It's Okay, She's a Post Op

"It's okay, she's a Post Op." The one receptionist said to the nurse filling in. I didn't have to fill out the paperwork a new patient would have, because I was a returning patient. Only this time it wasn't because of something happy like a pregnancy, it was because of something unhappy, like losing the baby and then almost dying.

A Post Op.

Of all of the things I have been called in my life, I don't ever remember being called that. Mom, Sister. Daughter. Granddaughter. Wife. Friend. Woman. Never Post Op. It sounds Sterile.

It's amazing what being a Post Op changes. All of the sudden the stuffy nurse who never seemed like she cared for me, guided me down the hall holding my arm as if to hold me up. "Oh, Sweet (Insert Danger's Real Name here)," she cooed to me. Like we were long lost friends. Was my fragility written all over my face or something? I guess we will never know. Maybe they just know what "Post Op" means.

To me it means a lot of things. First and foremost, it means broken dreams. But it also means so much more. It means amazing frustration as people repeat over and over to you, "It just wasn't meant to be." It means unimaginable heartache as you reach what would be milestones in your pregnancy, but yer no longer pregnant. It means hoping you won't resent every friend or family member who has a healthy baby to love and hold. It means forever wondering, "what if?" It means that I carry tissue in my purse, in case I might start crying in the middle of a store, just because. But besides all of these things, it means loving my husband even more, because I almost didn't get to grow old with him. It means being more patient with my kids because we never know what tomorrow brings.

I guess I can live with being a Post Op as long as I still can hope and dream for the future, and "what could be." Being a Post Op has taught me the pangs of hope again.

The nurse guided me into the room and told me to have a seat, the doctor would be in soon to speak with me. So I sat.

First, I read a magazine, then I looked at the calendar they had, and as my head wandered around the room, I spotted Kleenex. All of the sudden I needed one. Tears welled up in my eyes and the receptionist's sterile words echoed in my head. Post Op. Post Op. Post Op. Post Op.

I tried to be strong. I was gonna be composed. I wasn't gonna break down. I stood my ground. I stared thru the pastel blinds and willed myself to stop crying. After a few moments, it seemed I had won the battle, but I had several moments after that where I was forced to dab the corner of my eye so that my face wouldn't be stained with tears. I really didn't want my doctor to think I was a basketcase.

My doctor came in, and we exchanged pleasantries. It was awkward. I associate his face with bringing new life into the world. I think he could tell, and he asked me if I was gonna be okay. I barely choked out a "Yeah, it was just really hard to come today."

We talked about being a Post Op. And what that means. After we spoke, it solidified what Post Op means most to me. It means hope.