By Thursday afternoon, I was 24 hours post op and doing okay. I was sitting up and eating yummy hospital broth and speaking in complete sentences in English, although some people dispute that last part. As the nurse prepared to remove the morphine pump, I picked up my cell phone to call home. I couldn’t wait to call my little boy and reassure him that I was fine and that I loved him more than anything in the entire world and that I missed him and couldn’t wait to get home to see him. Even without the aid of heavy duty narcotics, I somehow imagined him sitting by the phone, waiting for news of my well being, barely able to hold back the tears.
When my dad answered the phone, I asked him to call Sean to the phone.
“Sean, come here, your mother is on the phone,” I heard my dad call into the den.
“I can’t right now. I’m too busy playing with Wivian.”
When I put the phone down, I turned to the nurse and told her that I’d just had my heart scraped out of my chest cavity with a rusty fork and maybe she could let me have that mophine pump a little while longer. Like seven or eight more years.