(un)boring everyday life
INTRO.
Tonight, while rocking MY in the hospital, I was writing.
I thought I was writing a story about 10 days erased from life.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Hello, MOMS.
When was the last time you thought your everyday life had become boring?
The one where:
“Mum, can you help me with homework?” echoes constantly.
The question “what are we eating today?” is always hanging in the air.
The fridge that was just about to burst at the seams is once again “crying” with its empty blue-white stare.
Somehow, piles of dirty laundry of unimaginable size appear out of nowhere.
Skyscrapers of unwashed dishes.
Crumbs covering the floors again.
Messy drawers.
Smudged mirrors.
Toys scattered everywhere.
Excuses like:
“I don’t know how this got dirty,”
“I don’t know where this hole came from,”
“Can you fix it?”
Shall I continue?
Moms juggle bigger or smaller daily dramas.
Emotions racing like roller coasters.
Bad days.
Sighs of “I failed today.”
Sounds familiar?
Annoying?
Exhausting to the bone?
Really?
Then welcome to the other side of hospital walls.
Oh—sorry.
Welcome to a therapeutic, motivational program:
How to fall in love with your everyday life again in 10 days.
Crisp, rustling white coats.
Masks hiding what seem like long-forgotten smiles.
Catheters they call “butterflies” resting on tiny hands.
Syringes filled with liquids of every color.
The slow drip of IVs.
The long walk to the procedure room.
Drains hidden under bandages.
Blinding operating room lights.
Crying.
Screaming.
Anesthesia.
Silence.
Minutes of waiting—
ones that could be nominated as the longest in my life.
Waking up.
A deep, tearful gaze looking at me, asking: why?
A bitter taste in the mouth and tears about to burst.
This is the pediatric surgery ward.
Here, someone is always crying.
Some are waking up from anesthesia.
Others are being taken to the operating room.
Or to procedures.
Or having a catheter inserted (sorry—a “butterfly landing on a little hand”).
Not out of stubbornness.
Out of fear.
Out of pain.
Out of not knowing what will happen next.
This is the pediatric surgery ward.
Step out of your room, and you’ll often pass a mother with tear-filled eyes.
A face carved with worry.
Forgetting themselves, holding their little ones in their arms, holding older ones by the hand—waiting.
Waiting for things to get better.
For a smile.
For a sip of water.
For them to eat.
For sad eyes to brighten.
It hurts here—not just for you.
And very likely—not even the most for you.
Your illness, your problems, your troubles—
are not the only ones.
They are just some of… I wouldn’t even dare guess how many.
You can hear it all night long:
the beeping nurse call buttons,
worried voices of doctors,
cries echoing through the corridors.
A hospital is not walls.
Not a building.
Not a room.
Not an uncomfortable bed.
Not strange-tasting food.
Not a disrupted day (and night) routine.
Not even an excuse not to work.
A hospital is a reset of the mind.
It installs a new operating system:
LOVE YOUR EVERYDAY LIFE IN YOUR COZY HOME.
AND BE GRATEFUL FOR GENEROUS FATE EVERY DAY WHEN YOU ARE HEALTHY.
We did not get a terminal illness.
MY caught a fairly common virus that caused a complication—
a purulent inflammation of a neck lymph node.
It had to be operated on twice.
Before that, we had to wait for blood test results.
Because an enlarged lymph node—even without medical knowledge—filled me with fear.
And even from the very first moment I heard the decision: “we admit,”
I didn’t let a single cell of my body accept the worst-case scenario.
And through the entire long process, I didn’t break down once.
Only when I left the hospital,
and turned back one last time at our temporary “home,”
a single tear slipped out.
Not from sadness.
From joy—
that I was returning to everyday life.
For moms.
For all the moms in the world.
Who care when their children are sick.
Who don’t give up.
Who keep believing.
Who comfort and soothe.
And when it gets really hard—
quietly repeat to themselves:
“When this is over, we’ll go back
to our beloved everyday life.”
And we will be happy in it.
Today, we came back.
Happiness doesn’t fit in my heart.
Mom,
V.
P.S. I’m sorry I didn’t reply to everyone who reached out—there were days when I couldn’t.
But I knew the “final” story would be told.
