Sending my kid down that hallway
clad only in his underpants and socks
wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done
as a parent, but it was close.
He looked so small
as he walked away from us.
He was staring down at the IPad
and I was glad for the distraction it brought.
He walked willingly, if not a little blindly into the unknown.
The O.R. nurses led the way, chattering away to selective ears which
listened primarily to the beeps and boops of “Plants Vs. Zombies”
or some such nonsense.
We kissed his forehead and said we’d see him soon.
He muttered a goodbye and swiped his finger left to right
setting a trap for the next digital enemy.
We waited in a very comfortable, yet uncomfortable room;
with strangers and their concerns and cares thickening the oxygen
I was trying to breathe.
There was coffee and doughnuts, cereal and milk.
We ate breakfast on Styrofoam plates and out of paper cups;
we waited.
When it was done we were told how it all played out.
The surgeon spoke of it in the same way my mechanic
talks about replacing a head gasket,
only with about 1000% more confidence;
like it was literally no big deal at all.