The anesthesiologist calls the family into the room and lays out the situation. He is not here to pump them up, give them false hope or make them think the situation is something that it is not. At eighty-seven and with her natural reserves depleted by this current illness, she is not a good candidate for surgery.
He alerts the daughter and the four sons to the fact that when their mom returns from the operation, if she returns, she will have a breathing tube that will be in for at least a few days. “This will give her some rest, having the machine do her breathing for her.” They expect to keep her in a near coma for a couple of days, gradually wean her back to being awake and breathing on her own again.
Looking at her thin face and wasted body, it is not hard to imagine that she could be near death’s door. We pray, they wheel her away and we wait. Randa and I visit with Mark for over an hour, then leave him and the rest of the family, each to their own mode of waiting.
I text him the next morning to see how his mother is doing.
He replies that the breathing tube is out and they expect to have her up walking later that day.
Take a God like ours, a few good doctors and nurses and a bunch of people praying. Then add a woman who survived raising the four boys that she raised. Then… well, then, just don’t be too surprised at anything.