Jeanette left after five post-op days. I felt mild terror at the withdrawal Mom would experience as the sudden cessation of Jeanette’s generous attention to her, with walks, drives, games, meals, and conversation. I feared Mom’s reaction to the sudden sensory deprivation, and of how Mom might look to me to fill it. Filled with anesthesia confusion and post-op pain, I retired early to bed, aided by both a sleeping pill and a pain pill. An hour later, I awoke to light flooding my bedroom. I turned over groggily, and in befuddlement saw Mom approaching my bed, her cane in one hand, and other raised in the sign for either hello or good-night, or both. I couldn’t hear for my ear plugs. I couldn’t speak for my CPAP mask. I couldn’t process for the foggy head, pain, and drugs. But I did croak out an unintelligible, “What…are…you…doing!?” She either registered my unhappiness, or had simply accomplished her purpose, for she turned and tottered out. Sleep was gone now, and I churned at the weirdness of the intrusion. The scene replayed itself the next morning, with Mom waking me with a knock on my closed door and staggering in to bid me a “Good morning!” I grunted something unpleasant, and she turned and left the room with a resigned, “Alright.” I whined to my sister. You can’t expect her to understand, or to remember. If you don’t want her to come into your room, you’ll have to put a sign on your door. A sign, really? Would STAY OUT!! do? Mom had never exhibited this intrusive behavior before. But I put up a sign that was hopefully both clear and kind: I Am Sleep If My Door Is Closed. In my distressed, confused, drugged, exhausted mind, the intrusions had upset me badly. To me, they said, You are not allowed to rest and to heal the way you need and want. They said to me, Despite your months of preparations for your surgery, you failed to prepare to manage Mom’s loneliness. They said, Your privacy will not be respected. My post-op mind has calmed. I can see how desperate Mom felt to appease her own loneliness and to connect with her suffering boy. I am better able to tolerate her visits, the timely ones anyway. And the sign on my bedroom door seems to have worked.
Rabbit Lane 