A lot of it was the morphine drip they had her on. She was loopy from the drugs, which also, incidentally, made her sick. Holding her hair back as she vomited and wiping her forehead with a damp cloth, I couldn’t help but be taken back to the dozens of times she had done the same for me. I held her hand and reassured her that the surgery had gone well. I recounted my conversations with her doctor and made sure she was comfortable. I watched her sleep and eventually drifted off in a chair by her bed. I felt as she must have so many years ago when I was young and sick. It was strange and disorienting and even, in a weird way, beautiful. I was happy to be there. I was also acutely conscious that this was a glimpse into the future.
By her second day in the hospital, she was the mother I knew again—our freaky Friday was over. Because she is an exercise nut who takes her vitamins and eats her vegetables, my mother recovered very quickly. She and my father, who is now closely monitoring his blood pressure and cholesterol and learning that tuna salad is not healthy just because it has the word “salad” in it, are doing fine. I am clearly the kid again, and they are squarely my parents.
My preview of being a caregiver to a parent both scared and perhaps readied me. I can only hope that when our freaky Friday comes to stay and the roles are reversed, that I will be able to care for my parents with the same love and dedication with which they cared for me. If I can find the courage, honesty, and sense of humor, hopefully that day won’t be so freaky.
PREVIOUS PAGE
