The Operating Room and the Echoes of her First Goodbye

Our youngest had her tonsils and adenoids removed today. Just a standard outpatient procedure at a surgery center. Something simple, they said. In and out the same day.

But for me, it stirred up something much deeper.

She screamed for me as they wheeled her back—“Mama! Mama!”—over and over again, until the doors closed and I was left standing in that too-quiet hallway. I walked to the waiting room holding back tears, but inside, I was unraveling.

Because that moment pulled me straight back to her birth.

To her time in the NICU.

To the sterile hospital room where I couldn’t hold her.

To the grainy NICU livestream I watched for hours instead of sleeping or eating—because it was the only way I could see her, the only connection I had while I was isolated with Covid and couldn’t be near her.

I wasn’t there when she needed me most. And I’ve carried that ache ever since.

I thought maybe time had softened it. That I’d tucked it away. But trauma has a way of hiding in the body until something cracks it open again.

This surgery wasn’t a major medical crisis—but it still pressed on the deepest of wounds. The one that formed the moment we were separated. The one that whispers, “You weren’t there.”

And while I couldn’t go back and rewrite those early days, this time, I could stay close. I could be the first face she saw after surgery. I could be the one holding her through recovery. And even though it didn’t undo what came before, it reminded me how far we’ve come.

Healing doesn’t always look like moving on—it often looks like circling back, making peace with the past as best you can, and choosing presence in the moments you do have.

So this week, we rest.

We snuggle in close.

And I remind myself that being here now—loving her through the aftermath—is healing us both.