I sit next to my mom as she sleeps in the bed. Room 45, bed 1. The window bed, and I have a nice arm chair, angled kinda in kinda out.
Her mouth hangs open.
In her dreams, she’s a teenager, crying to her mom who yells at her (I remember Grandma J and she could be a yeller for sure).
When she wakes up, she asks me where we are (hospital) and why (lost 35 pounds in two months) and if we can go home (nope!).
She thinks dad is still alive, and half the time I tell her he’s dead, the other half I tell her he’s in the cafeteria. She gets mad cos of course he’d be in the cafeteria at a time like this, where else is he gonna be, and so she’s mad at someone dead 18 years haha.
My brother Glen pops in, then pops out to make/take calls.
Sandy in room 37 wants a nurse, goddamnit, goddamnit where’s a nurse!
Glen pops in, checks his phone, pops out.
The doctor has that good doctor vibe. There’s been some bad doctors lately, for sure. This doctor’s good.
One nurse is no-nonsense, blunt (I like her, mom would kill her if she could). Another has this kinda folksy thing going which is already wearing thin. The third nurse keeps erasing and writing “Get Well Soon!” on the dry-erase board, and I have no idea what to make of that. He’s done it a few times now, which what the fuck.
PT and OT people seem nice enough. Mom lies to them (“I didn’t fall,” “I can move just fine,” “I walk five miles a day”) and thank god they’re used to bullshit haha. This is at least their second rodeo haha.
She drifts in and out. Her mom yells at her sixty-five years ago. Her husband, my dad, won’t do what she wants and what she wants is so simple, an old boss (I think I know which) needs her to come in early tomorrow.
Apparently, I’m bawling my fucking eyes out. Boston Penny (no-nonsense blunt one) tosses me a box of Kleenex and tells me not to go soft on her.
When mom is awake, we go through the where are we and why are we where we are routine. Each time is like brand new.
Glen has left the building. He texts from the hotel. Maybe he’ll be back by dinner, or maybe he’ll choose to be a chicken-shit asshole. Only time will tell.
The cafeteria is good though. Good cafeteria. Breakfast at lunch which is always just the best. Corned beef hash could be crispier, hash browns less so, and I’m not sure why the whole thing has to close for an hour mid-afternoon, but overall? Good value. Solid meal. Highly recommend.
Everything smells. Every single thing has a smell.
Patients on the floor seem unaware there’s a call button. Each bed has one. It’s right on the remote thing there that works the TV. You hit the button, big red button, can’t miss it, a nurse comes, no need to yell. (No, it’s not just Sandy in 37, not by a long shot.)
Ironic detachment has returned. I smirk a lot, give a little knowing nod every now and again. Ironic detachment is so good. Fucking love some good ol’ ironic detachment.
No one seems to know what the beeping in the hallway is. Definitely not a Bed Exit alarm, though (that’s a buzz then a live voice with the room and bed number). Beep-beep-beep.
They weigh her again (why I do not know) and she has lost another couple pounds. She’s now under a hundred.
We have reached the Mom Yells at Me part of the day. I am inconsiderate and self-centered, I enjoy her pain, I did this on purpose, I just want her dead, I never appreciated all she did for me, she never had half the opportunities I had. (I only dispute about half of it.)
Depending on my relationship to my alcoholism, there’s a bar across the street with my name on it. Honestly, though, it’s looking very much like SWFL will run out of gin in the next couple days.
Turns out, Boston Penny is not from Boston and she doesn’t know how she got the nickname. Her name is Penny, though. Folksy is Carlotta, and Dry-Erase is Tyler. Mom likes Carlotta, still would kill Penny if she could, and can’t see the dry-erase board so has no opinion, really, on Tyler, who last time added a smiley face to the “Get Well Soon!”
The reason they weighed her is she is now so light she sets off the Bed Exit alarm by just shifting positions. No more shifting positions, mom, without first letting a nurse know. Another possibility is the Bed Exit sensor is on the fritz. The staff decides to wait and see.
She wants to go home. I remind her the bed here is more comfortable.
She thinks comfort is overrated. I remind her how she complains about the lumpy bed at home, and also the narrow, shallow couch, off of which it is too easy to roll.
There’s a new doctor (good vibe again!). New nurses. PT and OT done for the day, as I will also soon be. Visiting hours are almost over.
Glen did not return. He chose chicken-shit asshole.
She tells me dad always liked it when I took him to bars for the Bears games, it meant a lot to him, at the end, the last like year or two, and I can’t find the Kleenex, someone took the fucking Kleenex.
On that note, the note of drinking with my dad, we all once went to a street fest in Chicago cos he had some kinda VIP pass or something. A great day all around. Drinking, music, food, a backstage tent. Mom went into a porta-potty and came out so impressed. She said there’s a purse holder in there, right next to the toilet. We told her that’s the urinal, mom, your purse was in a fucking street fest porta-potty urinal. She screamed, grabbed what she needed outta the purse, and tossed the thing in the garbage. For the rest of the day, dad grumbled bout how you don’t throw out a perfectly good purse, just needed a good wash is all.
Before she nods off, I tell her I’ll see her first thing in the morning. She doesn’t know where she is. I tell her. She doesn’t know why. I tell her. She asks why she can’t go home. I tell her.
She nods off. Her mouth hangs open. I think her sleep is dreamless.
Things are quieter now. No alarms, no buzzes, no beeps. Sandy in 37 hasn’t demanded a nurse in a bit.
I walk down the hallway toward the elevator bank. Someone brings up pizzas and breadsticks. It occurs to me I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
By the time I get to the bar across the street, it is about to close. I have missed last call. In the car, I try to find the nearest one, but it seems SWFL bars close early, like at ten, which what the fuck.
Where have you gone? Your words are missed!
love you, amigo