Campbellodeon

My oldest son (Son #1) had surgery today. Minor outpatient surgery that required 30 minutes of operating room time and 3.5 hours of pre-operation and post-operation time. Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining. I was raised in a medical family (Father = ER Doc, Mother = Nurse) and I worked in an emergency room for 6 months when I was in college. I understand that there are many other people who required treatment today and I understand that there is a large amount of paperwork that must be completed for even the smallest procedure.

However, I don’t want to write about the doctors (who I thought were great - patient and with great attitudes) or the nursing staff (who I also thought were great - patient and helpful with great attitudes and personality) or the facility (which I thought was perfectly servicable yet typically unremarkable). No, I want to write about the emotions I felt as I walked into the recovery room to see my son after his surgery.

He was sitting up on the bed and, for lack of a better phrase, he looked like hell - as much like hell as a 9-year old can look. He looked like he had been crying, but he wasn’t upset. He just looked wiped-out. I watched him devour a crushed popsicle and listened as the nurses raved about his bravery and toughness and courteousness. It is difficult to describe the feeling of pride that swelled up within me. I can say that it was difficult to control my emotions. I didn’t want to lose it because:

1. I didn’t want to stress Son #1 in anyway while he was trying to recover,
2. My wife seemed so completely relieved that the procedure was over - she was more nervous beforehand than I or my son was - that I didn’t want to spoil that feeling for her, and
3. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of the nursing staff.

And yet, I caught myself several times trying hard to keep it together and not break down in tears.

Why would I be so emotional? Shouldn’t I be happy that he had made it through the procedure so successfully?

It wasn’t about my happiness that the procedure was over or my pride in how well my son had handled himself. The emotion came from the fact that when I walked into the recovery room I realized that my entire life - everything I live for - was sitting up in that bed, recovering. It is difficult to describe, but I don’t think of my life as being evenly split across the people in my family. In other words, I don’t think of my wife as 1/5 of my life and Son #4 as 1/5 of my life, etc. I think of each one of them as my entire life.

I can remember vividly when Son #4 was born, which will have been 7 weeks tomorrow. After he was born and cleaned up and they had taken him to the nursery to warm up, I lost it and completely broke down. My wife could not relate because of the overwhelming sense of relief she felt - the pregnancy being over and our son finally being here so we could see what he looked like. I was so emotional because in those moments just before our son was born, the pain my wife was in was almost more than I could handle. Then there is a brand new person in the room with us - another child that I have been entrusted with. The somewhat overly dramatic metaphor that comes to mind is a rubber band being stretched out and then snapped back.
But that is how I felt in those moments after Son #4 was born and in those moments after I walked in Son #1’s recovery room.

I am reminded of something my father told me growing up: “There are emotions that you will not have and cannot understand until you have children of your own.” He was absolutely right.

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