Being Brave

Recently I visited someone at the hospital. Someone from the office had a major operation and will be out of the office for weeks, so as to make their stay in the hospital more uncomfortable, we visited as an office.

Before I continue with this post, I just want to say that if I am ever in the hospital, I don't want my co-workers to visit. Imagine being cut up, drugged, in a hospital gown, and being surrounded by co-workers. That is more like a nightmare for me.

Now the co-worker will be fine, and if he wasn't, I'd be okay with that as well. Not like we are family. Cruel on some levels, but some people have to get sick, and if a co-worker does, then perhaps someone I really care about dodges the bullet this year. This does not make intellectual sense, but deep down, I sort of believe it.

Anyway, I had excused myself from the party – I was not a main character in the event, and the nurses were looking a bit peeved that we broke some kind of visiting hour rules. I sat with another hospital extra in the waiting area for the OR – and I could see a bunch of families waiting for their loved ones to come out of surgery.

I have never had to do this – wait for someone to come out of surgery. I could see worry and pain on some faces, and it occurred to me to ask my self, "What kind of moral support would I be?"

Would I be a brave wife, a brave aunt, waiting for someone to beckon me to the recovery area? I have never had to be brave, and I am not sure I would be brave when the opportunity presents itself.

Now I am planning non-red-meat meals for my hubbie, making sure he gets all his veggies and that he exercises four times per week. I do this because I really don't want to be one of those people in the waiting room, gazing in space while paging through a Cosmo. I'm not that brave.