Routine. To be honest, it's one of my favorite things. When I'm out of it, I'm irritable; when I'm in it, I'm calm(ish), balanced (as much as I can be anyway), and generally patient and tolerant. I find it comforting. Today I'm in my typical Saturday routine: up with kids, to the gym, family outing and then naps. Today we went downtown to see Santa, something that I typically enjoy as a welcoming of the holidays. We did our usual picture of my little ragamuffins, disheveled but adorable as they meet Santa with wide-eyed wonder and Christmas lists. I was there, watching, selecting our favorite shot for the "Santa's Special" package, but all the while I was feeling a little out of body. I chalked it up to low blood sugar. By the time we got back to Pioneer Square to catch MAX back to the car, I was generally irritable, which only occurred to me when my hubby said, "Come with me guys - mommy needs a kid timeout." Wow! Was it that obvious? Fortunately, we'd taken two cars, so I helped him load the kiddos into mine, and I hopped into his, alone, with plans to hit Starbucks, while he put the kids down. On my drive, I listened to voicemail (yes, hands free - it is the law), which included one from my brother (who's currently living in Texas), asking more about the details of our dad's surgery this week.
You see, my dad's been in Afib since June; with multiple failed attempts to shock him back into rhythm, his heartbeat is currently managed by meds - meds that aren't all that great for you over time, so he's scheduled for "routine" open-heart surgery this Wednesday. His typical words of encouragement growing up were his old football stand-bys, things like "shake it off," and "no pain no gain." His football career left him with broken bones, concussions, bouts with unconsciousness, and 13 knee surgeries (two of them recent full-knee replacements). I know he can tolerate pain, but I also know that he's very stoic when it comes to his health. He's been lightly joking for the past five months about this "routine" surgery, and vague, even as I was signing updated advanced directive papers. "Just pull the plug," was his response when I asked about his wishes. So, given that I can't gauge his own fear, I worry.
You'd think, with my obsession over medical dramas - Rescue 911 as a kid (that sexy firefighter was probably my first crush), then ER for a decade, and now Gray's Anatomy, I'd be desensitized enough to the whole rib cracking, heart surgery thing. I'm sure Christina and Teddy can do Wednesday's surgery after a night of drinking, hot sex and little sleep, while still looking radiant in their scrubs. I know for a surgeon, it's not too different from my routine, brushing teeth, making meals, hustling kiddos. This morning, in zumba, I did the sometimes complicated (although not life-saving) steps, even sang along, without thinking. I wasn't concentrating. I wasn't focused. I was just going through my routine. And it's precisely that that scares me. On the one hand, I want a doc that's good enough to do my dad's surgery in his sleep, but I don't want him sleepwalking. While having my dad's heart in his hands is "routine" for him, it's anything but for me, my dad and our family.
So, I sit here, powerless. Instead of taking advantage of my kiddos' simultaneous nap with a nap of my own, I'm sitting in the kitchen, a ball of nervous energy, throwing together a crockpot stew, typing this blog, preparing to drag up the ornaments from the basement to decorate our tree. I expect I'll throw on some Christmas music in an attempt to smother my fears and dredge up my holiday spirit - picturing your typical 21st century holiday season full of family drama, rushing, laughing, sleep deprivation, hangovers and all the rest. Still, in the back of my mind, there's that big "WHAT IF?" Even as I type the words, my throat tightens; my eyes swell.
On Wednesday, I'll be there in the lobby with my step-mom and my briefcase full of client billing, DVDs, and mindless magazines, doing whatever we can to distract during the eight hour surgery. There we'll sit, as my dad lies on a table with his heart beside him. I'm not really the praying type, more often one to "send good energy," but this week, I may do both. If you're inclined to either, I'd appreciate it. And I'm hoping that by Thursday, my love of the predictable, comforting "routine" will return.
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