It was a moment that struck me with the harsh reality that my mom wouldn’t always be young. My father and I visited her in the recovery room after her knee replacement surgery. The room was shared with several patients, all connected to machines that beeped rhythmically. She lay there, a bit dazed from the medication, her oxygen mask askew. She tilted her head like a PEZ dispenser, eager to catch a glimpse of what the doctor was saying.
“Mom, just relax. Lay your head back and close your eyes,” I said, gently massaging her forehead. I couldn’t help but remember all those nights she had soothed me to sleep by gently rubbing my forehead and eyelids. Seeing her reliant on machines and unable to move sent a wave of anxiety through me.
After what felt like an eternity in the lobby of NYU, my dad’s phone rang. “Hi, Harry. Norine is out of surgery. Everything went wonderfully. She’s in recovery now.” My father’s face lit up with a broad smile as he leaped from his seat. “You can see her briefly, but she needs to rest afterward.”
He pulled me into a hug, and we both exhaled in relief. We rushed to the elevators; she was the glue that held our family together, and this surgery was crucial for her well-being.
As I walked, I found myself pondering her future. I tried to push aside the vision of her being bedridden in years to come. For 35 years, she had been my caretaker, especially as I navigated my own health challenges. Now, the tables had turned, and I was in the role of caregiver.
My mom’s knee issues dated back many years. In April 2018, she fell at our summer home, and I watched helplessly as she crawled to the couch, clearly worsening her knee pain. Despite her discomfort, she pushed through to attend Jazzfest in New Orleans, but she could barely manage to walk a block. From that moment on, my dad and I insisted on prioritizing her long-considered surgery.
When she finally visited her doctor, she arrived with a list of events that she deemed more important than her health:
- Lori’s 60th Birthday Party: November 3rd
- Tara out of town November 9th – 12th
- Hebrew Home Gala: November 11th
- Thanksgiving
I suspected she was more anxious about needing care than the surgery itself. Surprisingly, I felt calm about her operation, perhaps because I had awaited this day for so long. I wanted her to experience the joys of walking freely, enjoying music festivals, and spending weekends at the beach without being hindered by her knee pain.
“Mom, you need to have the surgery as soon as possible. We can celebrate Thanksgiving next week if needed,” I urged. My dad chimed in, sharing his concerns without overwhelming her. She preferred to approach things on her terms. After researching thoroughly, she scheduled the surgery for November 17th, and I cleared my calendar for her recovery.
As we headed to the hospital, my dad asked, “What’s one word that defines you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“C’mon, just one word,” he insisted.
As we approached the surgical area, I knew I needed to answer before he kept nagging. In the pre-op room, he pressed me again. I playfully told my mom she couldn’t go into surgery until she shared her word.
“Patient,” she said.
“Correct! No one is as patient as your mother,” he remarked, turning to me.
“Dedicated,” I responded.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, not sounding convinced.
“What’s your word for me?”
“Happy,” he said.
The doctor arrived to reassure us that this was a routine procedure, and I found myself wondering if “passionate” might have been a better descriptor for my personality. After sharing a kiss on her cheek and some words of love, we waved goodbye to her old knee.
While she was in surgery, my dad and I strolled around the neighborhood, grabbed a lackluster breakfast, and anxiously watched the clock. I had packed a backpack filled with a book and podcasts to distract myself, but I couldn’t focus on anything besides waiting for news from the doctor.
As I paced, doubts crept in: What if something went wrong? What if she became part of that 1% that didn’t make it? No, Harper, I reassured myself—nobody is as strong as your mom. After five long hours, we finally received the call that we could see her.
In the recovery room, she had been transferred to a spacious corner room with a massive TV. She appeared more alert this time. My dad, aunt, cousins, and I gathered around her, and I reflected on all the times she had been by my side in hospital settings. How did she know what I needed? What comforted me most?
I adjusted her pillows and removed the blanket as the room warmed up. I offered to fetch her food since I knew she wouldn’t touch the hospital meals. My dad was busy ordering food for himself, oblivious to her needs. When the nurse listed the medications administered, I jotted them down, just as I had with her when I was in the hospital years ago. Before leaving, I made sure her space was organized and promised to check in the next morning. “I’m just a few blocks away; I’ll come anytime,” I reassured her.
My mom had once managed a holistic health care center that supported first responders after 9/11. I remembered volunteering there and often feeling like I hadn’t done enough. Walking home from the hospital, those feelings resurfaced. Had I taken good care of her? Did I forget anything? Should I have stayed the night?
I knew I was now responsible for her recovery. My dad struggled to keep up, needing clear instructions, and my mom was unaccustomed to asking for help. Thankfully, she only stayed in the hospital for one night, but her recovery was intensive.
The physical therapist showed me how to assist her with exercises using pillows and ice packs. Despite my demonstration, my dad struggled to remember the setup the next morning. Friends and family offered to visit during her recovery, but she declined, not wanting to feel like a burden.
We had a small Thanksgiving dinner with family, and while she rested in her chair, I took charge of everything from picking up the turkey to organizing the apartment. I didn’t let her direct me; I asked her to trust me. The next day, she thanked me for making everything seamless.
“Mom, just get used to me helping you,” I said.
“You know how hard this is for me,” she replied.
My mom is incredibly patient, but right now, she’s also a patient. There’s no one else I’d rather care for than her—she raised me well.
Search Queries:
- How to care for a parent after surgery
- Role reversal in caregiving
- Coping with a parent’s health issues
- Preparing for a parent’s surgery
- Supporting elderly parents during recovery
Summary:
This narrative reflects the emotional journey of a daughter, Ella, who transitions from being cared for by her mother to taking on the caregiver role after her mom undergoes knee replacement surgery. As she grapples with the realization that her mother is aging, Ella reflects on their shared history and her mother’s dedication throughout her life. The story captures the challenges of caregiving, the importance of family support, and the struggle many face when their roles shift due to health issues.