A Letter to My Son From the Waiting Room

Hey Baby,

It’s April 5th. I’m on the 1st floor of the hospital waiting room while they prep you for surgery. You just went back. You’re on the 2nd floor having the turbinates in your nose reduced so that you can breathe. It's a simple procedure but no less stressful for anyone involved, especially me, your mom.

It’s been a long time coming, baby, 15 months to get here, and we’ve been through hell and back. I could write a book on what it took for us to get here today. I’m sorry you’ve suffered so long. It broke my heart to watch you struggle to breathe and be in so much pain for so many years.

I’m trying to stay calm as I sit here. This isn’t your first surgery. You’ve had surgery on both of your eyes when you were six. Your brother had tubes in his ears and a broken wrist, so we are no strangers to anesthesia, operating tables, and waiting rooms, but I swear every time feels like the first time.

They just sent me a message that they are starting the procedure, which means you’re asleep. Hold on, I’ll be back.

Ok, I’m back. I thought I could hold myself together, but I had to run to the bathroom so I could ugly cry in private.

I hope you have the best, most peaceful little nap of your life.

There are about 12-15 sets of parents in here, all holding their clear plastic bags with their child’s clothes and shoes in them. Off to my right in the corner of the room, there’s a mom losing her mind; her clear plastic bag is holding pink clothes and a tiny pair of shoes, so I can only assume her daughter, who can’t be much more than 3, is in surgery right now.

I remember those tiny days and those tiny shoes. How you seemed so fragile. I remember losing my mind the first time, too. I wanted to go over to her, give her a hug, and reassure her everything would be alright, but I couldn’t do what I didn’t know. Because we never know if it’s really going to be alright. So I am just sending her peace and love and hoping my momma vibes make it to her heart.

Directly to my right, there is a dad taking a nap, sitting upright in his chair while mom scrolls on her phone. I wish I were him. He must have gotten up too early, too. I don’t see their bag, but I am trying to absorb some of their zen so I can have some, too.

I just got a message that the doctor is working on your turbinates now. I just imagined you on the operating table with the breathing tube coming out of your mouth, and I lost it again. So much for the zen. I’m grateful for the updates, but I’m not sure if a play-by-play is good for a mom like me with an overactive imagination. Do I want to know?

Yes. Yes, I still want to know.

A grandmother is crying now. I think it’s the grandmother; she didn’t have a clear bag, so I assume she’s the grandmother. She’s pacing the room, and it looks like she’s trying desperately to find the exit to get out of this room. I hope she didn’t get bad news, and I’m wondering where her people are.

I can’t stop thinking about all of the clear plastic bags in this room. Complete lives and little bodies are in these bags. I find myself looking at each one, sizing up the age and gender of every little human just by their shirts, pants, and shoes. Most of the bags contain little shoes meant for toddlers. I have a size 11 in mine. You’re not a baby anymore, but stuffed into that bag, along with your socks and shoes, is my heart.

I look around this waiting room and see all these parents sitting, pacing, and praying, like me, for their baby to be better. Hundreds of surgeries a day happen here, and so many kiddos in worse shape than ours are just a few floors up.

We are the lucky ones. In same-day surgery, all the parents in this room with these bags will more than likely get to empty them. Their baby will come out of surgery, get dressed, and go home, throwing their plastic bag away before they leave the hospital.

You will wear your size 11 shoes out of here today.

Some families here today won’t be so lucky. Their bags will remain full, and their stay will be a lot longer than ours. Heartbreakingly, some parents will leave this hospital with their bag full of clothes and without their child, never to dress them again. I can’t even fathom it.

I sit here in awe at the fragility of it all. We turn the most precious pieces of our lives over to perfect strangers and pray they can fix them. We know, as parents, that however safe it may be, anything can happen, and as I sit in this waiting room, I sit in hope and silent solidarity with all the other parents here today, holding our clear plastic bags while nervously awaiting the all-clear call; the sweet sound of “they’re in recovery.”

The pager just went off. It’s only been an hour and a half. You’re done. Now, we can both breathe a little easier.

Let’s get you dressed, baby. It’s time to go home.