The Decision

I stood there in the toy aisle at Kmart, clutching my iced latte, the paper cup starting to crumble in my grip. The toy shelves looming over me cast a shadow in the harsh fluorescent light.

I just couldn’t decide.

My son was going in for surgery the following morning. Nothing serious, a routine surgery that many children, including myself, have had. But then, when does your loved one going under anaesthesia not feel serious?

Despite the anaesthetist sending us a video stating that both parents could be present for induction and recovery, we were then told only one of us could be present.

So we had to choose.

We decided Dad would go as they have a special bond. I knew it was the right decision, but where did that leave me?

I’d never felt so useless in my life.

Before dropping my son at daycare, I’d gotten up in the early morning light and read through the hospital information page again to prepare myself. Then I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. It stated that children under 17 could be accompanied by one adult only. Anyone 17 or older had to attend alone.

It sounded like I wouldn’t even be allowed to wait for him on the ward. I began to wonder: if he had been 17, would I have been happy dropping him at the doors of the hospital and just walking away?

Absolutely not!

So that’s how I came to be in the toy aisle at Kmart. I had to choose a toy. A present I could give him when I saw him again.

In that moment, the decision felt like the only thing I had any control over.

It had to be perfect.

I wandered up and down the aisles.

Too babyish.

Too old for him.

No, not another toy with a screen to rot his tiny brain.

Little did I know that when we arrived at the hospital the following day, they would let me in. How could they not? He’s only two years old. I was able to be with him until he went into surgery, and I waited on the ward for him to return.

But the nurse would completely dismiss my husband, his father. I would tell her repeatedly that Dad was going in with him for the induction, but she would continue to speak only to me.

I am the mother, after all.

I picked up a mini cash register from the shelf. He was given a toy with coins not so long ago, and he loved it. But after 24 hours, he put it down and hasn’t touched it since.

No, that wouldn’t do.

And even after Dad had gone into the induction room with him, the nurse would return to see me sitting on that hard seat. I felt so helpless and alone under that same clinical fluorescent lighting, and she’d say, “Oh, did Dad go in?” reminding me once again that I was sitting there doing nothing while my son was in surgery.

And then I saw it, Bluey Family Car and Caravan Set. A little Bluey car towing a caravan. The lighting that seemed so harsh before gave its plastic a soft, warm sheen. It was very similar to one of his favourite Bluey episodes, Road Trip. It also made sounds and came with a little campfire and frying pan with baked beans.

The next day at the hospital, I smiled to myself as that very Bluey episode came on and we watched it while we waited for them to come and get him.

I grabbed the Bluey toy, finally feeling some of my control returning.

Before I left, I almost picked up a fun pair of pyjamas for him to wear as well. The anaesthetist said children could wear their own pyjamas in the operating theatre.

As we arrived the next day and the nurse slipped a tiny hospital gown over his fragile body, I was relieved I didn’t waste my money on the pyjamas.

Why was there so much conflicting information? Didn’t they realise how important little things like this were to parents who felt so helpless?

I wish I could go back and talk to that scared Mum leaving Kmart. She’s thrown away the coffee cup now, and is clutching that Bluey toy, her tiny bit of control.

I’d tell her the day was stressful, but everything went smoothly, and she was so proud of her little boy afterwards.

The morning after his surgery, I watched him pretending to feed the baked beans to his Bluey toy, and I knew he might not be playing with that toy in 24 hours, but I’d done my best.