Being There -- Teil drei

Back when Pterodactyls graced the skies and I was 40 years of age, my baby sister Celeste went in for the first of her surgeries. Celeste has Neurofibromatosis 2 also. So yeah, this was the same operation, essentially, that I’d had 17 years before and would have again and thrice more during the rest of that crazy decade.

I’m talking about the kind of cutting where the good docs crack open the back of your skull, root around in the tightly packed nerve bundles (the ones that effect such fripperies as sight, hearing, sensation, smell and facial muscles to name a few) and pull out a tumor or three, not unlike Bullwinkle J. Moose and his fab hat trick only more precise like.

Here’s the dealio about this level of scary procedure -- it’s easier to go through it yourself than to watch your sweet angel, honey pie, beloved little sis do the dance. When it’s been my turn, I focus. I go all Henry V/Saint Crispin’s Day, Patton with ’Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war! We are ready.’ I channel Crazy Horse and shout ‘Hokahey! Nake nula wauŋ welo’ Then, The Amazing Bob, Jen, Celeste, Oni and I head into Mass General where I become every schlock Hollywood tough guy with a warped ass sense of humor.

Humor and machismo -- it’s how I cope.

So there we all were with Celeste -- her surgery morning, not mine. I was attempting humor but not my usual over the top sort. I tried to remember what helps me, besides channeling John McClane. I tried to remember that being there, being calm is more important than saying just the right thing.

As Celeste was wheeled off into the OR, I called out ‘remember -- little chocolate doughnuts!’ They were a fav and an inside joke between her and her beau, Calvin. Did I sound imbecilic? You betcha BUT if she could refocus maybe the fear would be less overwhelming.

Everything went as well as it could have and not as bad as it might’ve. Over the following days, while she mostly napped and healed, I sat by her bed like a big ol’ Mama Wolf. I watched every intake of breath and eyelid flicker. I monitored the stats on the computerized gizmo she was hooked up to. How was her blood pressure and pulse? When she woke, I’d bring her water and nag her to eat something. I went to snag nurses for more pain meds, food and juice -- to find out when we’d see Dr. Barker next (Dr. Ojemann’s surgical scion - AKA Son of God).

From 6:30 in the morning until early evening when her friends would arrive I was Her Royal Highness, Queen Pain in the Ass. Was this selflessness on my part? Fuck no! I was on auto pilot. I was running on instinct, need and worry.

One even-tempered, accommodating nurse sweetly asked me if I was Celeste's mother. Mega sigh. My little sister was 31 but looked 16. I was just 40 but heavy and haggard. With my behavior added to the mix...well, I'm thankful she didn't ask if I was the grandmother.

As the days passed Celeste regained her strength, energy and steel clad sense of snark. On the day she was released, Doctor Barker came around for one last check. In peak form, she gave him crap about his rumpled appearance (‘you’re not getting enough sleep and you need a haircut’) and quizzed him about what happens next.

I began to breathe easier. She was gonna be just fine.