The bright hot white light in my eye was borderline painful, there was no color kaleidoscope from the refraction of instruments or scrubs. This was cold and harsh, bright, dramatic and imposing, hostile.
I felt no euphoric relief from the IV, just a sense of impatience running through my veins .
"You're doing great." The surgeon would try to speakj soothingly. He would quietly request an instrument or firmly issue a directive focused solely on the eye before him, the eye that would sob hysterically in the motherless recovery room
The nurse responds to the anesthesiologist as they discuss Christmas plans.
I cannot possibly hold my eye open with that bright beam overhead. I'm sure I'm not doing great, just great.
The nurse pushes my cot through the halls to the recovery room. I want to scream as we pass the prep rooms just to scare the patients about to endure this. I think it would be funny. I resist the urge but grin nonetheless.
The tears explode fast in recovery when my body reconciles debilitation and my motherless status.
Mom. I want my mom.
I whisper it and gasp with the shock of the reality that I won't ever see my mom again in Earthly form.
The nurse runs to my side anxious, confused
"What's going on?"
"My mother died recently," I tried to say, "And she was always here for me." The lack of her presence at my recovery takes my breath away.
The desolation of nothing but bright light followed by the desolation of a dark client empty recovery room was too much.
I broke.
The nurse wheeled me out to my daughter's car, Marjorie, my mother's namesake. Her eyes melted with compassion, "What," she whispered.
"I miss my mom."
She nodded, reached over and tucked my loose hair behind my ear and slid the car in gear, wiping a tear from her eye. "Let's get you a Starbucks coffee."
Mom always got me a 3 Musketeers bar, but the coffee is way better.
I slide the old timey large, dark sunglasses on over my bandages and accept that I'm the old person now.
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