Chapter 9 - The Surgery and the Wait
200 m away, in a quiet house outside Hartford, Angela had no idea any of this was happening.
She was busy packing a small suitcase, folding Marcus’ favorite dinosaur pajamas, trying to explain to a scared seven-year-old why they were driving to Boston, why doctors needed to look inside his head, why everything was going to be okay.
Even though until 3 days ago, she genuinely hadn’t known if that was true.
“Grandma,” Marcus said, watching her fold clothes.
“Are you scared?”
Angela paused, then sat beside him on the bed and pulled him into her lap. Even though at 7:00 he insisted he was getting too big for that. A little, she admitted, but not as scared as I was on Friday.
Something happened.
Someone reminded me that we’re not as alone as we think we are.
Thursday came faster than anyone was ready for, and the surgery would change more than just Marcus’ future.
Boston Children’s Hospital was a maze of bright hallways and gentle eyed staff.
But to Angela walking beside the gurnie as they wheeled her grandson toward the operating room, it felt like the longest walk of her life. Marcus clutched his oneeyed stuffed dinosaur to his chest.
His small face pale beneath the hospital gown, trying so hard to be brave.
“Grandma, will it hurt?”
he asked as they reached the doors he wasn’t allowed past.
“You won’t feel a thing, baby?”
Angela said, kneeling beside the gurnie, pressing a kiss to his forehead, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.
You’re going to close your eyes, and when you open them, this scary part will already be over, and I’ll be right here the whole time.
I’m not going anywhere.”
Dr.Reyes, a warm-eyed woman in her 50s with an easy, confident manner, crouched down to Marcus’ level.
Hey buddy, you like dinosaurs, huh?
I’ve got a T-Rex sticker with your name on it if you’re brave for me today.
Marcus managed a small wobbly smile. I have three at home.
Well, then you’re basically an expert, Dr.Reyes said, standing and nodding to the nurses.
We’ve got this.
I’ll come find you the second we’re done, she told Angela, squeezing her shoulder briefly before the door swung shut.
The surgery was scheduled to take between 4 and 6 hours. Angela sat in the family waiting area, hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee that had long since gone cold, staring at nothing. At 11:47 a.m., her phone buzzed.
Text from Michael.
How’s he doing?
Zoe and I are thinking about him, about both of you. Angela typed back with trembling fingers.
He just went in trying to breathe. Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Then I’m coming up there.
You don’t have to do that, she wrote quickly.
You have Zoe, you have the Kyoto deal. You have Angela.
I’m coming.
See you in 3 hours. True to his word, at 2:40 that afternoon, Michael Carter walked into the pediatric surgical waiting room, not in a tailored suit, but in jeans and a plain gray sweater, carrying Zoe on his hip in a carrier along with a diaper bag and tucked under one arm, a small stuffed dinosaur with a matching oneeyed design to the one Marcus loved so much. Angela stood stunned.
“You brought her all this way.
She’s part of this family, too, Michael said simply, settling into the seat beside her.
And so is he, apparently, whether he knows it yet or not. They sat together for the next 2 hours, mostly in silence, occasionally talking in low voices about nothing important.
Zoe’s newest word, more, repeated approximately 400 times a day, the weather, anything to keep Angela’s mind from spiraling.
May you like
Zoe eventually fell asleep against Michael’s chest.
And somewhere in that quiet stretch of waiting, Angela found herself for the first time in weeks, not entirely alone with her fear.
