When the call came that my mother was in the hospital, again, and it was serious, I just did not know how to assess the situation. How sick is she? Is she so sick that I need to be rush down for a bedside vigil, or is this one of those calls that means, “mom’s sick, and if you can, come by and let her know you care” sort of situations? Something in my brother’s voice hinted that this time was serious, but, knowing what a pain in the ass brother I am, he did not want to push me to come for a visit. The entire family walks on egg shells around me (odd cliché don’t you think?) knowing that I can get mad, or hurt, or whatever-the-hell-it-is I do, and they won’t hear from me again for years.
I feel like I should go see her, but it is the worse possible time for me. I just started this new job. The job kicks off with a 5 week training course, and if I miss one day, I have to start over, and it is up to your county supervisor if they want to keep paying you while you wait for another chance to go back through training.
In my mind I’m thinking, “Well jerk, this is your mother. Are you putting a job, and some pre-training above going to see your own (maybe dying) mother?” The answer in my head was: “Well, duh, . . . yeah. I have to pay my bills don’t I? I have a wife to support, and the Master Card and Visa industry.
My wife and I talk about it, and I figure if I leave by 5 am, drive down Saturday morning, I could spend the day and come back Sunday afternoon.
Watching the weather on TV caused me to shift my plans. Another blast of Arctic air and probably ice storms are suppose to come in on Sunday. So now my plan is to drive down early Saturday, spend 4 or 5 hours with my mother, and then drive back. This way I make my visit and I don’t miss any of the training. This sounds like a WIN/WIN to me.
The Map Quest map tells me that my drive will be 5 hours and 45 minutes long. I figure, stopping for coffee, and driving slow (my tendency) that this is a 6-hour plus drive for me.
I got up yesterday, at 4 am, walked my dog, Peaches, got a travel mug and started. The drive started bad. Usually, on long tips, I like to listen to an audio book, and I’d checked out the newest Jodi Picoult's newest book. She is one of my favorite novelists by the way. My CD player in the truck will not work. I had the radio and the voice in my head.. The drive from Oklahoma City to Lubbock is a long one. It is more than just 500 miles; it is 50o hundred barren miles. The land looked dead and tortured. There were long stretches where the crust of the earth looked like a crumpled rumpled blanket with sudden steep rolling hills, and abrupt drops.
At one point, in the distance I saw animals I could not identify, fluffy round bodies with stiff stippled fur, about the size of Jack Rabbits, not Cottontails, but those big ass bunnies that propagate the prairie, only these were not Jack Rabbits. There were no ears. I saw three or four of these beasts rush across the road and then they seemed frantic to get over the barbed wire fence running along the side of the road. Why couldn’t animals smaller than my dog Peaches get through a barred wire fence? The space between the wires had to be nearly a foot. The design of the barbed wire fence is to keep cows in let everything else go in or out as it wills. It turned out that these huddled beasts were actually tumbleweeds blowing across the road and piling up against the fence row.
After passing Wichita Falls my radio just faded out. I punched the scan button and watched the station numbers zip past one after another each flashing on the radio monitor for less than a second or so, and then when it had exhausted the list it started the scan again. Repeatedly my radio scanned for a signal. I watched, and waited and drove on. I drove 67 more miles before it picked up a station.
When I got to Lubbock, well, I was lost. Map Quest had done a fair job getting me from Oklahoma City to the Welcome to Lubbock sign, but the directions got murky after that. I understood why Moses wandered in the Wilderness for 40 years. It just seems wrong to have a penis and ask for directions. I wandered around for about 45 minutes, hoping to find the hospital, but knowing my time was short and I was driving around when I could be with my mother, I finally broke down and called my brother Tim, got some hints, and found the hospital.
When I got to the hospital and finally got to her room, I saw the sign on the door: FAMILY MEMBERS ONLY. Visits were restricted because she has pneumonia and strep, she has something wrong with her back, and she has been fighting cancer for 5 years. My mother’s battle with the Big C has been touch and go, and leaning toward the GO.
I had not seen my mother for perhaps 5 years, maybe 8 years. I’d been living in Florida, sometimes unemployed, sometimes just starting a new job, and always broke. Texas is a long way from Florida when you are broke. Not having seen my mother for so long, I was unprepared for seeing her. I looked down into the bed and what I was a very old person. I’d thought she was aged the last time I’d seen her, but now she was ancient, puffy, fragile, and clearly miserable.
