Out

It couldn't last, not even a day.  When I called my mother after writing yesterday's post, I asked how she was doing.  

"Oh dear lord, I had a terrible night.  I hurt. . . oh god. . . it is bad."

So I got dressed and went to the hospital.  She was sitting up.  

"How are you doing?"

"I'm alright."

"I thought you were doing terribly?"

"They gave me some pain medication."

That was obvious.  She was loopy as hell.  The nurse told me that the doctor would be in at eleven, so I waited.  That was bullshit, though.  I asked another nurse who told me he was in the hospital, but not on this floor.  I told my mother I was going to the gym and that I would be back in a little while as, according to all reports, she was going to be released.  

"Do what you have to do," she said.  "Take your time."

I walked down the hall to the elevator, and when the doors opened, two of her neighbors stepped out.  Good.  I informed them about what was going on.  I was glad they were going to sit with my mother.  

So, feeling guilty, I left.  I had some exercise, and when I got back into my car, I checked my phone.  I had lots of calls.  My mother's neighbor had left one that sounded pretty shitty.  

"They are discharging your mother.  You need to come get here."

I called my mother.  No, she said, she had not seen the doctor.  

"I'm going home to shower, then I'll be right up."

When I got to the hospital, the neighbor women were still there.  

"They said she could go home," one of them reported.  

She still had a port in her arm.  "I don't think they are going to let her take that with her," I said, pointing.  

"Oh."

"So you haven't seen a doctor yet?"

"No.  They brought me lunch.  Boy. . . that wasn't anything."

Just then, a girl walked in.

"Are you finished," she asked my mother and took away the tray.

"Do you have anymore crackers," one of the neighbors asked.  

The girl walked to the cart and brought back a deep container full of crackers and little peanut butter cups.  Oh, man. . . it was Valhalla.  The two neighbors were going at the crackers and peanut butter with vigor.  

A case manager came in to explain what could, would, and should happen once my mother was released . Did we understand?  

"Sure.  But she can't leave with the port in her arm."

"Oh!"

In a bit, a woman came to remove the port.  I requested a wheelchair.  Just then, two other neighbor women walked into the room.  It was getting very crowded.  

"Why didn't you tell us your mother was in the hospital?" one of them complained.  

"Uh. . . I was managing.  My mother had her phone.  She called people."

That did not get me off the hook, though.  Some of them were kind of pissed.  In truth, I didn't have most of their numbers, and I had no desire to call each of them and tell the story and answer questions anyway.  

The wheelchair was brought, and the head nurse came in and asked my mother how her stay had been.  And in a minute, my mother was in the wheelchair piled up with some of the bags of clothing and paraphernalia from her stay.  I led the parade down the hallway toward the elevator.  

When I got my mother into the car, I waved goodbye to the group.  I could see the woman who has us over to dinner all the time punctuating her tirade with a jabbing pointer finger.  I read her lips.  

"I called him and he never called me back. . . ."

Fuck her, I said out loud.  She looked positively maniacal.  

We picked up my mother's prescriptions--pain pills, muscle relaxers, and a laxative.  Then we were home. It was mid-afternoon.  I was pooped.  I opened a beer and fell asleep sitting up on the couch.  When I woke up, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table in a narcotic stupor, or so I hoped.  

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"I need to go to the grocery store and get something to make for dinner.  How's chicken, beans, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts."  

"That's o.k."

When I got back, she was sitting in her usual chair in the garage.  I guessed this was a good sign.  Apparently she was in no bad pain.  I took the groceries in and began to cook.  And as I was cooking, the neighbors from across the street walked in with a pot of chicken and dumplings.  This was the same woman who was pissed at the hospital.  

"I TOLD your mother that we were making her chicken and dumplings!" she said.  

"She didn't tell me," I said.  And I was glad.  I don't like their chicken and dumplings.  It is really a kind of creamy soup.  The chicken is shredded and the dumplings are more like noodles all swimming in a flour and milk kind of cream.  It would not have been a good first meal home.  

When they had gone, I plated the dinner.  It was a lot of food. 

"Eat what you want.  You know I always cook more than we need.  Nobody is going to leave the table hungry."

My mother ate it all.  

"This has good flavor," she said.  

Indeed.  

We were both exhausted and went to bed early.  Now morning has come, my mother has gotten up, and we will see what the day brings.  There is this to do an I'm waiting for a call from the framer who is coming to look at my rotted floor joist.  I need to arrange home care/therapy for my mother today.  I feel a bit stretched.  

But I need to change my mind.  My life is not as hard as many others.  I shouldn't think of it as hard at all.  I eat, I drink, I sleep, and in between there are things to do.  That's what people do.  

"Quit think your life is tragic.  You are being stupid.  It is pathetic."

The little voice in my head, of course.  

The day is cloudy.  I need to tend to my mother and get things done.  I know you are tired of this narrative.  So am I.  It is droll and without color, but it is an accurate portrayal of how I am feeling just now.  

Not tragic.  Pathetic.  Look it up.