Josh Imhof | news editor

As I slowly came back to consciousness, the dim lights of my hospital room gently filled my heavy eyelids. In front of me, figures moved in a blurry haze. To my left, a blue shadow fumbled with something above my head.

My senses began to adjust, and I realized it was a nurse fiddling with my IV.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” she said.

Still cloudy with anesthesia, my eyes squinted to smile, but I am not sure if my mouth followed.

“I’ll go let your mom know you are awake,” the nurse said.

I knew that seeing her would sober me up.

I had just gotten out of my second minor surgery in a year and although the procedure was small, the impact on my life has been immense.

I was diagnosed with a Pilonidal Cyst, a condition caused by hairs piercing the skin and forming an infected pocket of debris at the base of my tailbone.

It affected my ability to eat. It affected my ability to sit. It affected my ability to conveniently use the bathroom.

Originally, there was not even supposed to be a second procedure. In December, my doctors told me that things would quickly return back to normal and that I’d only be out for a few weeks, tops. A few weeks turned into a few months, but things were looking up.

Then, I started having issues again, and by August, I was back under the knife in the operating room at UPMC St. Margaret’s.

The surgeries never felt bad enough to complain about outwardly, but privately, I was both furious and sad. From hobbling around Ross Park Mall to laying awake all night from pain, it was the first time I had ever truly been limited by my own body.

I hated this. And I hated myself for allowing something that I thought was so small to completely restructure my life.

At first, I didn’t tell many people about how I was feeling, but there was one person who always knew: my mom.

No matter how I tried to hide it, she always knew. Maybe I have a bad poker face, or maybe the fact that all I did for three weeks was watch The Wire and play Catan on my phone gave it away. Maybe it was “mother’s intuition.”

Who’s to say? Either way, I was not doing well and she could tell.

This irritated me. Badly.

I didn’t want anyone to know how much this was all affecting me, and each time she saw me, it held up a mirror to how well I was actually doing.

However much I wanted to keep my emotions to myself, my mom wanted me to talk about them. I was not excited by the prospect of having to go through the same thing for a second time.

But here we were, and away we went. Months later, back at St. Margaret’s, my mom rounded the corner to my hospital room, and next thing I knew I was in the passenger seat of her Honda Pilot back on the way to my house.

One of the unique things about these surgeries was that they required daily wound care, something that I could not do myself because of the pain that came with it. With at-home care costing thousands of dollars, my mom volunteered to be the one to help me out instead.

I was aware of the sacrifices she was making, and because of the never ending cycle of wound treatment, I was constantly reminded of them. The process is not only painful for me, but also for her, considering she has to hurt her own kid. However, as my patience toward my limitations wore thin, so did my willingness to come home and actually participate in my treatment.

“I’ll be home by 10 p.m.” slowly became “I’ll be home by 12 a.m.,” which became “I’ll wake you up when I get back.”

She was never upset about this and even encouraged me to stay out, but I could tell that pushing the line further and further was weighing on her.

Why wouldn’t it? For her, it felt like she was the only one taking my procedure seriously. And she was right.

I hated the restrictions, so I was pretending they didn’t exist.

This came to a head last week when I told her I would be home by 12 a.m., but didn’t make it back until 1:30 a.m. She was rightfully upset over the phone, and I drove down McKnight Road toward my house with the same anxious feeling I had back when I missed curfew for the first time.

As I pulled into the driveway, I half-expected her to be standing there ready to unload on me.

But she was not.

To my surprise, she was not angry. She did not berate me for being late or keeping her up. Instead, with tears in her eyes, she gave me a big hug and told me that she was sorry I was going through this.

There is no feeling like seeing a parent cry, least of all your mom, who has been at your side, taking special care of you for the better part of a year. At that moment, I decided it was time to drop the tough guy act and acknowledge the reality of my situation.

I let myself be vulnerable to the overwhelming repercussions of the surgery. Instead of joking about it or making a one-off comment, I finally took the time to feel for myself.

I am grateful to have a mom who cares enough to ask how I am feeling and one who never fails to step up when I need it, even when it is not comfortable for either of us. It is difficult for me to find people who I feel safe to be vulnerable around, so when I do, it means a lot — even when I don’t show it.

I love you, Mom. I am sorry if I don’t say it enough.

Josh Imhof can be reached at imhofj@duq.edu