Best. Day. Ever.
Quality family time in the hospital? Who knew?
Today, I’m at the hospital with a woman I suspect my mom would want me to tell you is not my mom.1
I’m sure you’re dying to know what we’re in for, the way one prison inmate turns to another in the chow line and asks, “What’re you in for?” (This analogy will make increasing sense as this story proceeds.) I’m not at liberty to say much, though, except (1) we’re here for a wee bit of outpatient surgery, and (2) the woman in question, despite a 100% DNA match, is definitely not my mom.
In addition to this woman (who, as my mom would, is sporting a stylish Michael Kors bag that matches her shoes), I’m joined by my actual brother. Whether he’s here to support me or the stranger who vaguely resembles our mom is up for grabs. But I’m glad my brother’s here because, at the age of a bit more than five times ten, he’s managed to retain the sense of humor of a ten-year-old and knows exactly when to deploy it. Despite his age and professional demeanor, he remains a master of the underarm fart sound.
In the Preliminary Waiting Room, we’re greeted by a tall, mustachioed man who, my brother observes, looks just like Borat. Borat leaves, and a woman who’s the spitting image of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez escorts us to the Surgery Waiting Room, where she hands us off to Sofía Vergara, who apparently is working incognito between acting gigs.
We may be here for surgery, but the day holds promise. I’m in a hospital run by celebrity lookalikes (and Sofía Vergara), with a woman who looks a lot like my mom. And my brother. Could it be any better than this?
When it’s time to move from the Surgery Waiting Room to the Pre-Op Holding Pen, Sofía Vergara announces only one of us can accompany our mom-like companion. Since I traveled the farthest, my brother lets me choose. I opt for Pre-Op, and my brother remains behind, promising to text me if anything exciting happens. I set my expectations to “Low.”
My not-mother and I settle into Pre-Op, she in a bed and me in a bedside chair, and I take possession of the Michael Kors bag. Over the next sixty minutes, the following occurs:
The Pre-Op Nurse stops by.
The New Pre-Op Nurse stops by, because the Old Pre-Op Nurse has gone to lunch.
The Anesthesiologist stops by.
The Anesthesiologist’s Assistant stops by.
The New-New Pre-Op Nurse stops by, replacing the Now-Old New Pre-Op Nurse.
A New Anesthesiologist’s Assistant stops by to tell us our Old Anesthesiologist’s Assistant has gone to lunch.
The New-New Pre-Op Nurse announces she’s going to lunch. Since we seem to be in the thick of lunchtime, I ask her when we might be going in for our “morning” surgery.
She can’t say.
My phone pings with a text from my brother in the Surgery Waiting Room.
Brother: There’s a guy in here whose phone keeps ringing, and the ring tone is the theme from The Godfather.
Me: Did he offer you a surgery you can’t refuse? Did he tell you to leave the scalpel and take the cannoli?
Brother: Does the cannoli have raspberry jam inside?
Me: It’s a cannoli, not a rugelach.
Brother: Did the doctor come by?
Me: No, just the anesthesiologist.
Brother: Did he put ███ to sleep?
Me: He turned on the TV. As you know, this works every time.
This sort of free-association fest is what happens when I’m with my brother. In fact, there are no TVs in Pre-Op. Just as there are no TVs in Purgatory. Coincidence? I don’t know. Ask the New-New-New Pre-Op Nurse. If she ever stops by.
Brother: He put [REDACTED] to sleep with a TV?
Me: No, me. I just woke up. Who is this?
Brother: I’m watching Let’s Make a Deal out here. Drew Carey is no Bob Barker.
Me: (Texts a GIF of Borat dancing.)
Brother: How did you get live footage from the Surgery Waiting Room? It’s a party out here.
Apparently, it is a party, because my brother stops texting. Until a surreptitiously taken photo pops up on my phone.
Brother (who has a tendency to state the obvious): There’s a dog in the Surgery Waiting Room. People about to go into surgery are petting her. Is this okay?
Me: Well, she appears to be wearing scrubs, so maybe?
