What if the man you married, and the father of your children needed emergency surgery? Would you drop everything to take him to hospital, be there when he came around and recorded every hysterical word to fall from his lips in post anaesthesial truth?
What if your first-born son needed emergency surgery? Would you drop everything to take him to hospital, hold his hand and be there for him every moment of the day?
What if, those two things happened simultaneously? In hospitals at complete opposite ends of the metropolis.
What if you had to make a choice?
If you choose your husband, your firstborn will never forgive you.
And vice versa.
It’s Sophie’s Choice.
But, instead of choosing I tried to do everything, including taking my two other spawn to and from school.
That I realised was a step too far and the two siblings skipped school.
At sparrow’s fart, I got in the car with the better half and he drove himself to hospital (westwards).
I got home in time to wrangle my son into the car and take him to hospital (eastwards).
I could do this.
Husband to hospital 7am.
Child to hospital 11:30am.
Husband collection: 2pm.
Child collection: 4pm.
How could this go wrong? My timing would be impeccable. I would be fantastic wife and mother with many balls juggling Cirque Soleil style.
It turns out that I do not have a future in the circus unless there is an opening in the clown department. No sparkly leotard for me.
And my husband had to get an uber home.
My guilt cannot be assuaged.
On the bright side. We got the teeth in a jar. They’re enormous chompers. Son refuses to even look at them. But then he looks like Calvin the Chipmunk and sounds like Daffy Duck so who can take that seriously.
I have used up all my Florence Nightingale today.
They have about 2 hours more of sympathy before Nurse Ratchet comes in for the next shift.