Endure

I spent all afternoon watching my mother sleep.  She was nauseous and in pan.  She is, as is so often the case, constipated.  No doctor came until mid-afternoon.  Not the specialist, but the "Hospitalist," as they are called.  She was Indian and spoke softly.  My mother had no idea who she was speaking to or what the woman was saying.  Even when she does understand, at the best of times, it is nearly impossible to get the response you are seeking from my mother. That is the hillbilly way--be suspicious of anyone asking questions.  There is not and was not a lot of gentle courteousness in her responses.  She fairly barked.  In her mind, the hospital has done this to her.  They are making her feel bad.  

"What is your pain level now?" asked the doc.  

I know my mother neither heard her nor understood her.  She said something in response, but it had nothing to do with the question.  I looked at the doc and pointed to my ears shaking my head.  

"Can you ask her?" the doc queried. 

So, in my shouting voice, I asked, "Mom. . . on a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in."

"Ten."

I knew this was bullshit.  She was out of it because of the morphine.  

"Really?  So right now you are in the worst pain you have ever been in?  You have never felt pain like this before?"

"Five," she said.  The doc and the nurse gave me a smile of appreciation. 

"If I stay in this position, it is a five.  But if I try to get up, it's a ten."

The rest of the questions the doctor asked were directed to me.  My mother's blood pressure had spiked.  They were taking it again.  Now it was low.  

"Her blood pressure varies like this.  It goes high and then goes low.  The cardiologist took her off her BP meds."

"Pain can make it go up," said the doc.

"And anxiety," I added.  "Her BP always goes up when she goes to the doctor."

"We've given her something to lower her potassium levels, so that may be having an effect.  We'll keep monitoring it."

There was more medical talk.  Then the doctor left.  The nurse stayed for a minute talking to my mother who was now sitting up on the edge of the bed.  She looked like a street corner junkie.  There was a walker in front of her.  

"Do you need to go to the restroom?"

"No."

When the nurse left, my mother raised herself to a standing position on the walker and began to shuffle.  I just watched.  She came around the bed toward me.  

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere.  What am I doing in the hospital?  Are they just going to give me medicine that makes me sick?"

"Well. . . here's the deal.  You came to the hospital because you were in pain.  You asked for pain meds and they gave them to you.  When you tell them you are in pain, they are going to try to relieve it.  If you can suffer the pain, then don't ask for the meds.  That's just the way it works."

But I was on her side.  Three days now, and all they did was dope her up.  My mother turned the walker and went to the open door.  She stood there for a minute, then turned the corner.  I let her go.  Sometimes the mean-ass hillbilly shit just wears a person down.  Maybe it is genetic.  Mom's whole family are the same way.  A large part of it, I think, comes from a lack of education, of not understanding the world.  They know many practical things, but outside that, the world is a mystery.  In my mind, I could hear my mother's sister, who was REALLY mean, yelling at doctors and nurses: 

"You all are trying to kill me!  I need something for pain that doesn't make me SICK!  I've about had it with all of you!"

I grew up with it.   

In a bit, my mother came back.  The nurse was with her.  She got my mother seated on the bed, then she handed her a pill in a little paper cup.  

"What's this?"

"It's a muscle relaxer."

The nurse started to open a bottle of water.  

"I don't want that.  I want my water in a cup."

After she had taken the pill and the nurse asked if there was anything else she could do, she left and my mother lay back down.  I watched her sleep for the next hour.  

I was feeling bad, tired and achey.  I feared I was coming down with something.  I'd been stressed for so long, it was entirely possible.  I leaned back and closed my eyes.  I opened them when there was a light knock on the door.  It was the "Hospitalist," the nurse, and a couple of men, one obviously the lead as indicated by everyone else's posture.  He may have introduced himself, but I don't remember that.  He told me the same things I'd heard over and over since my mother was admitted three days ago.  

"Are you the one who is doing the procedure?" I asked.  

"No.  That is the interventional radiologist."

"We've not seen one yet."

"It is Monday.  Monday's are usually very busy."

"Yes, apparently.  My mother has been here since seven o'clock Saturday morning.  That is when she was admitted to the E.R.  When do you think they will come?"

