LOSING MOM (Part 4)
Time is funny when you’re in the hospital. An hour can feel like a hundred days, while a whole day can go by in the blink of an eye. Or, as was my experience on that particularly endless Saturday, vice versa.
Night had somehow fallen without my noticing by the time Mom was finally taken up to her room. Marveling that it was still the same day I had woken up to, I stepped out of the elevator behind her gurney, and a deep sense of deja-vu swept over me.
Pausing a moment to get my bearings, I realized that the lobby I was standing in was the same one in which my sisters and I had spent countless hours when Mom had fallen the last time.
Nothing had changed. The same tacky, uncomfortable chairs. The same dreary artwork. The same array of (un)helpful brochures haphazardly arranged in a plastic display case.
I felt as though I’d entered a time-warp, and somehow ended up back where I’d already been.
It was definitely that kind of a day.
The nurses shooed me out of the room when they came to get Mom settled in. Still pretty worried, but optimistic that she would bounce back once she got the transfusion and a little rest, I went out to the lobby to wait for them to call me back in.
And then waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Finally, concerned enough to risk poking my head back through the door, I was dismayed to see the nurses still there, one on the phone, and the other fiddling with the IV.
“Is everything OK?” I asked nervously.
“Her oxygen level is giving us some trouble," admitted the aide. “She isn’t able to tolerate the cannula, so we’re trying to find a doctor who can do a blood gas test tonight to figure out why."
Just then, from the other side of the room behind the closed curtain, a woman groaned out in pain.
Oh no!
Guilt flooded through me as I realized I’d forgotten to ask for a private room when we were down in the ER. Now my poor, exhausted mother was stuck in a bed by the door in a semi-private room on a Saturday night, with a roommate clearly in pain.
I felt terrible!
“I don’t suppose there’s a private room available?” I whispered to the aide.
“Oh no, hon, but I did hear that she," pointing to the curtain, "might be moving tonight. But you’ll want to talk to the head nurse, David, tomorrow morning. He’s the one in charge of the rooms.”
Not too hopeful that they’d be moving anyone so late on a Saturday night, I drew a chair up next to Mom’s bed, pulling it as close to her as I could possibly get.
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My memories of the rest of that night are mostly just snippets in my mind...distinct and separate, but blurry, and without pattern or sequence at the same time:
~ Watching the nurses buzz calmly yet intently around Mom, and realizing that I couldn't leave her alone. Not for a minute. I'd have to spend the night.
~ The doctor asking me to leave the room when she came to draw the blood gas. “It can be a somewhat painful procedure,” she explained as the nurse ushered me out. “Try not to worry, though...I’m very good at what I do.”
~ Sitting outside the door in the brightly lit corridor, praying that the doctor was, in fact, very good at what she did. Praying that mom would be strong. That I would be strong, too.
~ Being startled awake, even though I didn’t even know I was asleep, when the nurses came to (miraculously) move the roommate, despite it being the middle of a Saturday night.
~ Discovering a recliner wedged in the corner when the nurse pulled the privacy curtain. Being able to push it up close enough to Mom's bed so that I could lay down (thank you, God!), and still reach out and touch her when she was in pain.
~ Waking up in the wee hours of the morning to Mom in deep conversation with an invisible man. It seemed that he was asking her if she had a telephone, and she replied that yes, yes she did. It was inside her house. Would he like to come in and see it?
Now, because I'd spent a few years as a hospice volunteer, I understood that people close to death can sometimes ‘see’ loved ones who have already passed, and often talk to them as though they were right there in the room.
So as I listened to Mom having this strange conversation, I was mesmerized and terrified at the same time. Mesmerized that she might, in fact, be talking to someone in heaven (so cool!), yet terrified that if she was, then maybe she was getting ready to die.
And honestly, up until that moment I’d actually thought I was prepared for Mom to go. She’d had an awesome life, with few regrets that I could think of, and lots and lots of love. And though her spirit was still strong, her body was just so old, making everything she did a struggle.
But sitting next to her in that hospital room, with the dawn light creeping through the blinds, I realized with extraordinary clarity that I would never, ever be ready to lose her.
“Mom” I whispered in her ear. "Are you awake?”
Her head turned toward my voice, and she opened her eyes briefly, offering me a small smile as our eyes met.
"Hey there," I said, kissing the top of her head in relief. “Guess who’s going to be here soon?"
“Who?” she asked, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask.
“Sal and Lib are on their way,” I told her.
“They are? Oh dear...I’m so sorry to do this to you girls. You’re too good to me.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mom. We love you. We want to be here.”
I stood up to readjust the pillow behind her head, but her eyes were drifting closed again, so I sat back down to keep guard until my sisters arrived.
Note to Reader: This is a story in progress, so I am sharing it as I write it, as a way to spur me on. If you're interested in following along, here are the links to the others I've written so far.Thanks!
Losing Mom Part 7