Earlier this month my son had surgery on his knee, yes his knee, the same area of the body that I have had issues with. Not only that, it was the right knee which is where I’ve had the most surgery. The parallels were staggering for me.
I have had over 25 surgeries in my lifetime, not including oral surgery. That’s a lot of IVs, drowsy shots, x-rays, overnight stays, recovery rooms, blood draws and more. In fact, I spent so much time in the hospital that I became sort of a celebrity. I had an unusual condition as a child, an overdose of vitamin A, so the medical community considered me to be an oddity to be studied. I was broadly welcomed when I was admitted. As an adult, there was the additional fact that I was a mile away during 9/11, which enhanced my celebrity status.
Yet, being admitted to the hospital, or even going for an outpatient procedure was still terrifying because I knew I would be put to sleep. I knew my body would be poked, prodded, or cut into in some form and that brought on panic, sort of an unconscious dread. In anticipation of being in the hospital, my back would involuntarily seize up and I’d have trouble sleeping.
Once in the hospital, I would resign myself to my situation and another emotion would take over. It would begin with a sense of calm, because I had done this so many times before, and grow into a feeling pride and confidence. After all, I was a pro.
So imagine all those feelings arising within you, feelings of fear mixed with confidence, panic mixed with pride, but this time it wasn’t you having the procedure, your panic is misplaced, your pride unwarranted. It was my son who needed the care, it was he that got the attention. I was both nervous because it wasn’t me having the surgery but also a bit deflated because this time, I wasn’t the “star.” What a crazy combination of feelings.
You might think I would be panicked for my son but I wasn’t. Of course, as a mother, there were fleeting thoughts of the danger of any surgery, but I knew in my heart he would be fine. It was a relatively simple arthroscopic surgery. He’s young and strong with a formidable immune system. I knew he would be fine… which he was.
Now, weeks later, he’s nearly recovered. But the parallels continued, from giving him advice on how to walk with crutches, the crutches are almost obsolete now, to going with him to physical therapy. By going I don’t just mean providing transportation, but actually both of us having a physical therapy appointment for the same knee. Many of the exercises were the same. It was a strange position to be in.
In many ways I think it has brought us closer. My son had a tiny taste of the physical struggles I have faced my entire life. I have had to experience what it was like for my own mother to see me go through surgery and not be able to do it for me. It was complex, especially as I navigate my experiences while writing this book.