The anesthesiologist is instructing the transport team. I ask for a minute. As I fumble to get the gown and gloves on. I hold her swollen hand and lean over to kiss her cheek. Stroke her hair. She cannot hear me. But maybe somewhere deep inside she can feel me.
They start wheeling her out and I ask to come with. I walk slowly behind the procession of nurses and doctors. Walk behind the bed in which she is confined. I try not to think of past and future processions. Nothing good can come of those thoughts.
In the blink of an eye, we all stop short. The nurse informs me I can go no further. I am not welcome through the double doors. She tells me it's time to say goodbye. Everyone steps back.
I lean over the woman who carried me for eight months. The woman who I call Ma. I kiss her cheek. And I tell her I will be right here. That she should be brave. And that I will see her when she comes out. She cannot hear one word.
And then she is gone.
And now I sit here. And wait. I wait for the unknown.