I don’t know that I even draw breath as I watch my child, in his Tasmanian Devil hospital gown, floating away on the gurney. He looks so small and scared, turning his terrified eyes on me. Terror and guilt fill me. Threatening to pull me under and drown me with panic and fear. “Smile, and make it ok for him!”
He grows smaller as he is moved down the hall. His terrified eyes burn into me. The red good-bye line on the floor seems to grow wider, pushing me away from my child. Red for the horror my son will face. Orderlies are speaking to him but their words are lost to me. Those eyes! Fluorescent lights seem to brighten, making everything disappear. They too are pushing me away. I want to run and snatch him up. Carry him away and hide forever. Protect him from this evil, but I cannot move. My feet are fixed to the floor. Invisible bonds take away my power to move, binding my voice in silence. “Smile, and make it ok for him!”
The gurney starts to turn into the operating room. I feel every muscle tighten, ready to strike. He raises his hand and signs, “I love you.” My mind screams what my voice cannot, “Bring my child back!”
Movement is still not possible. I watch as his capped head disappears and my heart stops as my hand says, “I love you!” “Smile, and make it ok for him!”
There is a buzzing noise around me.
How long has it been?
Five minutes!
That clock must be broke.
How long has it been?
Five minutes.
I sink into panic and fear.
How long has it been?
Thirty minutes.
They said they would update us?
They did a few minutes ago.
Oh Yeah.
I sink lower.
A phone rings. I put the receiver to my ear, listening, I hear, “asking for you”. I fly to the elevator, was it always that far? Why is it so slow? Oh, the nurse. She explains he woke up terrified. “You think!” I scream in my head racing down the hall. I turn into the wakeup room. My eyes roam the beds.
“Mommy!”
My head snaps in the direction of the voice. My son’s eyes are now flooded with love. I draw breath for the first time in a mother’s eternity. He is in my arms, as we snuggle on the bed. He asks for his night-night song. Softly I start to sing. He smiles at me and snuggles closer. My heart can beat again. My torture has ended. I smile and make it ok for him.
“God hates little blue Mazdas!” I state as Susan and I barrel down Texas Highway 6. On a road map, this highway is one step up from a grey line road. That means it has a shoulder, but it is only two lanes. Susan and I are off once again to Glen Lake United Methodist Camp. Sometimes it felt like we should live there. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might crack my ribs. I have pushed myself as far back in my seat as I can. “Can you see the line over there? I can’t see the road at all!” Susan asks. We are both staring straight ahead at a big black buzzard that is spread eagle across the windshield. He is very angry and screeches at us. “Maybe if we swerve he’ll fly off,” I suggest. Susan swerves to the shoulder and back into our lane. The buzzard tries to peck the windshield. No luck, we had to think of something. Susan shouts, “ Hold on!” and swerves to the shoulder again, and breaks hard. The buzzard, caught off guard, rolls off the hood of the car. We reverse a few feet and pull back out onto the road. As we drive off Susan looks in the rearview mirror, “Oh shit!” she swears loudly, “ We have company.” I look behind us expecting a county sheriff with lights flashing. Behind us flying low, is the buzzard.
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