The day that never was

Well, today was the day. Ottawacker Jr., the plum of our loins, was scheduled to go in for the operation to correct his elbow. In case you missed the news, he was diagnosed with osteochondritis dissecans (OCD), a joint condition where a piece of bone and its covering cartilage lose blood supply, die, and detach from the rest of the bone. This has been ongoing for about 18 months and, while it hasn’t been painful on the whole, has been a source of concern.
 
We got ourselves ready early, making sure we were showered and clean. CHEO, which is in general a fantastic place, has a really good programme through which a parent can accompany the child into the OR and be present while he or she is anaesthetized. The downside is you have to spend a long period of time in gowns, and enter the sterile environment. But, all in all, a small price to pay to watch a trained doctor hitting your son over the head with a bedpan. Unless I got that bit wrong.
 
Mrs. Ottawacker dropped the two of us off outside the front door (no way we were paying the exorbitant parking fees to occupy one of the 36 spots available) for 10:15am, and we made our way up to the third-floor operating area for the allotted 10:20 sign in. All went smoothly. We were seen by two lovely nurses who clearly had done this thing before. Ottawacker Jr. had had nothing to eat since the previous evening, and had only had his permitted cup of apple juice and cup of water since then, so after his vitals had been taken, he buggered off to get changed into his scrubs, and then we went and sat in the waiting room. Operation was scheduled to take place between 12:25 and 2:15. Moana 2 was playing on the DVD player in the kids waiting room and there were a handful of other ne’er-do-wells waiting with us. All was set.
 
Moana 2 finished and we started to watch Madagascar 2. “Do they only do sequels?” I thought to myself, kicking myself for not having watched either Moana or Madagascar. 12:25 came and went. Madagascar 2 came to an inevitable conclusion and on went The Incredibles. 2:15 came and went. So did 2.30. In the end, about that time, I got up and asked how things were looking and did the nurse at reception have any idea how long things were going to take? I knew these things are never fixed schedules – but maybe my selective deafness had missed our call or something? I was assured that things were okay – and that the surgery in the operating room we were scheduled to go into had literally just wrapped up. “It shouldn’t be too long now,” she said.
 
Fine by me. Back I went, sat down next to Ottawacker Jr. and called Mrs. Ottawacker to let her know. After that, we went back to admiring the truly appalling signage in the waiting room. The one for the accessible toilets was particularly interesting. “I’m not sure that sign says what they wanted that sign to say,” Ottawacker Jr. said. Nor was I. You can make up your own mind in the extra. Finally, 20 minutes later, we got our call. Up we got, went through to the main area, were shown into an office where the surgeon was standing, waiting for us.
 
“I’m really sorry,” she said, somehow convincing me she was really sorry. “We’re going to have to cancel the surgery for today. There has been an emergency and the room is being used for something else. My office will call to reschedule.”
 
Then, silence. “This is where you get upset,” she said.
 
But what can you get upset about? Ottawacker Jr. is scheduled for a procedure on his elbow, which is annoying but not too serious, something more important comes up and the space in which he was due to have his operation is being used for something more important. That’s life. That’s fair. That’s completely understandable. This I said to her. I’m not sure what sort of wankers she gets to deal with (upset parents, I get it, I’ve been one myself) but she looked very grateful and said she knew how hard it is to build up to an operation and prepare for it and then get canned. She was very sorry and thankful that I was so understanding. “I know what I’d want if he needed emergency surgery,” I said, nodding at the delighted Ottawacker Jr. next to me.
 
And, I think, despite the past week of hermit-like existence, no bus rides and massively reduced football, he was very happy to dodge a bullet. He gets to visit his godparents in Victoria without having to hump a cold-therapy machine across the continent; he gets to resume football; he gets to go on endless bus rides; he gets to potentially have time off school if the operation gets rescheduled for the autumn. And the surgeon went to get him a can of ginger ale AND an ice lolly in case the poor lamb was starving.
 
Him starving? Me starving. Out of an excess of empathy I had also skipped breakfast and lunch. Not to mention my mid-morning snack and post-lunch snack. My God.
 
Anyway, I texted Mrs. Ottawacker who came to pick us up. We drove home. I drove to the LCBO to get some celebratory beer. Ottawacker Jr. had a bowl of cereal and then ran to catch the 98 to the airport – unless it was the 99 or the 97. And just like that, the day was in the history books and nothing had happened. Life, eh? Funny old game.