John is having his third surgery on Friday, and we realized
today that we had made the same decision unbeknownst to each other: We decided
to ignore it until Christmas is over.
The folder with paperwork is sitting on the desk, a little brochure
with baffling diagrams and line drawings is unopened, the pre-op instructions
are still in the envelope. Oh well.
It reminds me of what its like after the first baby. A
friend who has three kids likes to say it this way: With baby one you breast
feed for a year, sterilize everything, barely let anyone hold the baby but you.
With baby two you breast feed for a few months and then open a jar of baby
prunes, wipe off any spit up with your thumb and hand the baby to anyone near
by. And with baby three—you bring them home from the hospital and put them on
the floor and give them a pork chop.
So this is John’s “pork chop” surgery. On the 26th
we’ll crack the code and pack our bags. His will have a few toiletries and a book;
mine will have the caregiver notebook, snacks and phone numbers. And now I’ve
added an I Pad and an IPhone, and the snacks have changed from Twizzlers and
chocolate to almond butter, walnuts and kale chips.
It’s not that I care less this time but more that I’m so
aware of what I cannot control. Some things will go worse than I hope and some
things will go better than I expect and there will be surprises—always
surprises. And there will be miracles—always miracles of people, and process
and timing.
So tonight we’ll have Christmas Eve: first the Mall for
amazing people watching, then Thai food for dinner, then a movie and then to
church for the beautiful service at midnight.
On Christmas morning a blended bash of kids for breakfast
and then to our true family holiday at Susan’s. Surrounded by all that love and
laughter we’ll be fortified for Friday’s adventure.
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