A Letter to My Son From the Waiting Room
Hey Baby,
It’s April 5th. I’m on the 1st floor of the hospital waiting room while they prep you for surgery. You just went back. You’re on the 2nd floor having the turbinates in your nose reduced so that you can breathe. It's a simple procedure but no less stressful for anyone involved, especially me, your mom.
It’s been a long time coming, baby, 15 months to get here, and we’ve been through hell and back. I could write a book on what it took for us to get here today. I’m sorry you’ve suffered so long. It broke my heart to watch you struggle to breathe and be in so much pain for so many years.
I’m trying to stay calm as I sit here. This isn’t your first surgery. You’ve had surgery on both of your eyes when you were six. Your brother had tubes in his ears and a broken wrist, so we are no strangers to anesthesia, operating tables, and waiting rooms, but I swear every time feels like the first time.
They just sent me a message that they are starting the procedure, which means you’re asleep. Hold on, I’ll be back.
Ok, I’m back. I thought I could hold myself together, but I had to run to the bathroom so I could ugly cry in private.
I hope you have the best, most peaceful little nap of your life.
There are about 12-15 sets of parents in here, all holding their clear plastic bags with their child’s clothes and shoes in them. Off to my right in the corner of the room, there’s a mom losing her mind; her clear plastic bag is holding pink clothes and a tiny pair of shoes, so I can only assume her daughter, who can’t be much more than 3, is in surgery right now.
I remember those tiny days and those tiny shoes. How you seemed so fragile. I remember losing my mind the first time, too. I wanted to go over to her, give her a hug, and reassure her everything would be alright, but I couldn’t do what I didn’t know. Because we never know if it’s really going to be alright. So I am just sending her peace and love and hoping my momma vibes make it to her heart.
Directly to my right, there is a dad taking a nap, sitting upright in his chair while mom scrolls on her phone. I wish I were him. He must have gotten up too early, too. I don’t see their bag, but I am trying to absorb some of their zen so I can have some, too.
I just got a message that the doctor is working on your turbinates now. I just imagined you on the operating table with the breathing tube coming out of your mouth, and I lost it again. So much for the zen. I’m grateful for the updates, but I’m not sure if a play-by-play is good for a mom like me with an overactive imagination. Do I want to know?
Yes. Yes, I still want to know.
A grandmother is crying now. I think it’s the grandmother; she didn’t have a clear bag, so I assume she’s the grandmother. She’s pacing the room, and it looks like she’s trying desperately to find the exit to get out of this room. I hope she didn’t get bad news, and I’m wondering where her people are.
I can’t stop thinking about all of the clear plastic bags in this room. Complete lives and little bodies are in these bags. I find myself looking at each one, sizing up the age and gender of every little human just by their shirts, pants, and shoes. Most of the bags contain little shoes meant for toddlers. I have a size 10 in mine. You’re not a baby anymore, but stuffed into that bag, along with your socks and shoes, is my heart.
I look around this waiting room and see all these parents sitting, pacing, and praying, like me, for their baby to be better. Hundreds of surgeries a day happen here, and so many kiddos in worse shape than ours are just a few floors up.
We are the lucky ones. In same-day surgery, all the parents in this room with these bags will more than likely get to empty them. Their baby will come out of surgery, get dressed, and go home, throwing their plastic bag away before they leave the hospital.
You will wear your size 10 shoes out of here today.
Some families here today won’t be so lucky. Their bags will remain full, and their stay will be a lot longer than ours. Heartbreakingly, some parents will leave this hospital with their bag full of clothes and without their child, never to dress them again. I can’t even fathom it.
I sit here in awe at the fragility of it all. We turn the most precious pieces of our lives over to perfect strangers and pray they can fix them. We know, as parents, that however safe it may be, anything can happen, and as I sit in this waiting room, I sit in hope and silent solidarity with all the other parents here today, holding our clear plastic bags while nervously awaiting the all-clear call; the sweet sound of “they’re in recovery.”
The pager just went off. It’s only been an hour and a half. You’re done. Now, we can both breathe a little easier.
Let’s get you dressed, baby. It’s time to go home.
10/11/26 Update: This is a little snippet of that book I could write.
This seems like a good time to revisit a blog I posted in 2024 for my son after surgery.
What I didn't share in this blog was that in October 2023 I lost my job. I was paying UnitedHealthcare $700/mo from the Marketplace for me and my two children.
For 10 months and countless doctor’s appointments UnitedHealthcare denied surgery for my son. They even denied the CT scans for his nose at his ENT clinic even though that clinic was ‘covered.’
No hospital would take our insurance for the surgery. Not one.
Not Children’s Mercy
Not St. Luke’s
Not KU
It was explained to me that the type of UnitedHealthcare insurance I had did not cover the hospital fees for my son to actually have the surgery.
Over 10 months my teenage son was denied healthcare. I paid $7,000 for constant ‘adverse determination’ letters in the mail and received absolutely 0 healthcare.
I lost my job at the end of October 2023. At the beginning of December 2023 we were able to qualify for Medicaid and by April 2024 my son had the surgery he desperately needed at Children’s Mercy Hospital.
15 months it took of me fighting for my son.
I can’t even describe the rage, the helplessness and the fear I experienced as a mother living in a country that could steal my money, deny us healthcare, abuse a child so ruthlessly by denying him the healthcare he needed, and having absolutely no one to call about it.
They relied on my exhaustion, but I never gave up.
Had I known all it would take to get my baby the surgery he needed was to lose my job and become impoverished while facing homelessness, I would have quit my job in January 2023 in a heartbeat.
Privatized insurance is a scam and they should be held criminally liable for all the people they’ve denied healthcare to that have had to suffer.
I had to lose my livelihood in order for my son to have surgery.
This is real. This actually happened.
And I know my story is not unique.
America is the richest country in the world and yet paying $700/mo for insurance ensures nothing but making privatized insurance companies richer while we remain sick, helpless, and dying. They claim control over our lives and our children’s lives and whether we receive healthcare or not.
Medicare for all.
Everyone deserves healthcare, now more than ever.
$7,000 for nothing. 15 months of sadness, pain, exhaustion, and hopelessness.
Please vote for people who actually care about people this midterm election. It could determine whether any of us live or die.
Including you or your child.
Instead of funding war and gold gilded ballrooms with our taxes, we could be paying for people to have the basic human right of healthcare in this country.
It is that serious and consequential.
