by Mindy Raf
I use my palms to wipe away any residual signs of worry from my face and then head back to Mom in 5112. When I get there, I can tell right away that something is really, really wrong.
At first it looks like Mom’s just staring out into space, but when I get closer to the bed I see that her eyes are actually very focused, and angry. She’s sitting up a little more now too. Actually, she looks like she’s about to disconnect herself from everything and literally jump out of the bed.
“Mom, you okay? What’s wrong?”
She turns her head toward me fast, and then flashes me a big smile. It’s as if someone just pushed an “Izzy’s here” button on her face.
“Nothing wrong, sweetie. I’m fine.”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, I’m just frustrated, but it’s fine.”
“What’s fine?” I’m trying to keep the tone of my voice calm.
“It’s just Dr. Madson. He’s … he’s being so … He just told me that I’m not going to be able to eat for a while, and I have to go on TPN,” she says, shaking her head.
“Oh. Wow.” TPN is a big deal. It’s this liquid nutrition that goes into your blood that people get when they can’t eat. You have to hook yourself up to it with a port or an IV.
“No, no, I’ll be okay without it. I can still nibble on stuff without getting too sick. I don’t know why he has to make things so difficult for me.”
“I don’t think he’s trying to make things difficult. He’s—”
“I don’t want to be connected to … I don’t want to carry that bag of stuff with me everywhere I go. I don’t need the whole wide world knowing I’m sick.”
“I know, but, Mom—”
“It’s just not necessary.”
“Mom, you have to do TPN if that’s what Dr. Madson tells you to do,” I say, my voice rising in both pitch and volume.
“Izzy, please, I’m fine. Let’s not—”
“You’re not fine. You’re—you’re sick.”
“Izzy!” Mom says this in the tone of voice she uses when I’ve said a swear word too loud in public. “Please. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“You’re sorry you brought it up?” I repeat, but more to myself. Then I look at her. “You’re sorry you brought this up?” I say again, louder.
“Yes, enough!”
“But—”
“Enough, enough, enough!” Mom shouts, punctuating each “enough” with a sharp head shake. My mom doesn’t have a “1980s aerobics class” cry like Allissa, or an “I’m going to stay so still, you won’t even know I’m crying” cry like Jenna, and she doesn’t have an “I’m going to try and trap my tears inside my eyelids for as long as I can” cry like I do. She has a sad puppy dog kind of cry. She cries softly, her mouth pursed together, sniffing in quick inhalations through her nose and then letting out this high-pitched, sing-songy whimper through her mouth.
“Hand me my phone. I have to call Cathy and find out what’s going on at school. And I was supposed to finalize the music list this afternoon for the Dance for Darfur DJ, and go through carpet samples for Gretchen and—”
“Mom.” I roll my stool closer to the bed and hand her a tissue. “It’s okay, please don’t worry about all that right now. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I need to”—she wipes the tissue under each eye—“find out what’s going on [cough] because I need [cough] to handle it.”
I don’t think Mom takes mental snapshots like I do. In fact, I think she already has her mental snapshots picked out before they even happen, like she needs control over all the images in her head, and how they make up her memories. And I don’t think she’s ready to let being sick be a part of them just yet, be a part of her yet.
I put my hand on her back because she’s leaning forward now like she’s trying to cough, but can’t quite get anything out. “Are you okay?” I hand her more tissues.
She nods and grabs her bedpan, coughing up into it hard. Then she wipes her mouth with the tissue. But when she tries to speak again, she just starts coughing. I watch her pause to catch her breath, a metallic taste overtaking my mouth. When she breathes in, she makes this low, wheezing rumble, then lets out another huge cough. Another breath in, another wheeze, another cough. And again.
“Mom?” But she keeps coughing and wheezing and spitting up into her bedpan. The sounds she’s making are the most awful sounds I’ve ever heard, ever. It’s like I can hear things moving around, trapped inside her chest, clawing to get out.
