A/N: This is a Sybil/Tom modern au fic where they are happily married and, oh yeah, no one is dead. Here, they have two children: Aisling, age 15, and Sean, age 10. The basic plot is Sybil dealing with her anxiety as Aisling undergoes spinal surgery, but as usual, Tom is there to console her.
In the story, Sybil's daughter is going through spinal fusion to correct her scoliosis. I myself had this operation two years ago. The story does explain a bit about what scoliosis is and how it is treated, but if you have any questions, ask either me or the internets.
(Fun fact: I discovered fanfiction while recovering, and therefore binged on all the Downton Abbey fics )
The baby blue paint of walls mingled with the white light emanating from the bulbs pushed into the ceiling. What little décor there was was simple and stark, pale in colour to match the rest of the waiting room. The chairs were arranged in rows like a small auditorium, but as it was so early in the morning, barely anybody was here to occupy them. The room reminded Sybil of an unadorned nursery, a comparison that was both appropriate and undesirable. Was the simplicity of the room meant to calm anxious parents, or perhaps it was the opposite – to provide nothing of distraction so that their minds would not diverge from thoughts of their children? The only thing worth looking at was the screen on the wall, with bars that would move across the screen slowly over time: it indicated when a child was in the operating room, when the surgery would begin, when it would end, and when they would be moved to the recovery room. Sybil saw her own daughter's name there, the bar poised at the left side of the screen.
Five years ago, never would she have imagined she would be sitting here. Sybil remembered that first time, at the paediatrician's office, watching the doctor run his hands across Aisling's hips and down her back, confirming what the nurses at school had suspected: scoliosis. A formation of her spine into an 'S' shape, minor at first, but evident by the slant of Aisling's shoulders. From what the doctor said to her, Sybil believed the curvature would stay relatively minor. Only a few cases required further treatment; the number, if Sybil remembered correctly, could not have been more than ten percent of all people with scoliosis.
The years had progressed, though, and so had the curve. Sybil was there to witness her daughter being fitted for her first brace, a cumbersome corset of plastic that she had to wear, initially only at night, but later including a few hours at school. Sybil had pressed Aisling to wear the brace for as much as possible, but every time she pulled the straps across her stomach and around, she noticed the hot tears of anger in Aisling's eyes, desperately being blinked back. Sybil was aware of the Aisling's embarrassment at donning the brace at school – she would never forget the day that she picked her up at school, only to figure out that Aisling had stuffed the brace into a dustbin.
The brace did little to stall the curvature, and soon Sybil forsake her hopes that one day the x-rays would not depict how increasingly damaged Aisling's spine was becoming. The doctor expressed concern that, later in life, the shape of Aisling's spine risked damaging her lungs, since her rib cage was also twisted slightly. Both Tom and Sybil had been there to make the decision – surgery did seem the only option.
Now, Sybil was here, sitting in the waiting room, her eyes fastened to the screen. Moments prior, she had watched her daughter, overtaken by the first dose of anaesthesia, being wheeled out towards the operating room. She would not emerge for nearly six hours. Tom was fixing Sybil a cup of tea, so she was alone, watching the screen, waiting for the bar to begin inching across the screen. The actual surgery had not started, but once it would, she would phone Sean's school periodically, so the teachers could let him know at what stages the operation was at. She wanted it to start so badly, for the sooner it happened, the sooner she would see Aisling again.
Tom returned with a steaming cup of tea, which Sybil took earnestly. Maybe tea would quell her nerves, just a little bit. She wished she could be as stoic as Tom: she herself had often felt like weeping whenever she thought of the trouble Aisling was going through. How much pain would she be in when she woke up? Would she eat, or become emaciated? When would she leave the hospital? Tom seemed calm, but if Sybil looked closely, she knew the signs of his own anxiety. He wasn't one to often show distress as she did, but it was there: perhaps it would become evident when Aisling was wheeled back to them, straight-backed and straining against the pain.
"They haven't even started yet," Tom noted, following Sybil's gaze to the screen. "It's been fifteen minutes; I wonder how much more preparing they have to do."
"It's a major surgery," Sybil said, "so I believe there's a lot to do before it begins."
"That is true," Tom said. He had done extensive research on the procedure beforehand. The surgeon would align Aisling's spine by putting metal screws and rods along the vertebrae, which, over time, would fuse into the bone. Sybil grimaced every time she though of her daughter lying sedated on her stomach, her back cut open, with a stranger fingering her spinal cord. But the surgeon wasn't a stranger anymore; he was a polite man, and Aisling liked his sense of humour, which mirrored her own. Still, to think of what she was going through, with no way to communicate, Sybil felt lost. Aisling's part was easy – all she had to do was stay asleep, and then wake up. But Sybil and Tom were stranded here, in the bleak waiting room, praying that the hours would pass quickly and the surgery to be determined a success.
Tom looked at his watch. "Sean should be getting ready for school now," he said. "I hope he doesn't slack off just because we're not there to push him out the door."
