Roy wanted to know how things were. "How's she doing?" he slurred slightly. He sounded as though he were on the other end of the earth.
Looking over at her mother, now with her head on the bed's pillow and eyes closed, Sarah felt a strange mix of emotions. That old, recognizable migraine with all the painful memories it brought. But then, what was this? Her mother next to her, resting quietly, vulnerable, no longer in charge. She looked almost like a little girl in repose. Sarah felt an unfamiliar tenderness. -- RJ
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Margaret stood at the doorway of her room with her daughter behind her. It felt like she was a blockage for her escape rather than a supportive presence. The walls were Pepto-Bismal pink and the lineolium tile was scuffed and coming up in places. The window afforded a view of the green dumpsters behind the building near where a group of nurses now exhaled cigarette smoke and steam into the frigid winter air. On the wall a yellowed, homemade greeting card adorned with crayon read, "Get well soon, Grandma." Linda, the stocky nurse, her hair straw-colored no doubt from a cheap store-bought bleach job, ripped the card down with one chubby hand.
"Now, here we are. Isn't this nice Margaret? We'll let you decorate it the way you like, dear. And I think we even have a television in storage. Mrs. Cuffey's kids never picked it up after she...left us, so you're welcome to it, dear. Easy peasy. Would that be nice?"
It was then, right then, that Margaret realized she had made a mistake by living this long. God knew it didn't have to come to this. After Sam died, exhausted from four years of not enough oxygen, pain medicine or purpose, she could have taken her own life. If only she had loved him in the end. If only she had been a woman driven mad with grief, she might have been capable of it. Several of her friends who were widowed before her died of broken hearts within months of their husbands' deaths. She had waited for a similar fate, but sweet death didn't smell any love in her heart. Like the neglected trees in the old orchards she spent 40 years tending, the loveless were left to rot.
"Mom, would you like that? Mom?"
"What?"
"A television. Would you like Linda to bring in a television?"
"No. I just want some paper and a pen. And a nap. I need to lie down. Now."
Sarah's cell phone began ringing from in her purse. She frantically fished around for it before finally dumping its contents out on the bed her mother now sat on, hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. Linda came back in the room with a small notepad and a pen and quickly exited.
It was Roy calling. Dammit, he would be drunk. Sarah thought about not answering it. The estrangement between them had deepened around what to do with their mother. Once she died she was certain she would probably never see Roy again, and she was resigned to this, even relieved by it.
She hadn't forgiven the old woman either. But she wasn't stuck like Roy. She was unstuck. She was moving. Forward. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of therapy had allowed her to remember and then decidedly forget. Only when the migraines came, like the one she now felt filling her head with a sickening pressure, was she back there, squinting in the August heat, skin itching from peach fuzz, afraid...--JV
"Now, here we are. Isn't this nice Margaret? We'll let you decorate it the way you like, dear. And I think we even have a television in storage. Mrs. Cuffey's kids never picked it up after she...left us, so you're welcome to it, dear. Easy peasy. Would that be nice?"
It was then, right then, that Margaret realized she had made a mistake by living this long. God knew it didn't have to come to this. After Sam died, exhausted from four years of not enough oxygen, pain medicine or purpose, she could have taken her own life. If only she had loved him in the end. If only she had been a woman driven mad with grief, she might have been capable of it. Several of her friends who were widowed before her died of broken hearts within months of their husbands' deaths. She had waited for a similar fate, but sweet death didn't smell any love in her heart. Like the neglected trees in the old orchards she spent 40 years tending, the loveless were left to rot.
"Mom, would you like that? Mom?"
"What?"
"A television. Would you like Linda to bring in a television?"
"No. I just want some paper and a pen. And a nap. I need to lie down. Now."
Sarah's cell phone began ringing from in her purse. She frantically fished around for it before finally dumping its contents out on the bed her mother now sat on, hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. Linda came back in the room with a small notepad and a pen and quickly exited.
It was Roy calling. Dammit, he would be drunk. Sarah thought about not answering it. The estrangement between them had deepened around what to do with their mother. Once she died she was certain she would probably never see Roy again, and she was resigned to this, even relieved by it.
She hadn't forgiven the old woman either. But she wasn't stuck like Roy. She was unstuck. She was moving. Forward. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of therapy had allowed her to remember and then decidedly forget. Only when the migraines came, like the one she now felt filling her head with a sickening pressure, was she back there, squinting in the August heat, skin itching from peach fuzz, afraid...--JV
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