“You need water?” I push her call button and try hard not to panic. The metallic taste in my mouth is making me feel queasy. I grab her cup of ice chips from the table. “I called the nurse, so—”
“I can’t—feel like—I can’t—get a breath,” she squeezes out.
I run out into the hall shouting, “She can’t breathe! She can’t stop coughing!” to whoever’s close enough to hear. Soon our room is jam-packed with nurses all crowding around Mom’s bed. One is clipping something onto her fingers, another’s attaching tubes and IVs to a new machine that’s being wheeled in, another’s paging Dr. Madson, and everything’s beeping and buzzing and talking and ringing and crinkling and shoe-squeaking. Now they’re putting tubes in her nose, and a mask on her face. Mom’s shaking her head back and forth, flailing her arms, and coughing and coughing.
“Okay Linda, I know this is scary,” one of the nurses says in a slow, low voice, “but the calmer you are, the easier it will be to breathe, okay? Now try to give me a nice deep breath …”
I watch as Mom stops flailing and somewhat surrenders to the nurse’s rhythmic breathing. With each steady breath she takes into her mask, the numbers on her machine change with a beep. 90% BEEP 89% BEEP 87% BEEP 88% BEEP. I feel like I should do something, but I don’t know what. Maybe I should find out who invented this oxygen-reading machine and strangle them, because the sound of that BEEP is making me want to lop off my ears.
Dr. Madson charges into the room then with Pam and Allissa practically walking on his heels. Since the two of them can’t get to Mom, who’s entirely surrounded, they rush over to me. Pam starts asking nonstop questions. Allissa’s just silent and still, not even aerobics-class crying. As the amoeba-blob of nurses shifts and grows around Mom, Allissa shuffles off to the far corner of the room, her eyes staying on Dr. Madson, who’s listening to Mom’s chest now. He moves the stethoscope around to different spots, saying things like “Crispy” and “Lungs are crispy on this side.”
What? What does that mean? I’ve never read anything about crispy lungs on the Internet. And I swear Dr. Madson looks worried. That’s not good. It’s not good when the doctor looks worried. He’s saying something to the nurses about Mom’s bladder, and drainage, and excess fluids, and there are so many people in this room, there are way too many people in this room. And it’s so hot in here, like way too hot. The collar of my sweater is choking me again.
“Right behind you!”
I jump out of the way in time to avoid colliding with another bed being wheeled past me into the room. Why do they need another bed in here? And I can’t understand what anyone’s saying. I feel like my ears are connected to a TV remote that keeps flipping through the noise in the room, letting me hear only bits and pieces of people’s sentences.
“We’re going transfer her over on ‘three’—”
“Linda, you’re doing great. I’m just going to—”
“It’s an NG tube and it might be a little uncomf—”
“This might pinch for just a sec until I—”
“When did she start on the—”
“Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four percent, and now it’s at—”
Finally, Dr. Madson gestures for the three of us to follow him outside. He doesn’t take us into a private room or his office, but starts talking the minute all three of us get out into the hallway. He talks fast, but in a quiet and even tone. I try to make my remote-control ears stay on him, but I can’t seem to do it. I hear complet
e obstruction, and fluid in lungs, and blocked bowels, and emergency surgery, and laparoscopy, and peritoneal cavity, and small incision.
Now they’re wheeling Mom away. I don’t know where they’re taking her. But emergency surgery keeps pounding its syllables through my head. And Pam’s holding all these papers, and handing them to Allissa and me, and I need to sit down. I lean against the wall, my neck like an hourglass again dumping sand into my chest, faster and faster. Where did they take her? Are they prepping for surgery? We can’t even talk to her? There’s so much sand. I can’t breathe. I manage to stagger over to Pam, who’s now sitting on a hallway bench with her head between her hands. She looks up at me. “It’s fine, okay? She’s going to be fine,” I hear her say distantly.
I nod, try to swallow, tell her I’m going to find a bathroom. Only it’s not me who seems to be doing this. It’s another girl who just happens to look exactly like me. I watch this girl walk down the hallway, pulling at her collar, and disappear into a single-occupancy bathroom.
