Date: November 6, 2020
I faced a transformative moment when I realized my mom wouldn’t always be young and vibrant. My dad and I visited her in the recovery room following her knee replacement surgery. The room was bustling with patients and the sound of beeping machines filled the air. She was under heavy medication, her oxygen mask askew. She tilted her head like a PEZ dispenser to catch glimpses of the doctor’s updates.
“Just relax, Mom. Lay back and close your eyes,” I reassured her while gently stroking her forehead. This gesture reminded me of the countless nights she had comforted me to sleep during my childhood. Witnessing her immobilized and surrounded by medical equipment made my heart race.
We waited anxiously in the lobby of NYU for news on her surgery. My dad’s phone rang, and he answered with bated breath. “Hi, Harry. Norine is out of surgery; it went exceptionally well. She’s in recovery now.” My dad leapt from his seat with joy. “You can see her briefly, but we should let her rest afterward.” We shared a heartfelt hug, relieved that everything had gone smoothly. She is the glue of our family, and we needed this surgery to succeed.
As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think about her future. My mind drifted to the years ahead, imagining her in a hospital bed. My mom dedicated the last 35 years of her life to caring for me, especially as I live with a primary immunodeficiency. Now, the roles had reversed, and I found myself caring for her.
My mom’s knee troubles were longstanding, worsened by a fall at our summer home in April 2018. I witnessed the incident, unable to reach her in time. She crawled to the couch, clearly in agony, but still insisted on attending Jazzfest in New Orleans, struggling to walk even a block. From that point on, my dad and I urged her to prioritize the surgery she had been contemplating for years.
Weeks later, she arrived at the doctor’s office with a detailed list of events she felt she couldn’t miss:
- Lori’s 60th Birthday Party: November 3rd
- Tara out of town November 9th – 12th
- Hebrew Home Gala: November 11th
- Thanksgiving
I sensed she was more afraid of needing assistance than the surgery itself. Surprisingly, I found myself calm about her upcoming procedure, perhaps because I’d been anticipating this moment for so long. I wanted her to reclaim her ability to walk, enjoy music festivals, and visit the beach without the fear of uneven sand. Her knee had created barriers, hindering her from fully experiencing the walkable city she loved.
“Mom, let’s get this done as soon as possible. We can always celebrate Thanksgiving next week,” I urged. My dad remained cautious, aware of her feelings, and refrained from pushing her too much. She preferred to do things at her own pace. After researching and consulting others who had undergone the procedure, she scheduled her surgery for November 17th. My dad shared a list of times he wouldn’t be able to assist her during her recovery, while I adjusted my plans to be there for her.
As we made our way to the elevator, my dad posed a question, “What’s one word that defines you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Harry, I’m not in the mood for this today,” my mom interjected, clearly annoyed.
He continued to press for an answer as we walked to the hospital. I knew I had to respond quickly to avoid his persistent questioning. In the pre-op room, he asked again, insisting she couldn’t go into surgery until she answered.
“Patient,” she finally said.
“That’s right, no one is as patient as your mother,” he remarked, turning to me.
“Dedicated,” I replied.
“Uh-huh,” he said, seemingly unconvinced.
His word was “happy.”
The doctor entered to reassure us that the surgery was routine, and I pondered if “passionate” would’ve been a better choice for my defining word. After all, both terms held merit. We kissed her cheek, declared our love, and said goodbye to her old knee.
While she was in the operating room, my dad and I wandered around the neighborhood, had a mediocre breakfast, and anxiously watched the clock. I had packed a backpack filled with a book, coloring book, and headphones for podcasts, but I couldn’t focus on anything beyond awaiting the doctor’s call.
What if complications arose? What if she didn’t make it through? “No, Harper, you can’t think that way – your mom is incredibly strong.” Hours later, we received the call saying we could visit her briefly before she needed rest.
After recovery, she was moved to a comfortable corner room with a large flat-screen TV. She was more alert, surrounded by my dad, aunt, and cousins. I reflected on the countless times she had sat with me in hospital rooms. I propped her pillows, adjusted the temperature, and offered to fetch her food, knowing she would avoid the hospital fare.
When the nurse detailed the medications she had received, I jotted everything down. I still have the mini notebook my mom used when I was hospitalized back in 2012. Before I left for the night, I organized her space to ensure everything was within reach and assured her I’d check in the next morning, urging her to call if she needed anything.
“I mean it. I live just a few blocks away. I’ll come anytime,” I promised.
In high school, my mom managed a holistic health care center that became a refuge for first responders after 9/11. I volunteered there for days, always feeling like there was more to do. This feeling resurfaced as I walked home from the hospital. Had I done enough? Should I have brought her more food? Did she stay hydrated? Should I have slept there with her?
I knew taking care of her would fall on me. My dad struggles with intuition and patience, needing clear directions, while she always preferred to do things on her own. Thankfully, she was only in the hospital for one night, but her recovery required extensive physical therapy. The therapist demonstrated exercises using five pillows and an ice pack three times daily. I showed my dad how to do them, but the next morning my mom mentioned he couldn’t remember the setup.
Despite offers from friends and family to help while she recovered at home, she declined. She didn’t want to feel like a burden.
We spent a small Thanksgiving meal with the same family members who visited her in the hospital. She stayed in her lounge chair as I picked up a Whole Foods turkey, prepared sides, and arranged everything in their apartment. I insisted she trust me rather than give directions.
“Thanks for making everything run so smoothly yesterday,” she said the next day.
“Mom, stop thanking me. You need to get used to me helping,” I replied.
“You know how hard this is for me,” she admitted.
My mom is patient. Right now, she is also a patient. There’s no one in the world I’d rather care for than her. She taught me well.