Beyond Ordinary Blog Carnival — Conversations

"Mom, whatsa surgery?"

The opening question to one of a hundred conversations I wish I had never had to have — with hundreds more to come.

I tilt my head and gaze into her penny-brown eyes, attempting to discern the motive for her question. Is it a passing curiosity about the word in general, or is she wanting to talk about those days in her life that I wish I could forget? Based on her unwavering eye contact and lack of fidgeting, I decide on the latter.

"Well, Sweetie, do you remember anything about your surgeries?"

She tilts her head and mirrors mine. "Tell me. Tell me, Mom. Whatsa surgery?"

My eyes run the length of the six inch scar starting at a point in front of her right earlobe, wrapping itself around toward the back of her neck, and I ponder how to answer the question. What can I tell a precocious little six-year-old about those first four years of her life? What can I say that I want her to remember?

"Well…" I stammer, and try again. "A surgery is when a doctor helps you go to sleep so they can either check on something or fix something in your body."

She considers this a moment and then asks, "How many times did I do surgeries, Mom?"

"Well, it kind of depends on how you count them — whether you count the times they were checking on something or just the times they were fixing something."

"Bowf. How many for bowf?"

"Twenty-seven, Sweetheart." My heart wants to break as she looks down to her shoes, contemplating them in silence. I contemplate them with her.

"How many for just checking fings?"

"Ten."

"How many for fixing fings?"

"Seventeen."

"Oh." She swings her feet then taps her shoes together twice. "Izat a lot?"

"Yes. It is a lot." I watch as she twirls a pink-ribboned braid, then I scoop her into my lap, kissing the top of her head and hugging her tight.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Sweetie?"

"Am I all fix-ded now?"

The question makes me cringe, for so very many reasons. "You are doing much better, Sweetheart."

She turns and cups my face in her hands, looks straight into my eyes. "No, Mommy, no… I mean am I all fix-ded? Do I ever havta do more fixin' or checkin' surgeries?"

My heart drops. I want to tell her that yes, she's all done. That she will never again have to face what she faced during the first four years of her life. I want to tell myself that I will never again have to face it with her. I want to sweep it all away so that all that is left is the childhood that I had wished for her from the very start — that she wouldn't have to know or remember this other part of her life. But I know better. I know there is more up ahead, that her life is and always will be different. I sigh. Hug her closer.

"Someday there will be more surgeries, Sweetheart, but not today. Not for a long time. The doctors did such a very good job taking care of you, that we don't have to do surgeries for a long time."

Then she surprises me. She leans in close until our foreheads touch, smiles, then rolls her little golden-brown head onto my shoulder. "Mommy? When I havta do surgeries again, will you stay with me like you always do?"

"Of course, Sweetheart."

"Even if I'm a big girl? You'll stay with me an' sing me songs an' hold my hand?"

I smile back and blink back tears. "You can count on it."

"That's so nice ta know, Mommy. We do brave really good together, don't we?"

Yes. Yes we do.

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