My Operation

“Sugar!” I yelp. What I really mean is “sh*t,” but my five-year-old granddaughter Lily is on the porch where I’ve just impaled my hand on a rough area of the railing. I’m pretty sure her parents would not appreciate any amplification of her current interest in bathroom talk; p**p is her favorite expletive and frequent conversation starter. I can see why Captain Underpants is such a big seller.

My son Isaac—music producer and emergency room physician—his doctor-wife Leah, and Lily are visiting us in Plymouth for the weekend. Though the calendar proclaims spring and an exotic Korean forsythia blooms boldly in the yard, clouds and low fog cling to the coast, preventing the sun from thawing our winter-chilled bones. The gas fireplace is cheerful in the living room, where the green leather sofa envelops Isaac and Leah, who is admiring the multicolored abstract quilt she created and hung on the half wall of the loft.

I head for the junk drawer in the kitchen to find a needle and matches for dealing with the splinter. I had one last week, too.

“Don’t you have a forceps?” Isaac asks. Leah and I giggle.

“Well, maybe an eyebrow tweezers in my makeup kit.” But the splinter is firmly embedded in the palm of my left hand; nothing is sticking out to grab with the implement, whatever we call it.

“Want help?” Isaac queries, holding the sewing kit and matches.

“Nope, I did one last week,” brags Dr. Mom.

I commandeer the surgical supplies and plop down at the dining table, squinting at my hand, self-consciously determined to take care of this all by myself. Running through my head is a narrative: gray-haired retired oncologist Nana insists on taking out her own splinter, while emergency room doctor Isaac and celebrated primary-care physician Leah look on. I’m sure they think I’m the very definition of a has-been. I don’t know the latest references from the New England Journal of Medicine, and whatever clinical and administrative miracles I performed in my career, it’s simply not how things are done anymore. Sometimes at dinner they make jokes about medicine that don’t seem funny to me. (Reality check: I retired only three years ago.) I square my shoulders, ostentatiously burning the tip of the needle with a lighted match and settle down to prove myself equal to the task. The room is very quiet.

Lifting off a few layers of skin overlying the splinter, I realize that it is quite deep and my vision is definitely blurry. Lily is playing with a flashlight nearby, pretending to be a pirate with a spyglass.

“Ahoy, matey,” Leah calls. “Go over to Nana and shine the light on her hand.”

Lily assumes the role of surgical assistant, holding the light steady while I continue digging for pay dirt. I’m not too enthusiastic about self-inflicted pain. Do I need to make this display of independence? Isaac did offer to help.

But I know Isaac fears he will have to take care of us someday. Nine years ago, when we told the kids how excited we were to be buying a family-sized house with an ocean view in Plymouth, Isaac’s reaction shocked us. “Are you crazy? At this late date? Will you have enough money left for the nursing home?” We saw how uncomfortable he was thinking of his parents as potential dependents and frostily assured him any concern about that subject was unnecessary. Peter and I, unwilling to risk rebuff, have been careful to make no requests he might construe as incipient neediness. Hence, the stubborn splinter scene at the table.

A sizeable fragment of wood emerges on the end of the needle. I display it proudly to the gallery.

“I can’t see if there’s more left behind.”

“Mom, would you like me to look at it now?” I extend my paw for inspection.

“Lily, shine the flashlight a little more in this direction,” the surgeon requests, taking up the needle and a serious demeanor. “Yep, there are a few wood fibers left.”

I lean back, while he finishes the job. “Interesting,” I muse. “He let me do as much as I could and then bailed me out. Just like he does with Lily.” I’m aware of competing feelings: security, trust, and nostalgia for my own heyday, turning it over to my next two generations.

“That’s it, now go put on some bacitracin and a Band-Aid,” my son advises.

“Why? It’s so superficial,” the patient/colleague complains.

“Mom!” gesturing with his head to the stairs. “When things bleed there can be infection. You know that. Now just do it.”

I scurry up the steps to carry out the doctor’s orders.

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