be walking with assistance that same day and would be home within a couple of nights.
Mom prepared for recovery like she was planning a military operation.
She checked her insurance again and again.
She requested estimated charges ahead of time.
She moved a bed downstairs.
She installed a handrail.
She filled her freezer with meals.
She even selected a physical therapist before surgery.
That was Mom.
Always prepared.
I still took the day off work to stay with her.
Routine surgery or not, she was my mother.
That morning, the hospital was quiet.
We checked in and finished the paperwork.
Eventually, a nurse named Patricia brought us into the pre-op area.
Patricia was warm and experienced, probably in her late forties, with the kind of relaxed bedside manner that immediately put people at ease.
She helped Mom change into a gown, reviewed her medications and allergies, and discussed recovery.
“The physical therapy is the important part,” Patricia explained. “Do the exercises even when you don’t feel like doing them, and you’ll recover much faster.”
Mom laughed.
“I was a nurse for years. I know exactly what hospital staff say about patients who refuse their exercises.”
Patricia laughed too.
“Oh, then you’re going to be our favorite patient.”
Everything seemed completely ordinary.
I was scrolling through my phone when Patricia said:
“All right, Helen. I’m going to start your IV now.”
She pushed the sleeve of Mom’s hospital gown higher.
Then she stopped.
The sudden silence made me look up.
Patricia was holding my mother’s wrist.
And she was staring directly at the blue flower.
Her entire expression had changed.
The friendly smile was gone.
She looked stunned.
Not confused.
Not curious.
She looked like she recognized it.
For several seconds, Patricia simply stared.
Then she seemed to regain her composure.
