I get the call no one wants to hear. You need to get to the hospital, your mom might not make it through the night. Wait – What? Is my Mom’s life going to end in the same hospital where she gave me life – almost to the day – 56 years ago?
I sit at my Mom’s side, 2 weeks after I buried Frank the Faux Pug. Her breathing is terribly labored and ragged. Her blood pressure and oxygen levels are critically low. The doctors say the odds are stacked against her. My step-dad is telling me I need to spend as much time with her as possible.
In a very weak voice, Momma starts calling for Eric and Donna, over and over, my dead brother and sister. Chills run up and down my spine and I think they are coming to take her away. Mom told Paw (my step-dad) after her kidney surgery, she had dreamed about going to heaven and Eric turned her away, saying it was not her time. I wonder if it is her time now. Lord, I pray, Mom’s breathing is so bad, please take her quickly. Please don’t let her suffer.
I sit there and think about a conversation we had just the previous week. I, as her Avon lady, supply Mom with all things beauty. She says in her thick N’Awlins accent, “Dawlin, I need some of that Natural Beige Cream to Powder Foundation. I’m almost out.” I re-assured her that I had a compact waiting. My Mom has the tiniest face, but for some reason, she sops this stuff up. My big, round face does not use the exact same product in the short span of time she does. Maybe her 95 years of well deserved wrinkles need extra foundation, I don’t know. This thought carries me even further back, 37 years, to a conversation I had with my dying sister in the hospital. I was an Avon lady back then also. I told my sister to order anything she wanted out of the book and I was getting it for her. I was desperate to keep the conversation as normal as possible. My sister didn’t even look at the book. We both knew she wasn’t getting out the hospital. Was history repeating itself. As with my sister, would my last conversation with my Mom be about Avon?
I am trying to prepare my sister that Mom is not coming home from the hospital. My sister keeps nudging my Mom to open her eyes and look at us. She tries. She even nods sometimes to our questions. Mom’s little hands, with her painted red nails, are so swollen, and leaking fluid. My Mom is leaking. Why is my Mom leaking? Mom’s don’t leak. The nurse explains this is her body getting rid of excess fluid.
My mind drifts back again, probably about 46 years. My Mom came home from the doctor and said she had diverticulitis. I grabbed our “D” encyclopedia and looked it up. I was terrified because the encyclopedia said my mom could die. I told her that. She said, “No Dawlin, I just need to watch what I eat.” When you are from N’Awlins, how do you stop eating Corn & Crab Bisque soup? You don’t, and you end up in the hospital over the years off and on. Then you end up in the hospital with scar tissue from severe diverticulitis, have to have a colostomy, right after you just had a cancerous kidney removed. See Momma, I told you this diverticulitis could kill you – the dictionary told me so at 10 years old – just took 46 years – but it is happening.
We try to make sure my step-dad is eating and resting. His daughter and family are terribly worried about him. My husband fries him chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, gravy, Ceaser salad and deadly corn. Paw eats and tears up as he tells us before the last surgery, my Mom told him to kiss her on the lips because she was probably going to die. My husband said don’t count Mom out. She is a tough little lady. But me and Paw are not holding out hope.
That very same night, I found out a childhood friend had died. I sit on my Mom’s porch looking across the street at my old neighbor’s house. Another momma in this neighborhood is going to bury a child. And this one, like my Mom, will now have lost two children. The Angel of Death is surely lurking over our old neighborhood. My heart is so terribly heavy.
The next morning, Paw is heading to hospital. He picks up his WWII Veteran cap and his Retired U.S. Navy cap, holding one in each hand. What is going on in that adorable, little bald head of his? Is he wondering which cap will make him look most dapper? He decides on one and heads out with tears in his eyes. Lots of us descend upon the hospital. Me, my sister, step-sister, her daughters, one son-in-law and our step-brother. We are all gathered around my unresponsive Mom.
Eventually, we end up chatting about everyday stuff. My crafty sister and the crafty niece start discussing embroidery machines and how she will go to the crafty niece’s house to show her how to use it. Me and the non-crafty niece said we will join in and drink Bloody Mary’s that the nephew-in-law will make. Then, a miracle happens. Mom is turning her head this way and that, like she is trying to listen to the conversation. We ask her to open her eyes. She does. She looks at all of us. She responds to our questions – somewhat. She tries to smile. The nurses are shocked. The nurses said she obviously needed everyone around her. I guess Mom wanted an audience. Heart rate went up, oxygen levels went up. We are cautiously rejoicing. Other family members came throughout the day – grandaughter – great grandaughters. With each visitor, Mom responded even more.
That evening, the nurses are turning my Mom and trying to get her to respond. Mom opens her eyes and asks, “Am I alive? I thought I was dead.” We leave the hospital with better spirits. The nurse said he would call during the night if anything happened.
At almost midnight, the phone rings. Paw and I almost have a heart attack. Turns out it was a nun friend that didn’t realize the time. Phew.
The next morning, Paw picks up both caps again, picks one, and said “Well, we made it through another night. I am dreading heading in. I am afraid your mom will be unresponsive again.” Well not so. The drain tube was removed. The oxygen mask was removed and replaced with the nostril tubes. Oxygen and BP were higher. They are feeding her warm broth through her feeding tube. Mom was opening her eyes more, responding more, excited to see her grandson and more great-grandchildren. Then she yells out loudly, “WATER, WATER, WATER. Swab my mouth.” We all almost jumped out of our skins. The doctors and nurses are astounded at this turnaround.
Yes the odds are against her, but my Mom has met the odds many times and showed them who was boss.
Gretchen, I’m really sorry to hear about your mom. I see her clearly working at the A&P and making us sandwiches after school. I really love your writing and it’s a great step in helping you process what you and your family are going through. I’m sending love and light to you all. Keep on writing, mamma!