Mother and Sons Reunion

Philadelphia

Dear Readers,

I am still a bit loopy from drugs post op, and not quite up to posting. However, I am forwarding my son's blog--his take on last Friday's surgery.

For some unknown reason, I had a premonition that I was not going to wake up from the anesthesia. It was then that I called each of my sons although I did not tell them of my intuition. "It's too much to expect, but not too much to ask", I said. "I know you have your own life and are incredibly busy. And I want you to know that I respect that. But I'm scared, and I taught you, and believe strongly that feelings are important, and that it takes courage to ask for help when you need it--regardless of how it is judged-- and need to be shared with loved ones. It's the only salvation real relationships have." And then I waited for days to see what they would decide to do.

It wasn't that I didn't have friends that would take me to the hospital and bring me home. It wasn't that I didn't think the surgeon was any good. I just didn't want to go to sleep without knowing that they were there. It was all about comfort. It was all about my family.

I've learned, like some of you, maybe, that when you raise kids alone, they tend to think you are invincible. Maybe it's because I had to be, but I did my best to make them think that I was--that I wouldn't take any crap, that I would expect good behavior and punish bad. I remember crying to a boyfriend when they were 10 and 13, still under 6 feet, but clearly on the way: "What am I going to do when they are taller than me? How will I get them to take my edicts seriously?" Then the answer hit me. "I know," I told him, a smile on my face, "I'll stand up and tell them to sit down before I reprimand them." Sounds silly maybe, but I remember it being pretty important when we were having those awful conversations after unauthorized parties at our house while I was gone ( surprise, I showed up early...) or when one of them got picked up with a six pack in his hand AT THE MALL overnight waiting for tickets to go on sale for Phil Collins ( great seats but he didn't go ).

Before I asked them to come to Philadelphia for the surgery, I asked close ( and honest ) friends if it was too much. "I don't want to burden them," I started. "And anyway, maybe it will be fine. But I'm 61, and I know too much from my years teaching and practicing nursing. People die all the time from anesthesia errors. It's all about the anesthesiologist whose skill determines whether or not you wake up. And it's a risk every single time you take general anesthesia. Period. Check the data. Regardless of the shape I'm in, 60 is not the new 40 in terms of the body's response to stress. And my body does not like drugs." Their response, including medical friends, was universal: "Call them and ask. They're your kids."

So I did. Ben seemed angry; Chris seemed distant.

Ben called a few days later to say that he and Abbi would be there as soon as they could leave New York on Friday night but probably not until late. I didn't hear back from Chris, so called him from my best friend, Ann's car, slipping down the Schuykill in the sleet on the way to the hospital. "Just wanted to say hi and tell you that I love you. Tell the boys, too." Didn't want to make any more of my request or raise it, just wanted to hear his voice, figuring his silence was his answer.

For me, it wasn't about the answer, although I hoped they would. But it was about my decision to ask. It would be naive to expect all "yeses" but not too much to ask. What my sons may not know is how hard it is to ask. But, I believe that it's worth the "no", the emotional reaction I can hear in their voices, to show my vulnerability, risk the rejection, anger, the unresolved issues that inevitably accompany mothers and sons, most especially mothers who raised their sons brick by brick. ( Note, dear reader, that is not to say that their father, post divorce, was not involved, important, or loved by them. He was. That, however, is beyond the scope of this blog's emphasis today. )

I will try to keep on having the courage to ask for help from them when I discern it as important. The truth is, I'm not very good at it. But those men mean the world to me, and I didn't want them to wonder ( if something happened on Friday ) that I hadn't asked out of fear. I'd rather fight the fear of rejection or misunderstanding.Not to mention that it's hard to see your mother afraid and temporarily dependent on you--role reversal sucks. What I don't want to do is try to "protect" them from my feelings or my life as it intersects theirs when it matters. In other words, in some things, there are no "do overs".



Chris called for the first days to be sure I was OK and chatted with me about Ethan and Edward's antics. Ethan called me twice with his Daddy's help. "Hi, Grammie. I'm sick too," he crooned to my delight. Today, I got a card from all of them wishing me well, a picture Ethan drew, and a ink print of Edward's 7 month old hand that Jennifer, my daughter-in-law had carefully put on a heavy paper pretty enough for framing.

And Ben came to Philadelphia. Although Ben couldn't get there Friday night when I woke up from the anesthesia, ( there were no train seats to be had, and the storm was raging ). But he showed up the next morning.

I will never forget seeing his rudy cheeks from the cold as he got off the elevator. I was shuffling down the hall round shouldered with my nurse, Liz Faust, holding the wall with one hand, and my IV pole with the other, Liz grasping my elbow, my L.L. Bean wool socks covered with blue booties so I wouldn't slip. I looked up, and there he was, Abigail on his arm, smiling at me like I had just walked up to him at Daniel's or more likely Ocean in New York to have dinner and drinks.
( Believe me, I looked like the woman who played "Throw Mama From the Train". His comfort and support meant more than he knew.


Well, below is Ben's story.

The Gloaming by Benjamin Barenz Wagner ( www. BenjaminWagner.com )

[03.18.2007 20:20 ET] -- Abbi and I walked down Broadway in silence, our breath trailing somewhere behind. Save for the rogue plow and off-duty cab, the snow-covered, ice-choked city was still asleep.