He had, as I might have expected, climbed onto the pillar of authority from where others don't understand the way an organization like a hospital works, how things must be prioritized, etc.  I know this from years of dealing with problems complaints at the factory.  People want things done in ways that are not possible due to factory conditions.  Everyone wants what they want right now.  I knew when I asked my question these things, but I asked in my most clear, unemotional, and professional voice.  It was the voice, I hoped, of an interviewing attorney.  

"They may come after five.  They may not.  They may just call."

He was done answering questions.  I looked blankly at the scene, everyone huddled up behind him as if he were a silverback.  The Hospitalist looked at me with nervous eyes, smiling weakly and nodding.  Yea, yea, yea. . . this was all I was going to get.  He had no time to spend here.  Nothing we said was going to change what happened, what was going to happen.  I kept my poker face as he turned, giving nothing away.  I just wanted him to know he was an easy read full of "tells."  I had read him.  He had a full house and felt pretty confident, but he didn't know what I had and it rattled him a bit.  There was only the slightest trace of a "fuck you" in my Mona Lisa grin.  

My mother had barely moved.  

"Who was that?"

"Just another asshole.  He's a doc, but not the doc who we need to see."

I was wondering now if the Hospitalist wasn't an M.D.  I was wondering if she was only a Physician's Assistant.  So I Googled it.  

Yes, Physician Assistants (PAs) can and do work as hospitalists. While the term "hospitalist" is often associated with physicians, it also encompasses nurse practitioners and PAs who specialize in the care of hospitalized patients.PAs are increasingly being utilized in hospitalist roles to address the growing demand for hospital-based care and to help fill the physician shortage.

Fucking hell--I KNEW it!  We'd just been visited by Dr. Giveafuck Asshole and his cadre.   

My mother slept.  I stood and began to gather my things.  

"Mom. . . I'm going to go.  I've been sitting here watching you sleep for hours.  The rain clouds are rolling in."

"Oh."

"I can stay if you want me to."

"Sure, I want you to stay."

I sat back down, resigned.  Then, 

"You can go if you need to go.  It's not fair."

"I still need to go to the grocers to get stuff to make my dinner.  I can come back."

"Alright. You go do what you need to do."

I walked over and gently squeezed her hand. Her eyes were somewhere else.  

"Love you."

I'd spent the afternoon watching her sleep.  But at least I'd seen her nurses and doctors and they knew she had an advocate.  Without that. . . . 

I bought vegetables, milk, and a bottle of wine.  When I got home, I put away the perishables and made a Negroni.  I went to the deck.  Dark clouds were rolling by.  The wind was rushing in gusts.  The air was milder now.  I sat and sipped slowly.  Nobody walked by.  Toward the end of my drink, the rain began to spit.  I rose, turned and retreated to finish my Negroni inside.  I turned YouTube to music.  I needed some nice surprises.  

And when the drink was done, I got ready to chop vegetables.  Tonight would be much a repeat of the night before.  My gut had felt so good after that meal, and it felt good in the morning.  I started gathering my ingredients.  

Shit piss fuck goddamn!  I thought I had broccoli.  And I had forgotten many, many times to buy more Teriyaki sauce.  I made another half Negroni and thought.  Ah, fuck it.  I got my keys and headed to the car.  

Back home, I was ready now.  I chopped a little of the broccoli head into halved florets.  One chopped carrot.  Half a sliced potato.  A container of mixed mushrooms.  Garlic.  I heated the olive oil and dropped it all in with the sliced tofu.  Salt, pepper, red pepper.  I let it cook fast for five minutes, then opened the lid and stirred.  I added half a bag of baby spinach.  It wilted quickly.  Flipping, stirring, I cut the heat and put the lid back on.  In another minute, I spooned out a mouthful to test.  Oh. . . yea.  It all went into a big bowl.  I poured a quarter bottle of chardonnay.  I turned on the t.v.  

How in the fuck has it only been six months?  Fucking Trump has made us all ill.  He is a psychological infection.  But something else is wrong with the culture.  Epstein.  Really?  WTF?  Trump tells people it is stupid to be obsessed with Epstein.  Nobody cares.  We have more pressing issues.  We need to move on.  

"The problem is the Biden administration and that autopen!"

Yea, baby. . . moving on into the future. . . uh. . . past.  Attaboy!

"But what about the children?"

