It hit me for the first time that my mom wouldn’t always be as youthful as I remembered. My father and I visited her in the recovery room following her knee replacement surgery. The room was filled with other patients, all surrounded by beeping machines. My mom, groggy and disoriented, had her oxygen mask askew. She lifted her head like a PEZ dispenser, trying to catch what the doctor was saying.
“Just relax, Mom. Lay back and close your eyes,” I said, gently stroking her forehead. I recalled how many nights she had soothed me to sleep as a child in the same way. Seeing her connected to machines, unable to move, made my heart race.
My dad and I waited anxiously in the lobby of NYU for news on the surgery’s success. His phone rang.
“Hi, Harry, Norine is out of surgery. It went beautifully. She’s in recovery now.” My dad leaped from his seat, beaming. “You can see her briefly, but she needs rest.”
We embraced, relief washing over us. Rushing to the elevators, I pondered her future. My mom had dedicated the last 35 years to caring for me, especially given my primary immunodeficiency. Now, the tables had turned.
Her knee had troubled her for as long as I could remember. In April 2018, she slipped at our summer house’s front door. I watched helplessly as she crawled to the couch, clearly exacerbating her pain. Despite her discomfort, she pushed through to attend Jazzfest in New Orleans, but struggled to walk even a block. After that trip, my dad and I insisted she prioritize the surgery she had long considered.
She arrived at her doctor’s appointment armed with a list of events she deemed “non-negotiable”:
– Lori’s 60th Birthday Party: November 3rd
– Tara out of town November 9th – 12th
– Hebrew Home Gala: November 11th
– Thanksgiving
It seemed she was more worried about being cared for than undergoing surgery. Surprisingly, I felt no fear about the operation; I had awaited this day, hoping she could walk freely again, enjoy music festivals, and feel comfortable at the beach without worrying about the sand. She avoided subway stairs and long walks around the neighborhood, her knee a barrier to the life she loved in her vibrant city.
“Mom, get the surgery done as soon as you can. Those events can wait. We’ll celebrate Thanksgiving later if we need to,” I urged.
My dad, mindful of how often he spoke to her about the surgery, nodded. He understood her need for autonomy. She researched doctors and spoke to others who had undergone the procedure, wanting to comprehend the process, recovery, and importance of physical therapy. At times, I wondered if her fear lay more in recovery than the surgery itself. Eventually, she scheduled her operation for November 17th. My dad sent me a list of dates he couldn’t assist during her recovery, and I cleared my schedule for the first week, promising to figure out the rest later.
As we walked to the elevator in their apartment, my dad asked, “What’s one word that defines you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Harry, not today,” my mom interjected, clearly not in the mood for his probing questions.
We continued our journey to the hospital. My dad persisted, “C’mon, what’s your word?”
I knew I had to respond quickly to avoid his nudging as we waited for her surgery. While in the pre-op room, he pressed again. I told my mom she couldn’t go into surgery until she answered.
“Patient,” she replied.
“That’s right; nobody is as patient as your mother,” he said, turning to me.
“Dedicated,” I added.
“Uh-huh,” he agreed.
“What’s wrong with that? What would you say for me?”
“No, it’s good. You’re dedicated,” he answered hesitantly.
His word was “happy.”
The doctor soon entered, reminding us that this was routine surgery. He had several more scheduled for the day. I began to question if “passionate” might have been a better word for me than “dedicated.” Both seemed fitting. We kissed her cheek, expressed our love, and said goodbye to her old knee.
While she was in surgery, my dad and I wandered the neighborhood, grabbed a mediocre breakfast (he had an omelet, I opted for French toast), and watched the clock. I had packed my backpack with a book, coloring materials, and headphones for podcasts, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the impending call from the doctor.
As we paced, my mind raced with worries: What if there were complications? What if she became part of that small percentage who didn’t survive? No, I couldn’t think like that—my mom is incredibly strong. After five long hours, we received the call, allowing us to visit her briefly before she needed rest.
In her recovery room, she had been moved to a corner with a large TV showing HGTV, a Murphy bed for guests, and a spacious bathroom. She was more alert now. My dad, aunt, cousins, and I surrounded her. I reflected on how many times she had sat in hospital rooms with me. What questions did she ask? What did I want? What did she do that helped me? How did she know when I needed space?
I adjusted her pillows, removed her blanket when the room grew warm, and offered to fetch food, knowing she wouldn’t eat the hospital’s offerings. My dad had the staff explain the menu to get himself a meal.
As the nurse detailed the medications she had administered, I jotted everything down. I still have the little notebook mom used when I was hospitalized in 2012, tracking my medications. Before leaving that night, I organized everything within her reach. I reminded her to call me if she needed anything, day or night.
“I’m serious. I live just a few blocks away. I’ll come anytime.”
Back in high school, my mom was the Managing Director of a holistic health care center. In the aftermath of 9/11, it became a refuge for first responders seeking support. I volunteered there for days, each time feeling like I could do more.
As I walked home from the hospital, that feeling returned. Could I have done more? Should I have gotten her more food? Did she drink enough? Should I have stayed overnight? I felt a sense of inadequacy.
I knew I would be her primary caregiver post-surgery. My dad isn’t the most intuitive; he struggles with patience and needs clear instructions. It was challenging for both him and my mom to align in this new dynamic, especially since she had always been self-sufficient.
Fortunately, she was only in the hospital for one night, but her recovery involved extensive physical therapy. When her therapist first came, he demonstrated exercises using five pillows and an ice pack, which she had to do three times daily. I showed my dad afterward, snapping a photo of the demonstration, yet the next morning, my mom told me he was confused about how to position the pillows.
Friends and family offered to help her after her release, but she declined, not wanting to feel like a burden.
We hosted a small Thanksgiving with the same relatives who had visited her in the hospital. She remained in her lounge chair while I picked up a pre-prepared turkey from Whole Foods, made vegetable sides, and set the table in their apartment. I refused to let her dictate anything. Instead, I asked her to trust my judgment.
The following day, she expressed gratitude for how seamless the day had gone.
“Mom, stop thanking me. You need to get used to me helping,” I replied.
“You know how hard this is for me,” she admitted.
My mom is patient, and right now, she is also a patient. There’s no one else I’d rather care for than her. She has taught me well.
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Summary:
This article narrates the poignant experience of a daughter, Jamie, who takes on the role of caregiver for her mother following knee replacement surgery. Reflecting on the shift in their roles, Jamie recalls her mother’s past dedication to her well-being. As they navigate emotional challenges and the logistics of recovery, the story highlights the deep bond between mother and daughter, emphasizing the importance of patience, trust, and unconditional love.
Keyphrase: Caring for a parent after surgery
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