The dance you dance when you have a sick friend

We’ve all been there.

I get a call from the daughter of a dear friend.

“Hi sweetheart!” I sing. “What a lovely surprise. What nonsense are you up to today, and can I come along?”

“Mom’s in the hospital.” Instantly, my Spidey senses are on fire. “Oh, my god, what’s wrong?”

This brings hubby into the room, even though he’s in the kitchen talking to the kids, who are home for the weekend. We both have radar ears when one of us is on the phone. It’s a prerequisite when you’re as nosy as we are.

I look at him, while still listening to the story over the phone. He looks at me and mimes, “What? Who?” I hold up my hand, and he waits.

Thus, begins the dance you dance when you have a sick friend.

“How can I help? What can I do?”

Apparently, nothing right now. She’s in good hands, with her family around her, great doctors, just waiting to be send to Halifax for further tests.

“Call her if you want to,” that sweet daughter says.

But should you? When someone is in the hospital, you imagine them being hooked up to things and doctors running in and out, and maybe your dear friend is sleeping and you don’t want to wake her up. You dither and dither. You don’t want your friend to think you’re not thinking of her. But it’s not about you, is it?

So, you fret and then call. Only for a minute. You basically call to say you shouldn’t be calling and you’re hanging up this instant.

It’s really a useless call except that you get to hear her voice and she gets to hear yours. Not so useless after all.

Then the worry about the husband.

“Should I call him this early in the morning?” hubby asks. “I want to catch him before he leaves for the hospital. He might need the lawn mowed.”

God love men. I’m sure the last thing on the man’s mind is how high his grass is, but you never know. And it’s kind of hubby to think of it.

Then I go into housewife mode and think about food. “We should have him over for dinner.”

“I think he wants to be at the hospital.”

“He needs muffins for breakfast!”

So out come the old bananas and that’s done. Hubby brings them over and runs into another neighbour who’s bringing the poor man tea biscuits, because that’s what women do when you can’t get the patient’s mate to come over for dinner. You also don’t want to leave something that might need to be refrigerated, in case no one answers the door, so endless carbs it is.

Then there’s the actual hospital visit, only after ascertaining that it’s okay with a close relative. “I don’t want to be in the way.” Naturally I get lost looking for the right department. I know it’s on the third floor but I go left when I should’ve gone right and end up wandering into a day surgery ward.