While Mom waits for an appointment with the surgeon, I can not even to begin to know what she must be feeling or going through. Her right breast will be cut away from her and she will loose her femininity, a part of her that defines who she is. She is scared, frightened, and worried.
On top of that, she was officially removed from the liver transplant list on Thursday. The doctors gently select their words and say that no one knows the life expectancy of someone in renal failure, but they believe it to be around two to five years. Those last four words are the only words that Mom hears. Her eyes start to water and she stares hard at the floor. Dad holds her shoulder and he rubs circles on her back. That is why I go to the doctor’s appointments, so I can hear all words that Mom does not.
The surgeon looks young. He is upbeat and positive. This is what we need. I feed off his energy and tell mom that we need to expect the best possible outcome. Not all me believes the words but my tears are convincing.
It is flattering to know that she values my opinion and wants me with her. I am grateful that the doctors welcome the three of us in the crowded examining room where normally they only permit one family member. Mom is an exception and they understand the circumstances of her case.
All my friends and family have instilled a faith and peace in me that I do not believe I would have other wise known. I know that this is where I am supposed to be.
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