This Time, He Waits

On surgery, role reversal, and learning how to be cared for

I’ve usually been the one in the waiting room, and definitely the only one when it came to major surgery. This time is different.

When Bob had emergency surgery, I was the one standing beside the gurney as they wheeled him toward the doors that would separate us. “Honey, I said salad for dinner, not surgery,” I joked, trying to lighten the moment. Then they pushed him through the doors. After they closed, I went to the surgical waiting room and waited, wondering if I would see him again.

And waited. And waited.

After more than two hours, I made phone calls through the hospital’s system, trying to find out what had happened to my husband. Was he still in surgery? Was he still alive?

Nothing. Silence.

The hospital phone system looped me from one extension to the next, which automatically sent me back to the first.

Frantic, I dashed through the corridors, hoping to find someone who could help me. I stopped every medical person I saw until I found a woman who knew who to call.

Bob had been out of surgery for more than an hour and was already in a private room.

I ran to his room where I found him sitting up in bed as though they hadn’t just gutted him like a fish.

His face relaxed when he saw me.

“Where were you?” Before I had a chance to answer, he continued, “I thought you were in a car accident. I thought you’d gone home and gotten into an accident on the way back to the hospital.”

Had they somehow misplaced Bob for a while or simply forgotten that his wife might want to know he had made it through surgery alive?

Fast forward a year and a half, same hospital. This time they forgot to tell me they were rushing Bob into surgery to save his life. It was during COVID, and I couldn’t see him.I was at home, waiting for the call I had begged them for: Please tell me if you take him into surgery. When the phone finally rang, it was a surgeon I didn’t know existed. Somehow, the nurse had conveyed how important it was to reach me. But no one had bothered before the procedure as I’d begged. Instead, the surgeon was delivering the news after the fact: Bob had died on the operating table and was now in critical but stable condition in the ICU.

Once Bob was in the ICU, it was easy to find a nurse to talk to. The one who answered the phone had just come from his room.

“Your husband is suffering from Noassatall,” she said.

“Noassatall?” I shrieked in a panic, as though I’d just heard a death sentence.

She repeated, “No-ass-at-all.”

That was years ago, and it was not the last time I waited for Bob after surgery. There was spinal fusion, and another surgery I won’t describe because it is personal and Bob’s story. Each time, I waited to find out whether my husband had made it through.

I’m fortunate he did make it through, because now I need him to wait.

I need him at my side when they come to wheel me into surgery so we can kiss each other and say, “I love you.” I need him to greet me when they tell him he can come into the recovery room. I need him to tell me he loves me. I need him to bring me home. I need him to care for me.

Neither of us is comfortable with this role change, not that we liked it the other way around. There is no easy resting place when someone you love is having major surgery. So we are doing what practical people do when life rearranges the metaphorical furniture: preparing the house, making lists, and figuring out how this new version of us will work.

I’ve turned into a project manager. “We need to buy this. These are the chores you’ll have to do.” Laundry is the big one because we’ve shared most of the other household tasks. Before I go to the hospital, I’ll teach Bob how to wrap my wet hair in a towel and put it in a clip so he’ll know how to take care of my hair once I’m home. I want to make things easy for him, even if it means sacrificing any chance I’ll look good.

I don’t need to look good. I’ve decided that rather than play hostess to potential visitors, I’ll focus my energy on healing. And I’m lucky. Bob always thinks I look great, even on days when I think a bag over my head would enhance my appearance. I’m counting on him remaining delusional enough to see an idealized version of me after my surgery.

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A note from Ginni: The surgery is tomorrow, June 24, so the actual role reversal hasn’t happened yet. Right now, the hardest part of the preparation is knowing that I will soon be the one on the gurney, leaving Bob behind to face the waiting room.

If you have ever been the one waiting, we would welcome calm, practical suggestions for Bob. What helped you get through the hours? What did you bring? What made the waiting a little less awful?

No medical advice, scary stories, spiritual pep talks, or positive-thinking prescriptions, please. We’re not looking for slogans. We’re looking for what actually helped.

This adventure called life is truly remarkable. I’m glad you’re here, joining me as I continue exploring what I’ve learned and am learning about living a life that makes sense, has joy even on the hardest days, and gratitude because it’s so clear everything and everyone in our lives is a gift not to be squandered. If you’re a subscriber, whether paid or not, thank you. If you haven’t subscribed yet, hit the button and join me. Please consider upgrading to paid if at all possible. Your support makes it possible for me to continue writing The Other Side of Young. Thank you.