Last memorial day, my OB/GYN walked into my room at 8 AM. He pulled up a chair to my bedside. In the previous nine days that I spent hospitalized, I figured out his modus operandi. If there was no news, he would flutter around my hospital room and fidget with his coffee while talking to me. If there was difficult news, he slid a chair up to my bedside to deliver it. As he sat down at my bedside, I braced myself for whatever bad news he was about to deliver.
He did not hesitate as he said, “I have received the results of this morning’s labs. I have to talk to the perinatalogist. However, if it is up to me… we deliver today. You should call your husband.”
As the doctor stood up and walked out of the room, I jumped on the phone. My husband was over three hours away. I was afraid he would not make it in time. I knew she was coming soon. However, we were almost positive it would not be on Memorial Day.
Time felt like it came to a stand still as I waited alone for the verdict. I was ravenously hungry because I was instructed not to eat or drink. Finally, around noon, the perinatalogist walked in to my room. I held my breath as I listened for the verdict.
She explained that a consensus was reached to hold off for the day. The delivery was coming soon. She gave permission for me to eat.
Looking back, I realize those ten days I spent in the hospital watching, waiting, and choosing when to act was merely a light training course for the next few years.
This week is Charlie’s birthday week.