Last Friday, my mother went in for a minor surgery. When i called from work to check up on her, my dad, unusually frantic, told me that they were heading to the hospital again because her bleeding wouldn't stop. When i arrived at the emergency room, she was lying there, eyes closed, still and white as a mannequin, surrounded by mangled and moaning bodies--the Friday Night Crowd, they called them. She didn't say anything, but i know she'd be curious, embarrassed and terrified all at the same time. She likes to fancy herself, in even sillier times, a lady spy.

The doctor on duty said that since she lost too much blood, her heart had weakened and would probably need a blood transfusion. How can this have happened from such a 'routine' operation? He shrugged, saying he'll go over the surgery protocol, see if anything went amiss. He'll call the surgeon who performed on my mother, who would surely come by in the morning. I said i'll stay with her for the night, urging my dad to go home and rest--he'd been with her all day, and knowing him, hadn't eaten at all.

The emergency ward is a morbidly fascinating place. There was a heavily intoxicated young man wheeled in shortly after i had arrived, spitting and screaming at people, claiming no-one loved him. When the security guys tried to move him onto his bed, he grabbed the thin one with the long straight hair and fine sharp features, and begged him not to leave. The elfin guard reassured him that he'll be taken care of, that it'll be okay. Somehow he would be the nicest staff member to him the entire time he'll be there. A few moments later, after they had strapped him to his bed, afraid he was going to run of, or hurt someone, his parents arrived. They were probably my parents' age, immigrants, eyes filled with the sort of sadness, fear and stoic disappointment that my mother calls love.

There is little you can do in these type of situations. You try to stay calm and reasonable, because your mother needs you to be, and you don't want to hinder the nurses and doctors, but you really can't help all these scenario sipping though your head when you look at all kinds of tubes plugged into her frail body. You start bargaining with the Powers That Be, even when you think it's silly--you'll take silliness over a 1 in zillionth chance of there being any powers at all, because look what's on the line? A 1 in ten thousand chance of things going wrong can soon degenerate into anything can go wrong at anytime. You also start throwing threats in the wind, promise hell to pay if anything should turn to it. You imagine shoving the surgeon on the wall, looking straight in his small smug eyes, and telling him--slowly, to make sure he hears every word and knows you mean it--that if anything should happen to your mother he'll never know a restful night again for the rest of his days.

I know i'm a tad paranoid. I'm also a bit of a fatalist (much like my mother after all). Few situations beg me to categorically refuse preparing myself mentally for, but having my mum helpless and semi-conscious in an emergency bed knocks on the door of that sole reigning case. Whenever i hear or know someone who have lost either of their parents, the air goes out of my lungs. I can't imagine the hurt and sadness, and don't want to, because it only reinforces the biggest fear of my life. And if i were to be honest, it's not losing my parents that i am most afraid of, it's losing my mother. That can never happen.

Do you hear me, Universe? That. Can. Never. Happen.

As i sat there on the floor by her bed, trying not to imagine the worse, i heard the Unloved Boy's mother cry. "Te quiero mucho, mama..." I cracked. Only briefly.

After two packs of blood, the sun had come out and so did she. She was in pain, but already more of herself. "I knew this would happen--they say this would be a bad year for my sign...", she sighed, as if that explained everything. While waiting for her surgeon and the cardiologist to come by, we were able to distract ourself eavesdropping on the other patients. The rowdy boy had been moved and replaced by an 18-year-old girl who, apparently in a fit of a young rash broken heart, had swallowed two packs of pills with a bottle of whiskey. She was barely coming out of it, still high on whatever it was they gave her, but had already started flirting with the young female nurse while her loving roommates scoffed and teased her. There was also a man who had been quite roughed up next to my mum's bed, who'd come in in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by cops. They stayed with him, un-cuffed, the entire time. I imagined crazy stories--a fortuitous brawl with a wanted criminal? a protected witness? a mafia insider?-- from the few snippets of conversation i overheard for my mum's entertainment. She loves that sort of thing.

Her doctor finally showed up some 12 hours after she'd been readmitted. "Sometimes, some people are just not used to seeing any bleeding so they panic...", he said, and i nearly re-enacted my nocturnal fantasies. "There're just rare cases where these sort of things happen, and unfortunately it happened to you! Everything seems to be healing nicely now though. We'll keep you for a few days, until it heals a bit more, just in case, but all your vital signs are stable now and everything should be fine." It was with a strange mix of desperate relief and confused resentment that he left me to arrange the paperwork. A few hours later, she was finally settled in a room, and bemoaned my dad for fiddling with her bed, in a way that meant she knew how scared and worried he'd been.

We are now waiting for some final tests to be done this morning. When everything is clear, she'll be able to come home.