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A moment of weakness

I’ve been in the hospital with my daughter for the last 2 days. A little surgery. Poor girl.

She came out of the operating theatre yesterday evening, placed in the recovery room, her small little body wrapped in some kind of foil-like thing, which I later found out was some kind of hyperthermia blanket system that infuses warm air into the blanket to warm the body after surgery. An oxygen mask was pulled over her face, her eyes were semi-open and she was breathing noisily as she slept. They told me she would come out of anesthesia pretty soon.

I sat by her, in the scrubs they gave me. Ugliest, but at the same time, coolest things I’d ever worn, because they made me feel like a doctor in Seattle Grace. Except, of course, we weren’t at Seattle Grace. And there were no McDreamy or McSteamy doctors, too.

While I waited, I took a little walk around the recovery room, curious of my surroundings, being given a tiny glimpse into an actual operation theatre (which, by the way, they allowed me into for a short time while she was brought in and sedated).

Then I saw some contraptions, equipment, machines, which looked familiar. I recognized an infusion pump. A suction machine. Oxygen, of course. I noticed names of drugs printed neatly and taped onto a refrigerator. There were others, but I’m no medical expert, so I don’t know what they’re called. I only remember what they look like.

Inadvertently, the memories came. Flooded my vision with tears. The tears wouldn’t stop, they kept falling and I kept wiping them off with the back of my hand. Pictures in my head. Assailing. Assaulting my senses. I felt like I was spinning.

My daughter had just come out of surgery, and I was crying about my dead father.

Whoever it was who said time heals all wounds was lying. This wound would never heal. I will always remember, and because I do, the wound can never go away. It will remain open. But it doesn’t ever mean I can’t go on. It doesn’t ever mean that I will live in the past always. It doesn’t mean I will never have moments of weaknesses.

My daughter murmured softly and stirred in her sleep. I heard her whisper, “Mummy….”

I reached for her, wiped away my tears, and said a quick and quiet thanks to God and my father.

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