Late Friday afternoon, and as the streets locked up with frozen rain and snow and the airlines threw in the towel, I watched online as eight Amtrak trains between New York and Philadelphia sold out in almost immediate succession. I sighed, lifted the receiver to my ear, and dialed my mother's phone.

"How's our patient?" I asked her nurse.

"Well, she's still in post-op, but the doctor said it went really well," Elizabeth reported. "Are you in Philadelphia yet?"

And so I broke the news.

The truth is, I was somewhat relieved. Because, the truth is, I was a little angry when my mother first asked me to come home for her surgery. 'I'm thirty-five,' I thought. 'I'm not your husband,' I thought. 'And I just got engaged; this time is supposed to be all about Abbi and me.'

See, the whole thing jammed a bunch of buttons. Guys with single moms may know what I'm talking about. The rest of you may be able to empathize. It's not rational, or reasonable, it just is what it is. I have a 61-year-old single mother. Sometimes she needs me. And sometimes that psses me off.

Initially, I considered not going home. I thought, 'I needed to make a statement, to set some boundaries.' Cooler heads, though, prevailed.

"Listen," my friend said, "I understand that you may have some issues or whatever, and those are probably valid. But medical emergencies trump everything, yunno?"

Another chimed in, "God forbid something go wrong."

And so, somewhere around eight o'clock, as most of New York hunkered down in the face of a sucker punch of a Nor'easter, I slipped my laptop into my messenger bag, lifted the collar on my sport coat, and headed uptown. Outside, Times Square was downright hostile. The sidewalks were mobbed with wide-eyed, bewildered tourists slogging like cattle through the wintry mix. Hail, sleet, rain, snow and ice exploded through the air like fiery shrapnel. I squinted through the icy assault, and dashed for the subway.

* * *

It's remarkable just how much liquid the human stomach can hold. The volume is especially dramatic when in reverse. That is, when thrown up. Which is precisely what my mother did within two minutes of Abbi and my arrival at Pennsylvania Hospital Saturday morning.

"Sorry, kids," she said between bouts of nausea.

"It's just bile," she explained, slipping into nurse mode. "It happens."

It's unnerving to see one's parents vulnerable. It's worse when they're ashen, immobile, and hooked to an IV.

The hospital wasn't anything like "Grey's Anatomy." It was cold, horribly generic, and institutional. Between the furniture, the staff, and the linoleum, it was almost wholly out of time.

Abbi and I spent the afternoon making vaguely nonsensical small talk when my mother was awake, then whispering and reading magazines when she was asleep. Around four o'clock, as her color began to return, and her sentences began to make sense, we wheeled her to the car, and drove her home.

Pulling into Leopard Lakes, the pond was thawed and full of waves. Lantern Lane was unplowed and strewn with fallen branches. Turning down the driveway, we were greeted by a sheet of silvery ice. I slid the trick to a stop, stepped out, and walked carefully across the ice towards the house. I opened the garage door, then looked towards the car to see Abbi picking herself up off the frozen ground.

Through a groggy, Dilauden haze my mother slurred, "She slipped."

Abbi (who arose unscathed) and I helped my mother inside, then spent the night steeping tea, making beds, fluffing pillows, and fetching prescriptions. We fell asleep on the living room floor watching "Flicka" on demand.

* * *

I woke this morning to the sound of birds in the back woods, and water bubbling through the creek. I pulled on my jeans, sweater and boots, and walked downstairs. My mother was wide-awake and -- under the influence of Vicodin -- prattling on like a coked up chipmunk. I took a few tugs on my coffee, responded sarcastically a while, then said, "Yunno, even Chris -- who's know me a few years less than you -- knows I'm not very talkative in the morning."

Outside, the sun had broken over the trees. I stalked around the yard snapping photos. The lawn was coated in a thick, impenetrable glaze. The driveway was an ice rink three inches thick.

I have never been one to shovel snow (or ice). As the younger brother, and now as a city dweller, a guy rarely has to sweat these things. But my mother being post-op, and her First Wives Club friends set to arrive within hours, I resolved to address the situation.

It took me all day. The ice was stubborn. All morning, I'd periodically break from conversation, pull on my boots, and return to the task. It took four applications of rock salt to even begin break up my small driveway glacier. The black asphalt began to break through the ice as the sun tracked westward, and our return train's departure edged closer. I hacked and chipped with the shovel, then shattered and spread the chunks to facilitate their demise. As I splayed a final heap across the slowly warming blacktop, I turned my head towards the sky and thought, 'Wow. That is some blue sky. I wonder if it's really that blue? Or if it's my sunglasses?'

My mom was still in her robe when Abbi and I left. The color had come back to her cheeks. She held my face in her hands and said, "Thank you for coming home. I know it wasn't easy."

I smiled and said, "No problem."

* * *

Just now I paused a moment as I stepped from the 72 Street subway station into the crisp evening air, and pulled off my sunglasses. Broadway was clear of snow and ice. The sidewalk was coursing with pedestrians. And above me, a fair dose of bright blue still shone through the gloaming.