When the bolt slides into the lock, my hands fly to my chest and I jolt back into myself. My heart is beating hard. Why is my heart beating so hard? Probably because I’m having a heart attack. My heart is trying to beat through the sand, faster and faster. My chest hurts so much, slicing at my insides. Oh my God, my heart is clogged, I’m having a heart attack! I clutch the sides of the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are unnaturally dilated. Oh my God, I’m dying! I need help! I have to get out of here! I have to go get help. No, I need to stay here. Yes, I should stay here because I’m not really dying because that’s just ridiculous.
But what if I am? A hospital is the very place people go to die. They either get better, or they die. And right now Mom is not getting better. She’s morphing. And she’s obstructed. And she’s not breathing right. And she’s having emergency surgery.
I drop the lid on the toilet and sit down. I’m blacking out, and I don’t have enough room in here to get into a good deep-breathing position. I turn myself toward the wall and drop my forehead low against the tiles. Then I crisscross my arms as far as they’ll go behind my head and muffle my face between my elbows because I’m starting to sob.
I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want her to die. She can’t die. I need to talk to her. I want to talk to her. I want my mom. I want to talk to my mom. I want to see my mom. And I’ve really messed everything up, and I’m one of those girls, and now it’s too late.
CHAPTER 22
I’m scared.
“Izzy!”
My head snaps up. My neck throbs. My shoulders ache. I have no idea where I am. Then I look down and see the ugly patterned carpet, and a flipbook of yesterday’s snapshots whizzes through my head. I’m back at the hospital, sitting in the waiting room, because that’s where people who don’t have heart attacks in bathrooms belong.
We were told Mom’s condition was too unstable for surgery last night, and we’d have to wait until the morning to see how she was doing. So I slept on Allissa’s dorm room futon last night since her college campus is only twenty minutes away and it didn’t make sense to drive me all the way back to Broomington. I don’t see how anyone can sleep soundly underneath a ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and a giant poster of a half-naked male model holding a puppy, even under normal circumstances.
Allissa continues to elbow me awake even though I’m fully sitting up now, my eyes wide open.
“I’m up, I’m up. What’s happening?” I ask.
“Pam’s in there, talking to Dr. Madson,” she says, gesturing down the hall, and then adding, “How do you even nap, Izzy? These chairs are so uncomfortable.”
“Well, this sweatshirt kind of doubles as a blanket,” I offer.
I’m wearing the only sweatshirt in Allissa’s closet that wasn’t too small for my chest. It belonged to one of her ex-boyfriends, who I’m guessing was a linebacker. This is the punishment I get for spilling cereal on my sole sweater: an XXXL sweatshirt with “U Got 2 Work 2 Play!” emblazoned across the front in menacing letters.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Allissa asks, staring down the hallway.
I’m about to offer a guess, when we see Pam coming toward us.
“You guys want to see her?” she asks, stopping in front of us with Dr. Madson right behind her.
“We can see her?” I bolt up.
Dr. Madson explains that although Mom had a good night, she’s still in the ICU and that they won’t be able to treat her fully until she gets her strength back, which could be another forty-eight to seventy hours.
“But then she’ll be okay?” Allissa asks, zipping her Bedazzled hoodie and standing up.
“We’ll know more in a couple days,” is all Dr. Madson says.
• • •
You can smell the ICU as soon as you get near it. Fear mixed with hand sanitizer. A new nurse named Anne leads Allissa and me down a bright hallway filled with lots of tired-looking people sitting in chairs against the walls. She takes us into Mom’s room, which is really more of a windowless alcove with a bed.
Everything in here is beeping. Each long, clear tube, each metal pole, each bag filled with fluid is connected to something that is beeping, which is somehow connected to the bed, which is somewhere connected to my mom.
