The call comes late into the morning, almost the afternoon.
Things have gone from no movement to lightening fast in a matter of minutes.
“Are you ready?” I ask her as she shuffles down into her bright pink blanket. It’s her favourite at the moment and looks almost flourescent against her stark white gown.
She nods but her eyes are tight and there is a small furrow.
I’m not ready. I don’t think I ever was.
We’ve both tried to fool ourselves.
The elevator rings out its arrival, its bell whines, almost in anticipation of the weight of a bed, a diminuative patient, the wardsman, nurse and me.
It believes it wants to retire, after twenty years of loyal service.
The ride to the third floor is brief and silent.
We walk along the long corridor.
Everything is on this level.
Birthing suite, NICU and theatre.
The brightly painted doors swing open as we come to the entry of the operating suites.
We are greeted by a towering, bald nurse with a friendly face.
I wonder, for a minute, if that’s why he is here because his smile relaxes the girl, even though she barely acknowledges his presence, I see her body unfurl under her blanket.
A good sign, I think.
We go through all the usuals.
Things that are strangely common place;
name, date of birth, procedure being performed.
We are handed over after they make me state my consent.
Again.
I am starting to feel the stress of decision pressing down on my temples in throbbing waves.
Before too long we are wheeled into a sea of blue sterility and cold formality.
Even though we have been here many times before, it feels like the first time.
The doctors and nurses are kind and explain that they will give Ivy something through her PICC line, a cocktail of sleep induction.
I watch as the saline goes through and then the yellow tinged fluid.
“It’ll take a few minutes because it’s a long line,” The anaethetist explains but within moments she is out.
I kiss the top of her forehead, warm and soft and breathe her in, my inside voice chanting
“it will be okay,it will all be okay”.
Suddenly the doctor is moving me out of the suite and I am handed back to reception and like an unstoppable wave find myself swept out into the corridor
to wait.
“We’ll call you if it’s going to be longer than two hours” and with that the doors shut me out and away from my baby girl.
The corridor is not my favourite place in the world.
It is lined with salmon pink sling back chairs, padded for the backsides that sit on them.
It wouldn’t matter if they were super thick recliner rockers, the seat would still be uncomfortable.
When you are in the corridor, you feel everything.
A man is pacing at the doors,
doctors enter and exit, an air of confidence following in their wake.
A mother sits next to me sobbing loudly, another of her children on her lap, trying to comfort her distraght parent.
Please don’t cry, please. I know you’re scared and sad but if you cry, I will too, my head screams silently.
The ENT doctor comes.
His part in this play is finished.
I want to kiss him, buy him the world for making things right again.
Instead I shake his hand.
Suddenly there is a friendly face as my mum arrives with comfort food and coincidental conversation.
The pacing man comes and asks the time.
His wife has a brain tumour and secondary cancer elsewhere and she has already been in theatre for over four hours.
No one has contacted him and he is alone.
Nobody is there with him to comfort him.
I wonder if he has children and if he does, where they are.
I look down and thank my lucky stars that we are only here for a port and some new ear tubes.
There is constant movement in the corridor, people bustle around. Groups of excited new residents, comparing notes on an unusual surgical patient, nurses, volunteers.
An hour and a half passes by just as a gurney stops in front of us, laden with a raffle for father’s day.
The women talk in gentle tones and tell me stories about how it was when their children had tonsilectomies and appendectomies and I am thankful that I live in a time where I am allowed to stay with Ivy until she is unaware of my presence and I am allowed to be with her during recovery.
My how times have changed, they comment.
Indeed they have.
As we reach the two hour mark the surgeon seeks me out.
All is good, everything went smoothly, she is in recovery.
I thank him and smile.
What I really want to do is hug him, this man that I do not know.
I relax into the chair, feeling the sun that is streaming through the glass ceiling of the hospital.
A young blonde nurse calls from the recovery door.
I can come now,
she is awake.
