Waiting for mom - this morning

valarie

i'm sitting here in the sunny lobby at the hospital. a pager--like the ones at the olive garden that light up when you've made it to the top of the waiting list--sits on the table. they'll beep us when she's out or the doctor wants to talk to you, explained the lady at the front desk, "and make sure you keep it in a pocket. it doesn't ring loud." sometime--in two hours, three hours, four hours, five--that little pager will light up, and we, hungry for information, will hustle up the steps and into the waiting room to meet with the doctor.

but for now, nathan and jesse are sacked out on the couches even though the sun is streaming through bright and cheery. dad has run off to work to grab some "stuff". somewhere upstairs, mom is asleep, the meditative music playing through her ipod. it's funny, but one of the things i'm most proud of her for, or maybe it's just what strikes me most, is how quickly she embraced that little music device. propped up in the hospital bed, she easily swirled the control around, fit the earpieces into her ears, and closed her eyes--peaceful, calm, on top of it in a very gentle way. i bent down to give her a final kiss before Ken the nurse wheeled her away, she looked at me: "don't be scared."