I stopped once for gas, a little after one in the morning.
While the pump was running, I called the clinic. A sleepy receptionist answered.
“I’m Emily Walsh’s mother. She’s having heart surgery in the morning. I’m on my way. Can you tell me anything?”
There was a pause on the other end. A long one.
“Ma’am, I’m not able to share patient information over the phone. You’ll have to speak with her or her care team when you arrive.”
“But she’s okay? She’s stable?”
“She’s resting comfortably.”
Resting comfortably. I held on to those two words for the rest of the drive.
I got to Westbrook Surgical at 4:15 a.m.
It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t a hospital. It was a sleek, two-story building in an office park, with tall glass windows and a fountain in the lobby that was turned off for the night. Everything was white and silver. There was a vase of orchids on the front desk.
It looked more like a spa than a place where they fixed hearts.
I remember thinking that was strange.
I remember deciding it didn’t matter.
The night nurse told me Emily was in pre-op and couldn’t have visitors. They’d taken her back early. I could wait in the lounge.
I waited in the lounge. I sat in a white leather chair under a painting of a sailboat and didn’t sleep.
At 6:30, they told me the surgery had started.
At 10:45, they told me it was over and she was in recovery.
At 11:20, a nurse finally walked me down the hall to her room.
I stopped in the doorway.
Emily was lying in the bed with the blanket pulled up to her chest. An IV ran into her hand.
And her face was covered in bandages.
Thick white gauze wrapped around her head and across the middle of her face. A small plastic splint sat over her nose. More bandages ran under her chin and up along her jaw. Her eyes were swollen and bruised purple underneath, like she’d been in a fight.
“Oh my God, honey,” I said. “What happened to your face?”
Her eyes opened. They were red and wet.
“Mom.” Her voice came out thick and strange, like she had a terrible cold. “Please. I’m in so much pain.”
I hurried to the side of the bed. I wanted to hold her, but I was afraid to touch anything.
“What happened? Why is your face—”
“The doctors said my skin reacted badly to something during surgery,” she whispered. “Some kind of allergy. That’s why they had to bandage it.”
“An allergic reaction? To what? Are you sure you’re okay? What about your heart?”
“The operation went fine, Mom.” She closed her eyes. “Please. I just want to sleep.”
I stood there looking at her. My daughter, my only child, swaddled in gauze like a mummy.
Something was wrong. I could feel it. But I couldn’t see what it was.
She opened her eyes again, just a little.
“Can you go downstairs and pay the balance?” she whispered. “They said everything has to be settled today.” 