I was so tired that day, and it was nearly seven that evening before I got home from work. All I wanted was to eat and get some sleep.
Then I checked my messages. Most of them from my sister Ann, an edge of fear in her voice, telling me Mom was in the hospital, issuing progress reports from throughout the day, wondering where I was. Then Mom's voice, sounding tired but calm, peaceful, even: "Hello, Honey, it's me. I'm in the hospital, but I'm okay. You can come up and see me, or not. Wait until tomorrow if you're too tired. I'll talk to you later."
Too tired? No way. I'd just seen Mom the day before; I'd taken her to the doctor. She wasn't doing well--a bad reaction to her chemo, apparently--but what happened? Why was she in the hospital?
She looked so small and fragile when I got there, her glasses off and her dentures removed, almost like a stranger. But she smiled when she saw me, and complained that the local ABC affiliate was delaying Lost for a basketball game. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner, I had to work late, I said. "That's okay. Ann and Julie wondered where you were, but I told them you probably went to China One for supper." No, I said, in fact I hadn't eaten. "You could go to the cafeteria. No, it's probably closed. And it's Methodist, so you probably wouldn't want to eat there anyway..."
Okay. I felt better. Whatever had happened, she was still Mom, still wanting to watch her TV shows, still complaining, still kind and full of love, still a mass of contradictions. But what happened? What was she doing here?
"Oh, that. I fell." She went on to provide details that quite frankly I've mostly forgotten, because I just couldn't and can't deal with them. The human body is so frail, and so easily broken, it seems an inadequate host for a spirit as large as Mom's.
We talked for awhile, but she seemed more concerned about the fact that I hadn't had supper than anything to do with her own condition, and she finally gave me my marching orders: Go eat!
So I went home, heated up a frozen pizza and watched a Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVD, all the time pushing my mind to remain blank, to not think.
But when I went to bed, sleep was difficult, plauged by bad dreams and nightmare scenarios, and I kept waking as soon as I'd start to drift off. Finally I got up at about 3 AM and called the office, telling them I wouldn't be in for work that day. I tried to get some more sleep, but it wasn't forthcoming, so I got up and tried to relax with a nice, calming bath.
Then the phone rang. It was Ann, telling me she'd just gotten a call from the hospital telling her Mom's condition had worsened, though they wouldn't specify how over the phone. What does this mean, I asked, and she said she didn't know. I told her I was heading to the hospital right away.
The nurses didn't tell me much, and Mom slept, so I just sat by her side. She woke up shortly, took a few minutes to remember where she was, and said hi. Obviously she was medicated, and had just awakened, but she seemed disoriented in a way I'd never seen before. Still we talked, and I told her I wasn't working, she'd have to put up with me for the whole day.
"Oh," she said, "you know what we should do? I can't walk so well right now, but we should get a wheelchair and you can push me, and we'll go exploring all through the hospital. I understand they sell cookies here..."
I told her I'd go ask a nurse, so I did, but was told no: "We tried to get her into a wheelchair last night to get her to the bathroom, it took three of us but she was just dead weight and we gave up. She can't be transferred. She can't even leave her room. Her immune system is down."
When I told mom, she sighed. "I just want to get out of here."
This story doesn't have a neat little climax, an obvious ending; the day progressed, visitors came and went, Mom sent us out of the room so she could watch The Young And The Restless. And while we were all finding things to do to keep ourselves distracted, she died. And if that was the end of the story for Mom, it was only another chapter for the rest of us, as we tried to continue writing our own lives, even though our inspiration was gone.