Uh. . . what's the cutoff age for "children"?  Sure, Epstein and his crowd were screwing sleazy teens who liked the money. . . until it was gone.  Admit it, you fuckers.  Admit why you are obsessed with this shit.  It's the same reason you are obsessed with billionaires.  

"Oh I wish that I could be Richard Corey."

If there was a client list, Trump was surely on it.  Surprised?  I sure as hell wouldn't be. . . nor do I care.  I don't think your obsession for all of this comes from your devotion to the lord and savior.  I think you are just a bunch of repressed Victorian deviants.  

And I can prove it.  Let's do a little experiment (link).  It's just science.  There have been studies.  We'll see how you do.  If you are anything like the 1,000 men in this test. . . .  But, I'm not here to blow your cover.  

"Me thinks the gentleman doth protest too much."

Whatever.  It took me about ten minutes of "news" highlights to be sick of it.  I went back to music.  Oh, sweet music.  

Sometimes I wonder about the workings of the universe and why there are so many coincidences.  Travis keeps track of them in his own life.  When you pay attention to them, there are possibly many.  

YouTube started giving me hillbilly music.  That is not really surprising because I often listen to it, but this came on the heels of some French musicians I had been watching.  

Meal finished, I let the music play as I cleaned up the kitchen.  The dinner had been good.  Better than good.  I am giving up eating meat so much.  These vegetable tofu medleys are wonderful.  

An after dinner drink.  I called my mother.  

"How are you doing?"

"The doctor was here."

"Really.  Are they going to do the surgery?"

"I don't know.  It was a cardiologist.  He cleared me, said I was o.k. to have surgery."

"Oh.  But you haven't seen the surgeon yet?"

"No, not yet." 

Isn't that the shit.  

"Did you get dinner?"

"Yes."

"What did you have?"

"Soup and salad.  The soup was good but the salad wasn't all that."

"You sound awake now.  You were out of it all afternoon."

"Yes, I'm awake now.  They will give me something to help me sleep in a little while, I'm sure."

A bit more chat and I told her I'd see her tomorrow.  

Ola Belle Reed came on.  Sure.  If you don't know her, look her up.  She is a true American hero and very representative of a kind of woman, strong and independent, that runs deep in the hillbilly tradition.  

When. . . no, I know you. . . if you listen to this and you don't hear that little thief Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind," your are either deaf or dumb.  Listen to a lot of Reed, and you will find more Dylan there.  She was a major unspoken influence on his folk years, I think.  

Ola Belle Reed was born Ola Wave Campbell on August 17, 1916, in Lansing, North Carolina. She was one of thirteen children born to Arthur Harrison Campbell and Ella May Osborne Campbell. The Campbell family ancestors had moved to the New River Valley of Western North Carolina sometime around the 1760's. Arthur Harrison was an educated man who spent his life as a schoolteacher. He also owned a general store and was a dedicated farmer during summer months on his farm in the New River Valley. The Great Depression brought a huge economic burden on the large Campbell family, and they followed many Appalachian mountain people to Northeastern Maryland, where there was fertile farmland and it seemed easier to secure jobs. Music was an integral part of the cultural heritage on both sides of Ola Belle's family. Her grandfather Alexander Bolivar Campbell was an early Primitive Baptist preacher and an accomplished fiddle player. Her father played fiddle, banjo, guitar, and organ and formed a string band, The New River Boys and Girls with his brother Oliver Dockery, known as "Doc" and sister Ellen in 1910. An uncle, on her mother's side, Herb Osborne, sang mining songs made popular in the coalfields of West Virginia. Her grandmother and mother sang ballads and topical songs in the traditional Appalachian style...Ola Belle's autobiographical song "I've Endured" perhaps best sums up her personal tenacity: "I've worked for the rich, I've lived with the poor; Lord, I've seen many a heartache, there'll be many more; I've lived, loved and sorrowed, been to success's door; I've endured, I've endured. - Thomas Polis

I fell asleep on the couch to this thinking of my mother's tenacity, probably somewhere around nine.  When I woke, it was after eleven.   

I must get back to the hospital now.  I do think I am sick, though.  I have a small sore spot in my throat.  I am lethargic.  I'm not as tough as my mother.  

"How long can one man endure?"