Surgery

My aunt and I walked around aimlessly, not knowing what to do or what to say. There was a lot of silence, perhaps since we were both so deep in thought, focused on my mother's well-being. The surgery that day was thirteen hours long, roughly the same amount of time it took for my last-minute flight from the Middle East to arrive in Belfast. I had landed the night before my Mum was admitted to the hospital and my older cousin drove me to my mother's doorstep. I hadn't told her I would come.
Recovery was hard on my Mum. After major neck and face surgery she was stuck with a tracheotomy for a couple of days and trying to make light of a serious situation I had made her silly Q-cards she could use, both to divert her attention and to spare her from having to write down every simple request, question or answer for the medical staff in the hospital ward. I don't think she used them much, as the mounds of scribbled papers beside her bed were piling up. We joked with her, saying that we hadn't ever heard her say so little for so long.
After two weeks in the hospital she was finally allowed to come home and I stayed another twelve days in Northern Ireland to aid her in her recovery period.