A Daughter’s Love: Where I Was Called to Be.

Joy Garcia
Oct 11
3 min read

Surgery was officially scheduled for July 23, 2024. Mom was panicked—not only about herself, but about who would care for Dad while she was in the hospital. My sweet cousin Rose quickly offered to stay with him, but Mom didn’t know who could be with her. Looking back, it breaks my heart to realize she didn’t think I would come.

I told her without hesitation: I’ll be there. Deep inside, I knew I was being called. It was time to give back, to show up for my parents in a big way. Meanwhile, my husband and I were packing up our home to downsize, our moving date falling just one week after Mom’s surgery. That meant I would still be in Illinois while my husband handled the move alone. It was another layer of stress, but I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

I planned to stay two weeks. In my mind, I’d get Mom through surgery and rehab, and then she’d be okay. I knew open-heart surgery at age 81 was risky, but I didn’t truly grasp the weight of it—or how long the road back would be. Some close friends who knew about my complicated history with Mom doubted whether I could make it. One even told my husband, “She won’t last two weeks.” Part of me was afraid she might be right. But a bigger part wanted to prove her wrong, and more than that, prove myself wrong.

On July 21, I flew to Illinois. Saying goodbye at the airport to my husband was gut-wrenching. We were both facing big things separately, and it wasn’t easy to let go of his hand.

At the curb in Illinois, my dear friend Jamie and her daughter Chloe picked me up. Jamie—sunshine in human form—has a way of bringing calm into any storm. She makes me feel seen and loved in ways I can’t fully explain.

That night, after hugs and tears at my parents’ home, we celebrated Dad’s belated 93rd birthday with cake and candles. Joy filled the house, but so did nerves. Would Dad be okay with Mom in the hospital? She was his anchor. And what about Mama—was she ready for what lay ahead?

The next day was filled with pre-op appointments. By evening, Mom was admitted to her hospital room to be prepped for surgery. It was just the two of us. To my surprise, it felt like a sleepover with a dear friend.

We laughed with the staff, asked questions, and whispered our own prayers. Our new connection was blooming, and my heart was fuller than ever.

That night, I slipped quietly into the caregiver role. Mama was scared and vulnerable, and I wanted to shield her, to comfort her in every way I could. Sleep was scarce, interrupted by vital checks and special showers to prepare her for surgery. Morning came too quickly.

Soon it was time. Mom was wheeled away, and I settled into the surgical waiting room for what I knew would be a long day.