“Can we go over to her?” Allissa asks Anne, who’s standing next to Mom’s bed, hooking up another bag of fluid to a pole. She nods and then says, “She’s not totally with it, but I’m sure she can hear you.”
Allissa and I venture in from the doorway, slowly making our way to the edge of Mom’s bed.
I don’t know who that is, but it’s not my mom. Her eyes are crusted closed, her skin looks kind of yellow, and her hair is matted on one side. But the scariest part is her mouth. It’s all stretched out over what looks like a mini vacuum attachment. Her lips are chapped and cracking, and there’s dried blood caked in where the skin has broken.
“That’s a respirator,” Anne tells us, seeing me eyeing Mom’s mouth. “It’s just helping her breathe a little bit better so her body can rest.”
I nod, and open my eyes wide, then pinch them shut. I feel a clammy hand press into mine, and squeeze Allissa’s back.
• • •
I’m standing outside the medical center’s main entrance watching Marcus attempt to stop his car, only to be told that no outside cars are allowed to stop here, and that pickups are only allowed at the “pickup parking structure.”
That’s right, when I got back to the waiting room, Pam hit me with ten very unexpected words.
“Okay, so listen, Izzy. I’m sending you back to school.”
Unghh.
So Pam sent Marcus, via Cathy, to take me back to Broomington. So far, it’s been ten minutes of Marcus being yelled at by security while circling around a snow-covered island with a “No Pickup/No Delivery” sign on it. Which would be a lot more amusing if it weren’t so cold out.
He finally gets the car close enough to the curb to scream out, “Screw this, just hop in!”
“No pickups!” I hear for like the fourteenth time.
“What?” I say, pretending I don’t understand while quickly opening the door and practically rolling into the passenger seat.
“Wow, that was … intense,” Marcus says, illegally speeding off as I fasten my seat belt. “I pride myself on having an excellent sense of direction, but this place is extremely confusing. And that’s a completely asinine system they have. For you to take a shuttle to another structure when I’m already here? It defies logic.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So, hi.” He cuts a glance at me and leans over to give me a side-hug. Or, I hope that’s what he’s doing because I lean over and give him a side-hug back. And for a nice moment I get something other than hospital smell, Marcus’s good, fancy-soap smell.
“I like your … sweatshirt dress?” he says as I take off my coat and throw it in the backseat. l look down at my oversized sweatshirt/j
eans combo, smile, and say, “Thanks.”
We drive for a while, Marcus focusing on finding his way to the highway, and me watching the snow starting to come down again. I’m a little surprised he’s by himself, actually. I had figured Jenna would come with him, seeing as the only communication I’ve had from her was Cathy saying “and Jenna sends her love” when she called to check in on what groceries I needed.
After we’ve been on the freeway for a few minutes, Marcus says, “So, you’re going back to school, but Allissa’s staying up in Pittsfield?”
“Yeah.” I’m still looking out the window. “Pam said that with my art portfolio due, and dress rehearsals for the play, and exams, and helping your mom get stuff together for the dance, that it’s more important for me to back in Broomington than at the hospital. And Allissa’s school is so close, so …”
“So your mom is … ?”
“Not strong enough to have surgery, I guess.”
“Oh, okay.” Marcus nods. “Well … I’m thinking good thoughts for her.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
And that’s the last thing I remember saying before hearing, “Izzy? Izzy, we’re here.”
I lift my head up off the side of the window and stretch my arms up in the air.
Marcus comes to my side of the car and opens the door. “Madame,” he says, and does one of those fake flourishes while holding out my coat.
“Wow, what great service,” I say, stepping out.
“So”—Marcus closes the car door and helps me shrug into my coat—“you okay?”
“What? Yeah, I’m fine. I’m … pretty good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning up against the side of the car. I look at Marcus and wonder for a second if he’s seen the photo. Just the thought of it is so exhausting that it’s easy to push it away.
“Okay,” Marcus says, leaning back against the car now too. And he’s just close enough now where if I wanted to, I could tilt my head to the side and let it rest on his shoulder.
