. About eventually getting motivated to finish all the packing. Organizing the changing of the cable, phone, internet, water, and electricity on my own. Except that I didn’t go anywhere.
And I didn’t execute any of those plans.
I didn’t move last week. I’m not even completely packed.
Instead, I got a phone call from my adult son in the middle of the day. He told me everything was okay and not to worry.
Generally, I am a calm person. But these are not the words a parent wants to hear. Word of advice here to the almost adult and adult children out there. Don’t start a sentence to your parent with “not to worry” or “be or stay calm.” Our worst-case scenario is based on years of parental fears and sometimes well founded, documented events.
Here is a recap…
Son: “I’m calling to let you know that I’m okay. Don’t worry.”
I took a deep breath, searched my memory for where he might be, and could not remember exactly where he was on that day.
“What happened?”
Son: “I fell … on my arm, I was on a bike. (his voice was calm but laced with pain) But I’m okay.”
“Which side?” (he’s left-handed)
“Left side.”
“Can you move your arm?”
“No.”
“Can you rotate your shoulder?”
“No.”
“You probably broke your collarbone. Are you on your way to a hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Is your arm immobile?”
“Yes, well mostly, the roads aren’t too good…”
A day and a half-later, I picked him up at the airport at 4:00 AM. My daughter was with me. He is a handsome boy but he was broken. He was bent and had the sheen of travel and pain mixed up together.
By the time we got home, it was close to 5:30 AM and we had an appointment with a surgeon the following morning.
On unexpected moments of motherhood
It had been a long time since I tucked him in. I woke him at a little after nine. No one got much sleep. Except my daughter (his sister) who thought she had done her duty by driving to the airport, so we left her sleeping.
I helped him up and pulled his clothes away from his wound. He was scraped and scratched all the way down his left side. At the hospital in Nairobi, they had put long adhesive strips of plastic over the gauze. I steadied myself and peeled them off slowly so his wounds could get some air.
They were slick with blood. I didn’t react, just blew on them a little and helped him on with his shirt.
My ex-husband and I went with him to the various meetings. The orthopedic surgeon wanted the abrasions to heal for a few days before surgery.
My original move date was the 5th of July. The first open time on the operating room schedule was July 5th at 2:00 PM.
It took me a couple of hours to change the move date. Half a dozen phone calls and a couple of trips to the bank and new landlord and the old landlord. I was kind of on autopilot. I put off the move until the 11th.
The morning of the 5th arrived. I was exhausted. It was a long, stressful day and our son did his best to entertain us before he went into surgery. The nurse told me he was old enough to go without his parents. I laughed at her.
On sharing parenthood moments after divorce
After he went in, we tried to distract ourselves with phones and work and walking around. Made some small talk. But mostly we worried. Surgery is scary and my ex-husband and I have very different approaches to all things health and medical.
There was no question that we were both going to be there for him. We split the pre-op visits almost in half. After the eleven hours we spent in the hospital on the day of the surgery, I had no problem having my ex check him out the next day.
His significant other and mine didn’t come to the hospital. We never talked about it. Her presence occasionally surprises me. But this time, it was just the parents. For us, sometimes it means just the parents.
In the waiting area, we sat together watching the monitor. It was a monitor like the one in airports only instead of planes landing it had the status of patients as they went from pre-op, to operation, to post-op.
When we finally got the text from the Doctor after the surgery, we hugged each other three or four times and jumped up and down. The relief I felt was like a wave washing over me. I had to lock my knees to keep upright.
My ex-husband has evolved into a great cook. He brought sandwiches that I didn’t want but ate anyway. Later, he wouldn’t let me pay for coffee or dinner. And we laughed when we saw our son in the recovery room because he came out of surgery with only one sock.
We’re divorced, but we’ll always be bonded by the shared memory of our son as a toddler.(Tweet it!)
Running across the kitchen floor with one sock, the other grasped firmly in his sticky fist.
Over to you: when was the last time life changed your plans? I’d love to hear!
