I squeezed his hand. “I know. But you’re in good hands now. Dr. Kowalski is excellent. They’re going to fix this. You’re going to be okay.”
He swallowed, and his eyes shone in a way that told me he was still trying to be brave for my sake. “I wasn’t making it up,” he said. “I wasn’t faking for drugs.”
My throat tightened so hard I had to force the words out. “I know you weren’t. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
They took him through the double doors, and I was left in the hallway watching through the narrow glass panes as the OR team received him. Even after decades around surgery, there is something uniquely unbearable about seeing your own child disappear behind operative doors. Expertise does not blunt that. It only gives the fear more structure. I knew exactly what contamination in the abdomen could do. I knew the infection risks. I knew how quickly a perforated appendix could turn from dangerous to lethal if the timing went wrong. Knowledge is a poor anesthetic for love.