My Mother's Keeper

Today I became my mother's caretaker. It's probably overdue, but as the doctor spoke solely to me about my mother's condition, I was grateful for once that my son could take care of himself (for the most part), that my husband was working overseas and did not need my full attention, and that I am still unemployed and have time to run back and forth to Atlanta when she might need me.

We went this morning to Piedmont hospital for my mother to have a balloon angioplasty procedure to determine any blockages she might have in her circulation. She's been ill for years and still working because she is too stubborn not to get up every day and go to work.

They took her in early today and had her back in a mere forty five minutes. They were unable to place any stents in because they couldn't anesthetize her for any longer without killing her. My mother has approximately 38% lung capability due to years of smoking and working in a smoke filled environment. I mentioned it to one of the nurses that prepped her for surgery and they immediately put her on oxygen prior to the procedure.

When the doctor came to talk to us later she gave me the full run down of my mother's condition. She needs a quadruple bypass, but won't survive the operation due to lack of oxygen. They are putting her on nitroglycerin to help open her veins and arteries and will attempt to put in a few stents over the next few weeks.

Without these, she won't make it another six months.

I had to explain everything later to my mother. She certainly doesn't lack in intelligence, but the lack of oxygen to her cells and brain creates a sense of confusion, especially in the late afternoon.

I wasn't the only daughter in the waiting room. There were lots of us. Tired, middle-aged women showing strain lines between our brows, at least the un-botoxed among us. The woman next to me was trying to arrange for her husband to pick up her mother after her procedure so that she could get back to work. Another woman was working from the waiting room on her laptop. Another was texting and pacing, angry that the coffee machine was broken. Again.

I don't drink coffee normally, but even I was frustrated for the lack of it.

After waiting for hours, she was impatiently and fretfully laying flat on her painfully degenerating discs unable to move her legs or sit up. We got some Darvocet to take the edge off. Finally she could get up to have the nurse take her to the bathroom, and could eat a stale pastry I found at the coffee shop. She signed the release papers and I helped her button her shirt up as her fingers are crooked from rheumatoid arthritis.

I, having only a son, wondered one day who would do this for me.

I got us home easily, a miracle in the horrible Atlanta traffic. She curled up on the sofa in depression, despondent because she thought the doctor could cure anything.

But sometimes they can't.

Checking with my son later, I asked for another day to stay here to help out. Loneliness is the worst disease my mother suffers. I feel guilty because I don't always understand that, I tend not to be very sensitive to people's feelings. Okay, I'm never sensitive to other people and am repelled when they seem needy to me. Unfortunately I need to get past my revulsion now, because someone needs me again. I try to remember parenting my son when he was little, I enjoyed that. It was the first time I felt comfortable having someone lean on me, I'll have to try to get to that place again.

I don't know if I'm up to this. I'm not a very nurturing person. I have cats and cacti.

They don't need much from me.

This is a person. A prickly person to be sure, but still one in need of tending to.

I hope I can do this. God knows I don't do well in any situation where my carefully constructed little OCD schedule gets fucked with.

I don't do change well. Then there's the talking. She talks a lot, I am used to silence. I tune out when people talk too much.

Plus there's too many people here. I can't breathe with so many people. I try to go to the gym and there are way too many people near me. I've taken to going odd hours. I wish they were open late, really late.

I miss my late night run. Apparently here it's dangerous to run in the middle of the night like I do at home. I feel caged and cramped, how did I live here before?

But I'm needed, so I'll find the strength somewhere. Other women do it, and so can I.