It was about now half after six. Sybil, Tom, and Aisling had left the house at four in the morning; they had arranged for Sean to stay at a schoolmate's flat for the night. How would a ten-year-old boy take his older sister being incapacitated for some weeks? Sean was remarkably mature for his age, but that didn't mean he was scared to death about the surgery. Sometimes it had seemed that Sean was more concerned about Aisling than she was about herself. Since the announcement of the surgery, he had let Aisling win arguments, lent her some video games, and, in general, had been amiable to her. Sybil wondered how long this camaraderie would last, but she was thankful for it while it lasted.
To distract herself from perpetually staring at the screen, Sybil checked her phone for any messages. Mary had sent a prayer and a reminder that she would drop in during the evening along with Matthew to check on Aisling. Her parents had also sent their love to their grandchild, asking to be notified when Aisling was out of the operating room. Edith and Anthony hadn't sent anything yet, but Sybil was certain they would do so in a short while. Everyone was so full of hope, but did they feel the same distress that Sybil was feeling? Her daughter was about to undergo a major operation, and she was barely concealing her fear.
Tom, as usual, sensed his wife's anguish. He gripped her hand, and Sybil took a deep inward breath, feeling securely anchored to Tom. At least he was here: Sybil could not imagine what she would do if he was not here by her side to calm her. She found his pulse with her thumb, and she was surprised how hard it was beating: Tom was the poster-picture of calmness.
"Are you nervous?" she asked.
"Nervous? Sybil, I'm terrified," Tom confessed. "Our daughter is about to endure this big operation. Do I not look scared?"
"You never look scared," Sybil said.
"I'm as nervous as you are. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I'm not," Tom said. "I just keep reminding myself that Aisling will be perfectly alright. She's in good hands, and when she wakes up, we'll all be together."
"How do you know she'll be alright?" Sybil asked. She blinked furiously, feeling tears of desperation forming across her vision and blurring Tom's face. "How do you know nothing bad will happen? Suppose something does go wrong?"
"Sybil, what's the matter with you? Why are you dwelling on what might go wrong, when there's such a slim chance –?"
"Tom, remember how slim the chances were of Aisling having to go through this?" Sybil whimpered. "She's the one percent who has to go through this damn surgery!"
She threw her face into her hands, straining against the urge to burst into tears, even though there was no one but Tom watching her.
"I just – don't understand – why?" she choked out. "Why our girl? Why us?"
That was the question she had been mulling over ever since Aisling had been fitted for the brace. Why was it Aisling who had been chosen to suffer such an embarrassing, degrading condition? Sybil did not care how selfish she sounded; after all, she was a nurse, and she was completely aware that some families were plagued by much worse diseases. But right now she was not thinking of that: she felt like the most despairing woman in the world.
Tom rubbed his hand in small circles on her back, pulling her close to him. "I know Sybil, I know it isn't fair. I never wanted it to come to this as well."
"None of it is fair," Sybil cried.
"But it is happening, whether we like it or not," Tom said. "When Aisling wakes up, we have to show her how to be strong. We must be there for her, to give her hope, and to remind her that she will be fine. Because she absolutely will."
"Everybody is saying that," Sybil said, "but, for some reason, I can't feel it for myself."
"You're her mother, so of course you are worrying," Tom said. "But just think about this time, in three months: she'll be walking, she be a little taller, and she won't have to wear that wretched plastic girdle thing."
Sybil cracked a small smile. "She was excited about the chance to be taller," she said. "All of her friends are asking how tall she'll be afterwards. I think they've taken bets."
Tom laughed, but despite the lightheartedness that had settled between them briefly, Sybil felt unease sink back in.
"But before then, what will happen? I don't want to see her in too much pain," Sybil confessed. "It will only make me feel more scared."
"Matthew's mother is going to be Aisling's, nurse, remember?" Tom said. "She'll help you care for her."
Sybil nodded, biting her lip in another futile attempt to stop churning out tears. Tom always knew what to say: sometimes she wished her heart could do the same.
"You can cry all you want now," Tom said softly. "I'm sure you aren't the first mother to do so in this room."
"You said I have to be strong," Sybil pointed out.
"That doesn't mean you aren't allowed to cry," Tom said. "You have plenty of time before you need to be at her side, smiling down at her."
Sybil leaned against Tom's shoulder, listening to his now-tranquil heartbeat. "How do you always know just what to say?"
Tom shrugged, holding her against him. "I didn't know that would make you feel better. I'm glad it did."
"Anything you say will make me feel better," Sybil said.
She drank the last of her tea and got up to toss it in the bin. When she came back to her seat, she noticed the alert on the screen below Aisling's name: the operation had begun.
Tom was right: her angel was in safe hands, and in a few hours, she'd be returned to Sybil's. She knew that the weeks to come would be agonizing for Aisling. Any position she tried to lie in would be painful, and there was no telling how her appetite would be. She's be at home for a month, away from her friends at school. Sean too would not be without his own personal trials: he'd have to fend for himself, with everyone revolving around his older sister. But it would all be temporary. In a year, five, ten, Sybil would not have to worry about Aisling's condition, whether her lungs would be damaged or she'd have problems sitting upright. What Tom had reminded her that, even as dismal as the situation seemed, it would only bring about good things, and Sybil had to be the light for her daughter. Everyone would get through the pain together, no matter how great it became.