It was 5:08 a.m. when we arrived. My grandfather was behind the wheel and my grandmother was asleep in the passenger seat. I looked over my left shoulder to find my mom asleep and comfortable. I knew that once I woke her up, reality would set in and bring about a different mood amongst us. My grandfather opened the trunk and I wearily climbed out of the car. I stumbled a little when my feet were asleep after being in the same position for more than two hours. When I regained feeling in my feet, I helped my grandfather unload a few bags. My mom and grandmother woke up and stepped out of the car. I remember the look in my mother’s eyes; she was scared but tried not to show it. We all acted normal that morning as if it were any other day even though we knew that this day could go the complete opposite. Thomas Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia was going to be our home for the next two days.

The automatic door opened slowly and a security guard checked our bags. My grandparents and I waited quietly in the waiting room while my mom checked in at the desk. When she came to sit down, I noticed bands on her wrists. One was a white band with her personal information on it and a yellow one that read “fall risk.” The room was filled with silence, not a single phone rang. My grandfather let a tear fall down his cheek before he wiped it with his brown fleece coat. I knew now that it was just a matter of time that we would be saying our goodbyes, maybe forever. We waited there in silence for twenty minutes or so before the nurse called my mom’s name. She explained  that one of us can go with my mom.

The ends of most halls were dark because it was so early. There were only a few doctors, nurses, and staff members eating their breakfast or prepping rooms. When we got to the surgery prep room, my mom and I were escorted to her bed and they checked her vital signs. Her instructions were clear: get washed with a cleansing cloth, put on compression socks and a purple gown, and relax. After I helped her get washed and clothed, I sat down in a blue chair next to her bed. Other rooms were filled with patients getting prepped as well. I was sitting quietly in my chair trying to look happy and positive, when I could not, in any way, be positive. I recalled in my head what the doctor had said at her last appointment before the surgery. He did not know if it was cancerous or pre-cancerous or the estimated size of the tumor. The surgery was expected to take six grueling hours. How could we make it through six hours of pure torture?

My grandparents came in and stood by the edge of the bed. I gave up my seat to my grandmother. My grandfather still had a look in his eyes that I never saw until today. He always seemed to be so strong and nothing ever seemed to bother him. I understood why he had that look. It was the fear of burying one of his children before himself. The curtain opened and a team of nurses and an anesthesiologist gathered around us and explained the surgery and the risks. It was time. We said our goodbyes and I could not help but think that this might be the last time I talk to my mom. With teary eyes we watched my mom be taken away down the hall. She was in the doctor’s hands now.

At the 2 hour mark of the surgery, the desk in the waiting room got a phone call. They called us over and said the doctor is coming up to speak with us. I will never forget the way my heart sank into my chest at that moment. Why is the doctor coming up? Why is the surgery over sooner than expected? What went wrong? Is she gone? Did I lose her forever? These questions and more ran through my mind over and over again. We waited in a small family seating room for what seemed to be the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

As I stared at the bottom of the door waiting for the doctor to enter, it opened and a tall, slender man with short grey hair walked through. However, that was not the first thing I noticed. The first thing I noticed was the blood on his blue pants. Is she gone? The second thing I noticed was his wide smile and happy look on his face. He introduced himself and then shook our hands. He asked us to kindly sit down as he explained the surgery.

However, the only words I can still clearly remember are, “She is in recovery and doing well!”
After all, the tumor was precancerous and they removed her spleen and part of her pancreas. A heavy weight was lifted off my back and I could breathe again.

As we left the waiting room, I retreated to the nearest chair in the hallway. I let out a big sob and began to cry. I cried along with my grandparents as we hugged each other. As we broke away from the hug, we all began texting and calling everyone we knew to tell them about the unbelievable news. Everyone was in shock. I heard raspy, loud sobs coming from my grandfather’s phone. I knew it was my uncle by the sound of his voice. I was woken up from a dreary dream. Not only did I almost lose the most important person in my life, but the woman who taught me everything I know.

The walk to my mom’s recovery room was long. It consisted of two elevator rides, long and twisted hallways, and a bridge reaching from one part of the hospital to the other. Each hallway looked the same. I entered the room and stopped in my tracks. Seeing my mom in so much pain killed me. I could not help her. I was not a doctor or the medicine running through her veins. I felt helpless but knew that she was still here with me. I held her hand and fell asleep with my head on her arm. The white walls and white halls will forever be a constant reminder of the day I almost lost someone important to me. It also taught me to never take things for granted and to cherish every moment you have with the ones you love. You never know when the last goodbye will be.