The oldest kiddo had a followup appointment yesterday for a procedure I won't discuss in detail here. The procedure had been performed twice and the very nice surgeon who heard of my last meltdown (which was handled very nicely by a kind young resident who pretty much did everything I asked after that) said we had to re-do it. He looked extra prepared for a hot-mommy-mess. He didn't get it.
It went something like:
Blah, blah,blah, blah blah, Just isn't the right tissue. Blah, blah, blah. Looks like it might be missing blah, blah, blah, blah, This means he might not have a kidney. Blah, blah, blah. So we'll need to check.
In those few moments after he said this, the kiddo and I just kinda looked at each other, then back at the doctor, then back at each other, like Scooby and Scrappy Doo trying to solve a mystery.
I wanted to ask the doctor if he knew that my two little teenagers were going to the ocean on a school trip without me and if he could just stop talking and tell me later. If he knew that one of those teenagers will get his license in two weeks and while I am busy teaching an hour away, he will be driving to dual credit classes at a local community college which I have heard has it's fair share of sexually active girls and low-level drug dealers. That I won't be home to eat lunch with them any more and that I'm kinda sad. That if he could maybe wait a few weeks before I had to stuff any more information into my brain, because there was no room for it to filter down into my heart just yet.
Because my heart is rearranging itself, what with all the pieces I am being forced to break off and just throw out into the world to fend for itself. Because hey, that's the natural order of things.
No one seems to care that I am not ready.
So, I listen. I take those those little tidbits in. Don't even write them down or anything, like the old- professional mom of a kid with a disability. Just "Okay. Okay. Okay," so he would finally shut up and leave us alone.
My son and I said very little as we gathered our things, entered the heat of the day, and walked the half mile to free parking while the cement cooked our already confused brains.
When we got in the car, Chaz looked at me and said: What's that mean?
"I don't know," I said. "I think it's just a big question mark for now."
But hey isn't everything?
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