“Wait and See” (Part Two)

“I love calm people. The ones choosing their words wisely, never raising their voice. Not living to show off, but to exist in a quiet and harmonic way, trying to at least not harm anyone. I find those people inspiring” – Unknown

4/11/25

I cradle the arch of Nora’s neck and explain to her that I’m going to lay her down against a small, round, doughnut-shaped foam pillow. I settle her and remind her of what I have already explained: a doctor is about to give her medicine through a breathing mask to help her fall asleep and keep her comfortable. She ignores me by locking her eyes on the iPad in my hand. It’s her way of telling me that she already knows and understands her role and why we are here in this space.  

 A bustling room of medical staff moves around the bed as I hold up the iPad for Nora— it’s still playing “Finding Nemo” from the pre-op room. An anesthesiologist places a mask over Nora’s nose and mouth as I align the iPad a little above her eyes, so she can clearly see the movie above the mask. I lean in close and search her face for any sign of what she may need here in this moment, but as I watch I feel my shoulders relax, she doesn’t need a thing —she is immersing herself with Dory and Marlin in the sea.

Still holding the screen, and without taking my eyes from her face, I rest my elbows on the bed listening to the dialogue between Marlin, a Clown Fish, and his companion, Dory, a Blue Regal Tang with a significant disability: short-term memory loss. The two fish are trapped in the mouth of a whale, a situation that could end Marlin’s quest across the ocean to find his lost child, Nemo. I listen as Marlin physically and emotionally rages against the inside of the whale’s mouth while Dory joyfully and playfully floats around him. Two fish in the same situation, with two completely different emotional experiences.

Suddenly, Nora is uncomfortable — her right hand moves from her side up towards the mask on her face. She is agitated, and she is searching for something, anything, to hold onto to help her feel grounded and secure. I do what I usually do in these situations: I give her a job. I guide her hand over mine, “Can you help me hold the iPad up? Thank you, Nora.” Her face and hand relax as she holds both my hand and the iPad.

I stare intently at her face as I listen to Marlin throw his body against the inside of the whale’s mouth and move through a series of intense emotion: panic, anger, and finally despair.

A woman’s masked voice over my shoulder breaks through the dialogue between the fish and says in a surprised voice, “I’m here to hold down her legs, but she doesn’t even need it.”

I’m stunned. No, I’m fuming. I’m everything all at once and all I want is this woman and her restraint-ready demeanor and general lack of awareness of Nora as far away from the bed as possible. Nora is calm and demonstrating composure even while having a mask placed over her nose and mouth. Even the notion of restraining her borders on offensive. And, from my perspective as her mother, when spoken over Nora, audible to Nora, it’s inappropriate.

I look up and around to the other masked professionals in the room attempting to gauge their reaction to this woman, but not a single person in the room acknowledges her. Instead, their heads are down, eyes are averted, and they continue quietly moving through the room, attending to their various tasks.

Clearly they were not engaging with her comment, but even still, I’m fuming, and I know I’m about to unleash my inner voice as fast forming words rise up through my chest, but instead of releasing them here and in this moment, I grind and grit my teeth reminding myself that I’m not here to address this woman and her comments, or to teach. I’m here for Nora. Calm, present, centered Nora.

I take a deep breath and gently hold my cheek against the back of Nora’s hand, and as I do I feel grounded and at home—my thoughts become clearer and more composed, and suddenly I know what to do.

Without taking my eyes off Nora’s face, I pull my cheek from her hand and stand up, still holding the iPad and her hand, to my fullest height before saying slowly, intentionally and clearly to the room, but for no one else but Nora, “She is so calm. She prepared for this, and she is doing awesome.” The woman, whose presence as a restraint technician is becoming more and more ridiculous, takes a step back from the bed.

I let out a long exhale, knowing that what the woman, and likely the room, doesn’t know or understand about Nora is this: before even entering surgical services, Nora made several decisions to protect her peace and calm. She chose to have her mom with her, to watch a movie while going under anesthesia, and even which comfort items to have nearby. And, in all the moments leading to this, she has made an active choice to remain calm, and to both trust and work with the medical team.

And what I’m not hearing from the woman or the medical team, is recognition or appreciation of Nora’s awareness, effort and partnership. Nora’s eyes begin to roll and I hear the anthologist’s voice, “Ok Mom, give her a kiss goodbye.”

With my eyes still locked on Nora’s face, I ignore her. And her instructions. Instead, I continue to watch Nora’s face and eyes, which are becoming more and more reminiscent of the times I’ve administered intranasal valium for large seizure clusters as she moves to a form of sedated sleep. I stay where I am until the intermittent rolls of Nora’s eyes transition from clear and present to foggy and distant.

Then I move quickly, knowing that by neglecting to follow the anesthesiologist’s instructions, or by taking my time, the doctor is likely and ready to have me escorted out of the room by her restraint-ready co-workers. I move Nora’s hand from mine to her side and tuck the iPad, still playing “Finding Nemo,” under my arm and in one motion I grab my purse and kiss Nora’s forehead before escorting myself out of the room.

I wrestle with the iPad as I march down the hall attempting to stop the film, but the home button is frozen and I’m staring at Marlin and Dory as they cling to a whale’s tonsils. Marlin, grabbing Dory’s fin, yells, “How do you know something bad isn’t going to happen!?” Dory exclaims, “I don’t!” right before Marlin, in an act of faith, releases them both down the throat of a whale and deep into the unknown.

I click the home button again and the movie screen shrinks and I swipe it away.  

I toss the iPad into my purse and make my way to the waiting area to find Tyler, knowing I’ll report to him what he already knows: It was uneventful. And Nora, in any room, on any stage, and wherever she finds herself, doesn’t just remain calm, Nora is the calm.