I knew she was sick, but I’d imagined her dozing in and out, and being able to wait on her some, and visit. It was not like that, not even a little bit. She was in constant pain. Her hands were so swollen they resembled oven mitts. The hospital had cut her rings off because they were cutting off circulation. My mother clutched on her belly a plastic tub she kept there in case she vomited. She never threw up while I was there, but she would periodically gag and retch and I would bring the lip of the plastic tub close to her mouth in case she regurgitate, but each time it was a close call, but not nothing happened.
We didn’t visit. I sat in the room and gave her sips of water and she would moan, and cry and send me to the nursing station to ask for Delauden, or anti- nausea medication. I looked on the white eraser board in the room: My brother and sister living in Lubbock. They would be the first people to call if something bad happened. On the board the staff had listed their home numbers, work numbers and cell numbers. Her Treatment Goal was listed as Pain Management. That tells me something. Their first goal was not a cure, it was control of pain. The white board also listed her doctors by last name. There were 5 of them.
While I was there the infection doctor showed up. I listened to him talking with my mother.
“Mrs. Norman, our tests show that we have made good progress fighting the infection. The infection is almost gone.”
“Then why do I feel so bad?” said my mother.
“We can kill the infection, Mrs. Norman, but once that infection is all gone, you are not going to feel any better, because what is making you feel so bad is not the infection.”
“What am I suppose to do? I feel so bad. I can hardly stand it.”
“I’m an infection doctor,” said the doctor. “All I do is fight the infection. You need to talk to your other doctors about what is going on with your back.”
“My head hurts so bad,” said my mother, “My back is killing me. I’m nauseated. If I have to live like this, I just want to die.”
I kept remembering the mother that raised me. She was 17 when I was born. I remember her as being pretty. Not just, she’s my mama so she is pretty, but that she was actually pretty. She would have been pretty in the eyes of other people who had no connection to her.
I remembered all the harsh times. Both my parents were too young to be married with a children, and the stresses in their lives came out with harshness toward their children. My mother was the most creative person I ever knew, other than, perhaps, DJ Lafon, and I only knew Mr. Lafon slightly. My mother could do anything. She could paint, and draw, she was a fabulous seamstress, she was a great doll maker, she reupholster furniture, and she just figured out how to do stuff. I could never figure out how she knew how to do all the stuff she did. When her brother, my Uncle Charles, found out he had terminal cancer he built his own coffin, and my mother upholstered the inside with a beautiful padded lining. Had she had a different life, she might have done things recognized and lauded by the world. That wasn’t the life she had.
It was a long trip home.
I feel like I should go see her, but it is the worse possible time for me. I just started this new job. The job kicks off with a 5 week training course, and if I miss one day, I have to start over, and it is up to your county supervisor if they want to keep paying you while you wait for another chance to go back through training.
In my mind I’m thinking, “Well jerk, this is your mother. Are you putting a job, and some pre-training above going to see your own (maybe dying) mother?” The answer in my head was: “Well, duh, . . . yeah. I have to pay my bills don’t I? I have a wife to support, and the Master Card and Visa industry.
My wife and I talk about it, and I figure if I leave by 5 am, drive down Saturday morning, I could spend the day and come back Sunday afternoon.
Watching the weather on TV caused me to shift my plans. Another blast of Arctic air and probably ice storms are suppose to come in on Sunday. So now my plan is to drive down early Saturday, spend 4 or 5 hours with my mother, and then drive back. This way I make my visit and I don’t miss any of the training. This sounds like a WIN/WIN to me.
The Map Quest map tells me that my drive will be 5 hours and 45 minutes long. I figure, stopping for coffee, and driving slow (my tendency) that this is a 6-hour plus drive for me.
I got up yesterday, at 4 am, walked my dog, Peaches, got a travel mug and started. The drive started bad. Usually, on long tips, I like to listen to an audio book, and I’d checked out the newest Jodi Picoult's newest book. She is one of my favorite novelists by the way. My CD player in the truck will not work. I had the radio and the voice in my head.. The drive from Oklahoma City to Lubbock is a long one. It is more than just 500 miles; it is 50o hundred barren miles. The land looked dead and tortured. There were long stretches where the crust of the earth looked like a crumpled rumpled blanket with sudden steep rolling hills, and abrupt drops.
