It is 78 degrees here today. There are dolphins jumping just beyond the break of the waves. A trio of shrimp boats are finishing up the morning trawl. My mother has read the morning paper 6 times-the home health care worker has the morning off. This is the first trip without Ava since she was 7 weeks old. It is just me and my mom.
This was yesterday: 5:30am. We are up and getting ready to drive into Wilmington to go to the hospital. I have laid out clothes for my mom to wear while she is in the shower. When it is my turn to
shower, she changes into shorts and one of the three tops she rotates: one that says “I Do My Own Stunts”, one that says ” Pat’s What I’m Talking About” and one that says “Turtle Hospital Patrol”. She has her purse on her lap and is sitting on the sofa.
You can’t wear shorts mom.
Why not?
You are going to the hospital mom, you need to wear pants and a long sleeve shirt.
But I want to wear shorts.
You can’t wear shorts mom.
She reacts much like a 6 year old would and sulks back to her room to put on the clothes I originally laid out for her.
Fine. she says
In support of her not being able to drink coffee prior to her procedure, I don’t drink coffee either. Both of us without coffee is not good.
We get to the hospital. We check in. We wait. Everything is all fancy and modern now. We are given a pager with a number. When the pager goes off-we report to the desk.
We wait. Mom takes out a book.
Always bring a book,she says.
It is the same book she has been reading since I was here in September. My mom used to read a book a week.
We get buzzed. We go in and are ushered into pre-procedure.
Everything is so…..surgical. Clothes off, in a bag, procedure clothes on-even the special socks.
And don’t forget your brassiere, says the very overworked and slightly grumpy nurse.
I’m not wearing one, says my mom.
She is bundled up in blankets and hooked up to monitors. I know I am going to cry. Seeing her so covered up but somehow exposed. I know I am going to cry, but I don’t. I can’t.
Another nurse comes in with a computer to do all the intake- a battery of questions all logged into the system….most of which mom answers incorrectly-and I have to interject the correct answers. We are a a comedy routine-us two. We are mischievous. We make light of the situation. The nurse scolds my mother for being a cancer survivor and still smoking.
look, says my mom, I am losing my mind. I could give a shit. We laugh again. Imps that we are.
There is a new question added to the same list-that same list of family history questions I am sure has been around forever.
The new question asks: “Are you in harm or is anyone threatening you in anyway”
No. my mom says. That must be new,she says, that question was not around when I
was a nurse, but it should have been. Overworked and slightly grumpy nurse #2 says
It was added a few years ago-but since I’ve worked here only one person has ever answered yes. Whatever.
But think about that one person you helped, my mom said. Of the 60/40% we get from our parents I am honored to have some of that part. My mom, who sees, always sees, the silver lining, the absolute good. Sometimes I need more of that 60 or 40.
#2 did not respond.
questions over. #2 leaves.
#3 arrives- she is actually pleasant. She is a hippy nurse. Not in size but in philosophy. We like her. She says she was supposed to be named Gloria because her mother LOVED Gloria Swanson-but her father hated the name- so they went with Caroline- with a K. So there, hippy nurse said.
She begins to wheel my mom to another room so they can administer the drugs.
hippy nurse says, she is going to give mom a combination of sedatives and narcotics.
For example, she says to my mom, you might think you had breakfast at Cracker Barrel, you might tell
people you had breakfast a Cracker Barrel, but you will not have had breakfast at Cracker Barrel.
Without missing a beat, my mom says,
Oh, hell, I do that anyway. That 60/40 again. I am going to cry.
Quick take my mom back there before I can’t hold back myself.
They give me back the pager. I will be buzzed again, when she is in recovery…..
An hour later I am buzzed-mom is in recovery. Recovery fog.
I speak to the doctor- he fills me in on the whatifs and the wait and sees;what I need to look for in the next 24 hours.
I peek in on mom. She is slowly coming out of her sedative narcotic state
Are you ok?
Gorked, she says and nods back off to the land of numb and pain free.
Can I go?
#2 resurfaces to make sure mom is coming out of the afore mentioned land.
Ice chips?
No.
Orange juice?
No.
Are they rushing my mom out of here?
Hold on a minute…..just a minute.
They want mom to pee.
That’s a good sign.
I help her out of her surgical cocoon and we make our way to the restroom.
She goes in. ALONE.
She walks out the door and does not look good. She sits back in the wheel chair, crosses her legs at the ankles and puts her hands in her lap( just like my grandma used to do) Without making a fuss or a scene, she says
I’m having trouble breathing.
I can see this. Clearly.
She begins shaking.
Her hands move from her lap to her chest and she holds them together in prayer.
Gloria, I can’t breathe, I can’t catch my breath.
I call for nurse #2.#3. Any nurse will do. New nurse. Nurse in charge of this particular “pod”….new name of new divisions in swanky new hospitals.
We try to find a nebulizer in mom’s purse. It is empty.
They wheel her back in her room and at the doctors request- she is hooked up to an in-house surgical bong.( well, that is what it looks like) It is a mixture of oxygen and abuteral. My mom, hooked up to a hospital hookah. Breathing in. Taking deep breaths. My mom, who as a psych nurse for years helped so many people breathe new thoughts into their twisted minds, my mom, with her boundless generosity helped so many families in need breathe easier during the holidays. My mom, who helped certain family members breathe when they would not get off their lazy ass and get a job.
FOR YEARS. Too many years.
My mom. She could not breathe. She has not been able to breathe for years. mom.
The treatment helps. She is given orange juice and crackers. We hang a bit longer for good measure. Mom wants to go home. Get back to her beach.
I grew up here. I used to walk into the wind on the beach and yell out all my wishes and wants-thinking the wind would carry them to all the necessary places. Had my first two jobs here. “wave report girl” at Rainbow Surf Shop and “mat girl” at Surfside Waterslide. Smoked my first cigarette here-under the Scotchbonnet Pier-many firsts here. I have returned here for many summers. Many. This beach house-“No
Hassle” was always a place to heal. To mend and renew. It is different things now-but I so understand why my mom needs to be here. Why I vow to keep her here as long as I can.
Mom sleeps the rest of the day into early evening. Wakes up long enough to eat ( pasta alfredo-her favorite). Takes her evening meds and goes back to bed. I check on her though out the night. To make sure she is breathing. Sort of like you do with a newborn.
This morning she was back in her routine.
Coffee,morning paper, medicine. ham biscuit.
She asks me why her throat is a little scratchy.
She has little recall of yesterday.
But as she sifts through the paper, just now, for the 10th time. She lifts her head up and says
Thanks Glor,for being with me yesterday. For taking time out of your life to be here with me.
Of course mom, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.
Mom wants to move out to the deck and sit in the sun. Just soak up the sun.
I am going for a walk now. to cry. I am walking into the wind.
5:00am Topsail sunrise