Nervous Hours . . .

I hate waiting.

I hate not being able to make things happen.

I hate the unknown.

I hate when I'm waiting, unable to make things happen, while deep in the grips of the unknown.

Yet - here I sit. Waiting. Unable to do anything. Not knowing what is happening.

SLF, you see, is currently down the hall from me (or perhaps miles away inside this huge hospital - I'm not exactly sure which) under the false-sense-of-rest that is a general anesthetic having her body invaded by robotic devices, intravenous drips, and the deft hands of medical professionals.

And I . . . I hate it.

I worry. I obsess. I'm freaked out. I'm frightened. Oh sure, sure . . . she'll be "fine" and this is "routine" and she scheduled it months ago so she's well educated and prepared and comfortable. And I am too - if only because she is and has assured (if not instructed) me to be fine.

But I can't do anything but wait. And I can't (yet) do anything to help. And I can't know what's happening or how "fine" she is until someone in scrubs meanders down the hall - strong eye-contact the whole way - to assure (if not instruct) me that it is over and I can relax.

The only solace I have is the handful of other schlubs sitting around biding the same time and waiting for their scrub-festooned relief to approach from afar. For even in these moments - we're never really, truly "alone".

UPDATE - My Savior in Dansko clogs came early. Things are fine. All the worry, as always, for nothing.