The time: earlier this year. The occasion: a post-operative tonsillectomy visit with my son’s ENT. She was telling me what to watch out for as his scar sites healed. “You might see some . . . you know? kind-of-thing,” she explained. And then she just looked at me, expectantly.
“Nnnn-no,” I wanted to say. “No, I do not know what kind of thing. Because you . . . you did not say anything!” Grateful to have the printed materials from the hospital, I just bundled up my son and got out of that strange, vague place where they put you to sleep and remove parts of your body kind of thing.