June arrived with its golden sun and the first true taste of summer heat, casting warmth over everything—even the chaos that quietly bloomed in the corners of our life. My calendar was dotted with interviews—some completed, others hanging in limbo after the initial screenings. Amidst this professional whirlwind, another storm was silently brewing closer to home.
My wife began feeling an odd discomfort—an ache under her left ribs, a lingering pain near her shoulder. We brushed it off at first, hoping it was nothing more than the toll of caring for our young baby. Still, to rule out anything serious, she went to the hospital. That simple visit turned into a five-hour wait, just to give blood and urine samples. I joined her later, expecting answers, but the results never came. With baby Norzang waiting at home with Shacha, we had no choice but to return without seeing the doctor.
The next day, she went back. This time, the news wasn’t as kind. The nurse revealed her UTI hadn’t fully healed—and worse, it was creeping towards her kidneys. She was added to the CT scan queue, where time moved slowly, measured not in minutes but in sighs and uncertainty. I joined her again the following day and before my arrival her scheduled CT scan was completed. After hours of waiting, a female doctor finally approached with results, yet the clarity we hoped for remained elusive. The kidneys, once our main concern, were thankfully fine. But a slight inflammation in her appendix raised a new red flag. There wasn’t any link between her appendicitis issue and the pain on her left ribs.
A surgeon was summoned. He arrived briskly, pressing into her right abdomen, reading each wince like lines from a book. His diagnosis was calm but firm—appendicitis. He presented two paths: treat it with antibiotics, a route with a 70% success rate, or proceed with surgery, the surest solution. We hesitated. The idea of removing part of her body, no matter how small, felt so drastic. We leaned toward the antibiotics, clinging to the hope of healing without the blade. But the doctor gently steered us back—his voice steady, persuasive. “It’s a very minor surgery,” he assured us. “Thirty minutes. Two days recovery.”
But how could anything be truly minor when a three-month-old baby needed his mother? I wrestled with the weight of responsibility—caring for her, for Norzang, and holding everything together. It felt like too much. But then came the doctor’s reminder: a mother’s health is the pillar of a child’s well-being. And so, with a mix of trust, doubt, and a prayer on our lips, we agreed.
The surgery went well, by the grace of something greater than us. But reality wasn’t as painless as promised. The ache lingered long after the anesthesia faded. My wife, ever strong, bore the pain silently—painkillers helping only so much. Her hands, which once rocked our baby with ease, now trembled as they tried to hold him again.
I took time off to care for her, while Shacha stepped in, her hands and heart always ready. Even friends joined in—helping with Chador when we couldn’t juggle everything ourselves. On June 7th, my wife, still healing, couldn’t make it to Norzang’s doctor visit. My brother and I took him instead, a small but symbolic journey of fatherhood in action.
We were worried about a new concern—Norzang’s fontanelle seemed sunken when we lifted him. Our nurse took it seriously, promising to consult the pediatrician. We’re still waiting, hopeful.
Looking back, doubt still flickers in the quiet hours—did we rush into surgery? But then again, maybe that decision was guided. Maybe, just maybe, we dodged something far worse. Sometimes strength doesn’t look like certainty—it looks like showing up, choosing the harder path, and trusting that healing, like summer, comes in waves.
