The Pain of being A Mother

I sit here, silently, anxious and ill to my stomach waiting for the volunteer at the hospital to enter the waiting room to tell me everything is okay. The feeling of the unknown and the excruciating waiting game is a feeling I never wanted to feel as a mother. I am completely dilusional to the fact that ever parent has gone through something similar as some point In parenthood. Right now it feels like I am the only person experiencing this. My son’s with me, one on the right of me and the other on the left, waiting for the same news.

It’s a typical procedure. An outpatient procedure that causes minimal damage. But you can’t help the feeling of doom and imagine every possible outcome. The worst. As a mother, you try to stay positive and calming, just as I have done, but only on the exterior. On the inside I am a mess. A bucket full of horror and doom. They only see the sides of the bucket. Firm and no cracks. If they could only see what’s inside. That’s the goal of any mother though. You have to keep your other children calm and relaxed, no matter the cost.

Watching my 4 year old baby girl, my princess, being wheeled down the hall with her teddy bear in hand is a moment I will never forget. It’s a moment that parenthood becomes real. When parenthood becomes to real. The terror in her eyes when she realised I wasn’t coming with her, split my heart in half. Not In half. Into a million tiny fragments. The only way these pieces can be reattached and back where they belong, is for that volunteer, dressed in blue, to tell they are done and everything is okay. My baby is fine and ready to see her mommy.

Staring at the clock as the hands move slowly is the worst way to handle the situation so I walk outside and pace the sidewalk of the building. I watched the hands move for about 4 minutes and that was all that my throbbing brain could take. As im out and pacing I see others do the same and wonder why they are here and which loved one makes them pace the same sidewalk.

It’s hard to breath, think, even take a drink of the stale coffee from the waiting room, without recalling a memory of the two of us. I somehow feel as if I am over reacting to such a simple procedure and try to calm myself for fear of judgement from those here waiting, laughing and chit chatting with a person next to them. I can’t help but feel that everyone here is simply under-reacting. Where are their fears and the worry of the worst or they simply concealing it for the same reasons I have?

The hand of the clock are still moving. Slowly. Father time is not on my side today.

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