It was a moment I never anticipated—the day I realized my mother wouldn’t remain vibrant forever. My father and I visited her in the recovery room after she underwent knee replacement surgery. The room was filled with other patients, and the beeping machines were a constant reminder of where we were. My mom, still groggy from the anesthesia and wearing an oxygen mask that was slightly askew, struggled to lift her head to hear what the doctor was saying.
“Mom, just relax. Lay your head back and close your eyes,” I said, gently stroking her forehead. I couldn’t help but recall all those nights she comforted me as a child, rubbing my forehead to help me sleep. Seeing her now, connected to machines and unable to move, tightened my chest with anxiety.
While we waited in the NYU lobby for news on her surgery, my dad’s phone rang. “Hi Tom, your mother is out of surgery. Everything went wonderfully, and she’s in recovery now,” the doctor said. My dad leaped up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You can see her briefly, but she’ll need her rest afterward.” We embraced, relief washing over us. My mom is the cornerstone of our family; we needed this surgery to go smoothly.
As I sat there, I couldn’t shake thoughts of her future. I tried to push away the image of her bedridden, years down the line. My mother had dedicated 35 years to caring for me, especially with my health challenges. Now, the tables had turned, and I found myself looking after her.
Her knee issues dated back as long as I could remember. In April 2018, she fell at our summer home, and I was helpless as I witnessed it. She crawled to the couch and struggled to stand, and it was clear that her knee pain had intensified. Despite her discomfort, she attended Jazzfest in New Orleans, but even short walks became a challenge. From that moment, my dad and I insisted she prioritize the surgery she’d long considered.
She arrived at the doctor’s office with a detailed list of dates she claimed she couldn’t have surgery:
- Sarah’s 60th Birthday Party: November 3rd
- Tara out of town November 9th – 12th
- Annual Gala: November 11th
- Thanksgiving
It seemed to me that her reluctance stemmed more from the thought of needing care than the surgery itself. Surprisingly, I felt calm about the procedure, perhaps because I had been waiting for this day. I wanted her to enjoy walking freely again, attending music festivals without hesitation, and to enjoy our beach trips without fear of the uneven sand. Her knee had held her back in a city she had always loved.
“Mom, it’s important to schedule this soon. We can always celebrate Thanksgiving next week if needed,” I urged. My dad, more cautious, was mindful of how often he discussed the surgery with her, knowing she preferred to do things at her own pace. She had researched the procedure extensively and spoken to others who had gone through it, possibly fearing the recovery process more than the surgery itself. Eventually, she scheduled the surgery for November 17th. My dad sent me a list of times he wouldn’t be available to help during her recovery, and I cleared my calendar for the first week.
As we made our way to the elevator in their building, my dad asked, “What’s one word that defines you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Come on, think of something!” he insisted, and I could see my mom rolling her eyes.
After a bit of coaxing, my mom finally answered, “Patient.”
“That’s right, no one is more patient than your mother,” he remarked, turning to me.
My word was “dedicated.”
“Good answer,” he acknowledged with slight hesitation.
His word? “Happy.”
The doctor soon arrived to reassure us that the procedure was routine and that he had more surgeries scheduled for the day. I began to wonder if “passionate” might have been a better word for me. But dedicated was good enough. We kissed her cheek, told her we loved her, and waved goodbye to her old knee.
While she was in surgery, my dad and I wandered the neighborhood, grabbed a mediocre breakfast, and anxiously waited for updates. I had packed a book and some coloring supplies, but I couldn’t focus on anything. My mind raced with worry: What if there were complications? What if she didn’t wake up? No, I told myself. My mom is strong. After five long hours, we received the call that she was ready for us to visit.
In her recovery room, she was more alert, watching HGTV on a large flat-screen TV. My dad, aunt, cousins, and I gathered around her. I reflected on the countless times she sat beside me in hospital rooms, always knowing when to ask questions and when to give me space.
I adjusted her pillows that kept slipping, removed a blanket when the room grew too warm, and offered to fetch her food since I knew hospital meals wouldn’t appeal to her. My dad ordered food for himself while I jotted down the medications she was given. I still have the notebook my mom used during my hospital stays, documenting every dose and nurse’s name. Before leaving that evening, I organized her table, ensuring everything was within reach. I promised to call in the morning to check on her and insisted she could reach out anytime.
After 9/11, my mom managed a holistic health center that supported first responders. I had volunteered there, always feeling like I should do more. As I walked home from the hospital, that same feeling resurfaced. Could I have done more? Should I have stayed overnight? Had I done enough?
I knew the responsibility of her care would fall to me. My dad, though well-meaning, struggled to intuit what she needed, making it challenging for them to communicate. Thankfully, her hospital stay was brief, but recovery was intensive. The physical therapist demonstrated exercises for her, which I passed on to my dad, who promptly took a picture. However, the next morning, my mom said he couldn’t remember how to set up the pillows.
Friends and family offered to help after her discharge, but she declined. She didn’t want to feel like a burden or have to ask for assistance.
We held a small Thanksgiving dinner with the same family members who had visited her in the hospital. She remained in her lounge chair while I took charge of the preparations—picking up a turkey, making vegetable sides, and setting the table. I insisted she let me handle everything.
The next day, she thanked me for making the day seamless. “Mom, stop thanking me. You need to get used to my help,” I replied.
“I know this is hard for me.”
My mom is patient, but she is also a patient right now. There’s no one I’d rather look after than her. She has taught me well.
For those interested in related topics, check out:
- this blog post for more insights.
- If you’re looking for resources on home insemination, Make a Mom is a great authority on the subject.
- Another excellent resource is Rmany, which covers pregnancy and home insemination extensively.
Search Queries:
- How to care for elderly parents after surgery
- Coping with role reversal in caregiving
- Preparing for a parent’s recovery from surgery
- Emotional challenges of caring for a parent
- Tips for post-surgery care at home
Summary:
This article explores the emotional journey of a daughter, Alex, as she transitions into the role of caregiver for her mother following knee surgery. It reflects on the changes in their relationship dynamic, the challenges of caring for an aging parent, and the deep love that motivates this new role. The piece highlights the importance of support, both from family and resources, during recovery.
Leave a Reply