Was it because the forms were for sleep-away camp? Two weeks of sleep-away camp, far in the wilds to the north? Bugs, animals, dirt, ticks, skunks. Ick!
Maybe it was because my son would be out of my control for two weeks? The first time since his kidney transplant. Granted, it’s a program designed to accommodate the needs of kidney patients, but I’m chilled to think he will not be able to text me to confirm he took his twice daily meds, our deal when we are apart. I wonder if I will be the first to cave?
Or, it could be that the medical history questions brought back the momentousness of his condition. Most of the time, I’m able to put aside the actuality of a “transplant” and pretend I’m not scared to death that there will be a cataclysmic disaster that will prevent delivery of his monthly meds. Generally, I’m able to go through the every-day the way our doctor puts it – brush, brush with her hands – it’s done, no problem!
But when I carefully wrote the information in the tiny empty blanks on the form, I was forced to remember the date and the circumstances of the transplant. Relive the week’s events. Remember the quality of the sunlight in his recovery room. The big lump in the middle of the hospital cot. The smell of the soap in the restrooms. A meal my husband and I ate in the coffee shop.
I was forced again to realize that my expectations were not accurate and that the surgery would not be an ending but a beginning.
Or, if I’m really honest, all of the above!