Surgery
By the day of my surgery, my family had filled the waiting room.
Linda brought a blanket. Paul brought my favorite peppermint candies even though I wasn’t allowed to eat them yet. Rebecca brought a framed photo of all seven grandchildren holding a sign that read, “Come home soon, Grandma.”
I’d planned to be brave.
Instead, I cried again.
The nurse smiled and said, “That’s what families are for.”
The surgery wasn’t easy, but I came through it.
When I woke, my children were there.
Linda kissed my forehead.
Paul’s eyes were red.
Rebecca whispered, “You scared us.”
I managed a weak smile. “I scared myself.”
For weeks afterward, they took turns staying with me. My grandchildren made cards. The church ladies brought enough soup to feed half the town. Neighbors I thought barely noticed me started stopping by with groceries, flowers, and stories.
For five years I’d mistaken solitude for dignity.
Now I understood something else.
There’s dignity in being loved, too.
