1,100 Miles and Twenty-Seven Hours

1,100 miles. That’s how far it is by road from here to Mass Gen where Squid received his portion of a new liver Friday.

I’m now 1,100 miles and more than 27 hours from the phone call telling me the nine month wait looked to be over soon.

And, I’m pissed. Royally ready to throw a rod. My mother hasn’t bothered to call and tell me what she knows. Twenty-seven hours later and she hasn’t called.

The last time someone in my immediate family was in for surgery the ‘party’ was 558 miles away and they DIED.

Twenty-seven hours.

I know at this point that Squid’s still alive. In true family fashion he threw a curve ball in the mix by getting blood clots so they have him in super serious ICU tonight instead of serious ICU. I had to call Grams. Grams had my Aunt call me back when she got home from watching and waiting.

Part of me knows that watching your son be this sick has to hurt and be scary. Part of me knows that watching your son brush death fifteen years almost to the day your first husband died sucks big green rocks. But, dammit, your daughter’s 1,100 miles away and she’d like to know what’s going on. I’m alone. I’m afraid my little brother’s going to die. And I’ve blown a blood vessel in my nose.

Could you at least give me a call? Even if it’s just to tell me that we’re waiting and watching. If nothing else it’ll remind me that you remember you have a daughter too. Yeah, Squid’s fighting for his life and I’m feeling like the stuff beyond the ellipsis. Not quite the same thing, I know.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Maybe, I can you’ll call me at six o’clock in the morning just for fun.

Maybe I can be mean and ask you if he’s dead when you call.

Or, maybe, I suck it up and just be a grownup when you call tomorrow (though chances are slim if you wake me). It’s not like any of us need high drama at the moment.