On Saturday I took my mom to the hospital for a minor hand surgery. To kill time, I took Murakami and Claiborne/Haw with me and headed for some coffee. My dad was outstation and called several times to check. I finished my caffè latte, several chapters and more short stories. More people filled in, every greeting of good morning turned into good afternoon. My dad called five times and I was still waiting.
I picked her up hours later. It was a really minor surgery, she said.
The next day, I found myself waiting for the vet to come take a look at Mia (my dog). She hadn’t touch her breakfast/dinner and she was shivering. The vet dispensed some fever medication and painkillers. He also took a blood sample from her. He told me to wait for his call to confirm what’s going on.
It started to rain and Mia was getting restless. She hates the rain. So we sat in the porch together. When it thundered, she got up and walked in circles only to resign under my bench again. The vet finally called to say that he may have detected an early stage of pyometra. Things are uncertain at this point, but we still had to wait until the rain is over, wait for the calm.
This morning she threw up a piece of mushroom stem. I don’t know how or where it came from.
I’m still waiting.
It’s easy to understand/see that waiting is the fuzzy period between now and later. Like the end of a television transmission, it’s all static until dawn. But I think my waiting is between now and now. I’m surprised by hope.