The operation went as planned, although the team remained cautious until the final pathology results were available.
When I woke in the recovery area, I felt groggy, sore, and terribly thirsty.
A nurse adjusted my pillow.
“You’re awake, Mrs. Eleanor. The operation is finished.”
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry.
“Michael?”
“Your son is waiting to see you as soon as the team says it’s appropriate.”
I closed my eyes.
I had never been so grateful for a name.
The next day was difficult.
My abdomen hurt whenever I moved, and getting out of bed seemed impossible. A nurse helped me sit upright, and a physiotherapist encouraged me to take a few careful steps.
I wanted to refuse.
“I am seventy-nine years old,” I complained. “Surely I am entitled to stay in bed.”
The physiotherapist smiled.
“You’re entitled to complain, Mrs. Eleanor. But we’re still going to help you walk.”
