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Laugh and learn as this blog is a forum to share stories that will likely leave me out of “Mother of the Year” contention. The idea of “SuperMom” has been replaced by a philosophy of “real deal parenting” where a marathon mom tries to keep pace with a 5-year old providing constant on-the-job training. A great outlet for those who might not have it all, but dearly love what they have.
I am finally emerging after 11 days of “hospital haze.”
A couple of weeks ago, my father had double knee replacement and suffered a terrible hangover from anesthesia (we think, we still aren’t completely sure). This led to a major state of confusion – he rambled a lot and his arms were regularly in motion as if rowing a boat, which he might have been doing since he frequently didn’t know where he was. Before I go much farther, I am happy to report that my dad’s cloud lifted after about eight days, but the wait to see if the fog would lift was excruciating. We were prepared for a demanding physical recovery from the surgery, but not so well-schooled in the delirium that occurred. My 5-year old Dylan accompanied me to Missouri for the surgery. My husband was traveling for work during my dad’s operation, so it would have been logistically impossible to leave Dylan in Texas. Whoever invented the term “sandwich generation” has it pegged. At 38, I was trying to be the best mom I could while contending with the very real issues my 75-year old father. The squeeze was on, and I didn’t like it one bit.
My first of many breaking points came on Day #4 in the hospital, when Dylan’s sitter was bringing him to me so we could go swimming. I didn’t want him to see my dad in this condition (in fact, he never set foot in any hospital room), so I headed to the hospital reception area to meet him. My cell phone rings, and I learn Dylan is here, but has just vomited in the bathroom. Up until then, I had been pretty darn strong. But dealing with an ailing father and ill son, my resistance fell apart as if someone kicked my Legos into a thousand pieces. I left him with his sitter for a few minutes to weep some gut-heaving sobs, and then I pulled it together to deal with the task at hand. Is he sick, or just carsick, I wondered. He spies the hospital vending machine and requests Oreos and Powerade. My non-medical background says I should take hunger as a good sign. It’s not as though he’s asking for beer or wine, so I unabashedly admit, given my circumstances, I gave it to him. I was beyond caring – and luckily for me, it seemed to work wonders for him.
Dylan also provided me with plenty of moments of solace during this ordeal. While I was a worried daughter, the role of mom also had to be played. At one point, I spent 20 consecutive hours at the hospital trying with no success to reel my dad back into the real world. I left in the early a.m., as the sun was rising, my spirits were sinking and my little guy was still snug in bed. I climbed in next to him and felt fortunate for a little sleep but even more grateful that I had something to tether me to my “other” life.
My dad came home the day before we left for Texas. Upon his return, it was obvious our presence would be more of a hindrance than help – a 5-year old underfoot when someone is recovering from double knee surgery can be downright treacherous. But I felt good that I could leave and see my dad clear.
So now I'm emerging from my own personal fog -- I arrived home exhausted both mentally and physically. But 10 days later, my haze is lifting and I feel a heightened sense of appreciation for my family.
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