At one point, in the distance I saw animals I could not identify, fluffy round bodies with stiff stippled fur, about the size of Jack Rabbits, not Cottontails, but those big ass bunnies that propagate the prairie, only these were not Jack Rabbits. There were no ears. I saw three or four of these beasts rush across the road and then they seemed frantic to get over the barbed wire fence running along the side of the road. Why couldn’t animals smaller than my dog Peaches get through a barred wire fence? The space between the wires had to be nearly a foot. The design of the barbed wire fence is to keep cows in let everything else go in or out as it wills. It turned out that these huddled beasts were actually tumbleweeds blowing across the road and piling up against the fence row.
After passing Wichita Falls my radio just faded out. I punched the scan button and watched the station numbers zip past one after another each flashing on the radio monitor for less than a second or so, and then when it had exhausted the list it started the scan again. Repeatedly my radio scanned for a signal. I watched, and waited and drove on. I drove 67 more miles before it picked up a station.
When I got to Lubbock, well, I was lost. Map Quest had done a fair job getting me from Oklahoma City to the Welcome to Lubbock sign, but the directions got murky after that. I understood why Moses wandered in the Wilderness for 40 years. It just seems wrong to have a penis and ask for directions. I wandered around for about 45 minutes, hoping to find the hospital, but knowing my time was short and I was driving around when I could be with my mother, I finally broke down and called my brother Tim, got some hints, and found the hospital.
When I got to the hospital and finally got to her room, I saw the sign on the door: FAMILY MEMBERS ONLY. Visits were restricted because she has pneumonia and strep, she has something wrong with her back, and she has been fighting cancer for 5 years. My mother’s battle with the Big C has been touch and go, and leaning toward the GO.
I had not seen my mother for perhaps 5 years, maybe 8 years. I’d been living in Florida, sometimes unemployed, sometimes just starting a new job, and always broke. Texas is a long way from Florida when you are broke. Not having seen my mother for so long, I was unprepared for seeing her. I looked down into the bed and what I was a very old person. I’d thought she was aged the last time I’d seen her, but now she was ancient, puffy, fragile, and clearly miserable.
I knew she was sick, but I’d imagined her dozing in and out, and being able to wait on her some, and visit. It was not like that, not even a little bit. She was in constant pain. Her hands were so swollen they resembled oven mitts. The hospital had cut her rings off because they were cutting off circulation. My mother clutched on her belly a plastic tub she kept there in case she vomited. She never threw up while I was there, but she would periodically gag and retch and I would bring the lip of the plastic tub close to her mouth in case she regurgitate, but each time it was a close call, but not nothing happened.
We didn’t visit. I sat in the room and gave her sips of water and she would moan, and cry and send me to the nursing station to ask for Delauden, or anti- nausea medication. I looked on the white eraser board in the room: My brother and sister living in Lubbock. They would be the first people to call if something bad happened. On the board the staff had listed their home numbers, work numbers and cell numbers. Her Treatment Goal was listed as Pain Management. That tells me something. Their first goal was not a cure, it was control of pain. The white board also listed her doctors by last name. There were 5 of them.
While I was there the infection doctor showed up. I listened to him talking with my mother.
“Mrs. Norman, our tests show that we have made good progress fighting the infection. The infection is almost gone.”
“Then why do I feel so bad?” said my mother.
“We can kill the infection, Mrs. Norman, but once that infection is all gone, you are not going to feel any better, because what is making you feel so bad is not the infection.”
“What am I suppose to do? I feel so bad. I can hardly stand it.”
“I’m an infection doctor,” said the doctor. “All I do is fight the infection. You need to talk to your other doctors about what is going on with your back.”
“My head hurts so bad,” said my mother, “My back is killing me. I’m nauseated. If I have to live like this, I just want to die.”
I kept remembering the mother that raised me. She was 17 when I was born. I remember her as being pretty. Not just, she’s my mama so she is pretty, but that she was actually pretty. She would have been pretty in the eyes of other people who had no connection to her.
I remembered all the harsh times. Both my parents were too young to be married with a children, and the stresses in their lives came out with harshness toward their children. My mother was the most creative person I ever knew, other than, perhaps, DJ Lafon, and I only knew Mr. Lafon slightly. My mother could do anything. She could paint, and draw, she was a fabulous seamstress, she was a great doll maker, she reupholster furniture, and she just figured out how to do stuff. I could never figure out how she knew how to do all the stuff she did. When her brother, my Uncle Charles, found out he had terminal cancer he built his own coffin, and my mother upholstered the inside with a beautiful padded lining. Had she had a different life, she might have done things recognized and lauded by the world. That wasn’t the life she had.
It was a long trip home.
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