Brother: It just doesn’t feel right.
Me: She, by the way, is a real Barker. Unlike Drew Carey.
Things, once again, go quiet. Until…
Brother: There’s a guy out here offering free prostate exams. Should I get one?
I’d love to respond, but the doctor stops by—which, given how the other stop-bys have gone, terrifies me. Is the doctor going to lunch? No, she’s only here to say hello and let us know there’s another surgery or two before ours.
I say “ours” because I’ve become rather close with the woman in the bed beside me. We’ve bonded over the fact that it’s well after lunchtime, she hasn’t eaten since 9:00 last night, and I haven’t eaten since 6:00 this morning. And now we’re bonding over our shared curiosity about whether tongue depressors (a) have any nutritional value, and (b) are digestible.
Half an hour later, the New-New-New Pre-Op Nurse stops by to let us know the doctor’s back in surgery. Just one-and-a-half surgeries to go(!)
The mom-like stranger is sleeping. As I sit beside her wondering if she’s got a stale stick of gum or an unwrapped cough drop at the bottom of her Michael Kors bag, I remember I’ve got a mini-pack of artisanal gummy bears (which, to be clear, are not “gummies”) in my backpack. In a move that now seems prescient, I’d picked them up last week in a California hotel (not the Hotel California, although given how today’s going (“You can never leave….”) that would be incredibly appropriate).
Desperate not to wake “Mom,” and even more desperate not to eat in front of someone who’s hungrier than I am, I strain to open the mini-pack of gummy bears one silent millimeter at a time. And I succeed—only to discover that the aroma of artisanal gummy bears moves exponentially faster than the speed of sound. Nurse heads swivel in my direction. The woman in the bed stirs. I shove the artisanal gummy bears into my backpack and look around like I’m trying to find the perpetrator.
2:30 p.m. Ping!
Brother (still in the Waiting Room): Is she still waiting?
Me: No, we went home.
Brother: Uber?
Me: No, I rolled the bed up the street. It’s more of a hill than I realized. Seriously, there are 1.5 surgeries ahead of us.
Brother: Why would anyone get half a surgery?
Me: Discount!
At 3:00, the stranger beside me, who looked a lot like my mom before she spent over 15 hours without food, goes in for surgery. For real. I go to lunch, nine hours after I ate breakfast—and, I confess, an hour after I excused myself for a moment, went to the ladies’ room, and swallowed an entire pack of artisanal gummy bears in one go. Did you know that swallowing an entire pack of artisanal gummy bears in one is a lot like eating a sugary, chewy artisanal fruit salad? Now you do.
At 4:30 (90 minutes after 3:00, just to be clear), the OR Nurse calls to tell me some woman who claims to be related to me has gone in for surgery. For real-real.
An hour later, the surgery’s done. And not too long after that, my brother and I go to the Post-Op After-Party, where we find that woman again—sitting up, drinking cranberry juice from a juice box. She’s looking more like my mom than ever, except my mom would never drink cranberry juice. She’s not a juice person.
“I never drink cranberry juice,” the woman says, as she finishes one juice box and starts on another. “I’m not a juice person.” She points to the purse I’ve been carrying around most of the day. “Is that a Michael Kors bag? I have one just like it!”
It’s amazing how much this woman reminds me of my mom. In fact, it might actually be her. I’ll ask the New Post-Op Nurse the next time she stops by. The Old Post-Op Nurse just went to dinner.
If you enjoyed this post, I’d feel brighter than a pack of artisanal gummy bears if you hit the “like” button. And while you’re at it….
Postscript. After receiving a few concerned reactions to this sentence, we feel compelled to clarify that (1) said sentence was a joke, (2) Amanda’s mom has not disowned her, and (3) any plausible deniability about being involved in these shenanigans that Amanda’s mom might have enjoyed is now officially shot to hell. Thank you, The Management.
Groucho and Zeppo walk into a hospital with their Not-Mom Harpo... so freaking good, Amanda!
Brava! Hope your “not Mom” is recovering well! 🙏🏼