We sat in the waiting room, anxious. We stood up when anyone left the operation theatre— a nurse, a ward boy.
Five grueling hours later a small bald man with smooth skin and a well-trimmed white beard walked down the stairs. ‘Doctor, is everything okay’, my mother gasped. Without smiling he said, ‘Okay’ and turned and walked down the stairs.
I sat, a jumble of relief and stress, a thousand questions in my head, I sat and watched the bald head of the doctor who had just held my father’s beating heart in his hands.
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