Memories best forgotten

Sometime around seven years ago—I don’t remember the date—my mom was hospitalized in the ICU with some illness. I don’t recall the diagnosis. I do remember the physician in charge of her case however. He had a bedside manner akin to Bobby Knight in a losing basketball game. If I could forget him, I would, but words he said have stayed with me all these years:

“She’ll never be able to have surgery. She can’t go under anesthesia.”

With those words echoing in my brain, you can imagine my fright when I learned of my mom’s diagnosis and the words that followed: lumpectomy, mastectomy, surgery.

“She can’t go under anesthesia,” my sister whimpered to me on the phone.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice, “ I replied.

Understanding my fears, Craig called one of his oldest friends, an anesthesiologist himself. He answered all of the questions I posed to Craig. Individuals with COPD can undergo surgery. Anesthesiologists are trained to handle patients like my mom.

My whole body exhaled when Craig recounted his conversation. I shared the information with my sister, and we relaxed for a few days. Then, in a dream, the words came back: “She’ll never be able to have surgery. She can’t go under anesthesia.” My anxiety returned.

In the weeks since we’ve left Michigan my mom has seen a pulmonologist and an anesthesiologist. They both approve of her surgery, and this morning, sometime after 11 am, that surgery will commence. I’m working to mask the memory from seven years ago and rely on the rational side of my brain, the part that likes evidence. Three physicians and my mom’s surgeon are comfortable with her treatment plan. Those opinions mean something. I know there are no absolutes in life. I know that doctors are fallible, but I have to bank on the positive.

It’s going to be a long day.