the hospital

When I first saw my mom, she was covered in pink dye. It was smeared over her cheeks. Her neck. Her arms. Her belly. She even had a little in her white, curly hair. On her neck was a huge IV port, and then a smaller one on each wrist. Once the nurses came, I saw her incision. A railroad of staples running from the top of her ribs to her pubic bone. It looked angry and large.

She looked very small compared to that long, long incision.

My mom was in a ward with three other people. There was an elderly, Jewish woman, who had a such a dramatic hunch in her back that her jaw was in line with her collarbone. Every morning she would take her food tray, go out to waiting area for families,watch TV, and not return until the evening. The second woman was young and only there for a few days. She had dark brown hair and kind eyes. She would smile and wave to my mom every time she went to the washroom or saw her in the hall. My mom found her encouraging. But my mom’s main roommate was the woman who slept right beside her. She was a petite woman, not even 5 feet tall. She was in her 70s, belonged to the police force and had terminal cancer. Her son would come visit her after attending to her many cats hours away. Both would compete for the title of who annoyed the other the most. They would yell. He would leave. Then she would direct her anger at the world towards the nurses. Every five minutes she would yell for … something. Around the clock. Without fail. And every time she would yell, my mom’s nerves would fray a little bit more.

My mom was only supposed to be in the hospital for two or three days.

Each day I would go and sit with her. Some days she would be flying (mostly due to morphine). Other days, she would be a puddle, weeping on the bathroom floor. I would sit with her until I felt she was settled for the evening. But each day that became harder, and harder to do. Then there were complications. Her oxygen levels dipped and they sent her for tests. Almost as soon as my mom returned, her surgeon rushed in.

She has a pulmonary embolism. Many in fact.

Only her surgeon didn’t say PE. She called them tiny little air bubbles in her lungs. I guess that sounds nicer than something that could travel to her heart or brain and kill you instantly. With PE, you have to start giving yourself a daily injection of blood thinners. My mom wasn’t mentally prepared to do that. Which is fair, I suppose. I hadn’t even wrapped my head around the word ‘cancer’ yet. The nurses would show her how to do it, and coax her to try the injection on her own. But each day she said she was too tired, and they did it for her. At first they said she would have to have the injections for three weeks, then three months. Then, finally indefinitely. I asked the doctor if my mom would get nursing care to help her manage at home. They shook their head and walked away.

By day 7, my mom was hysterical.

She was violently throwing up. Not sleeping. Crying all the time. I could barely leave the room, before she would call me, begging me to come back for a little bit longer. I was exhausted. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get her a private room so she could have some peace – but the nurses were short-staffed and couldn’t switch her. Instead, they gave her a new bed and a sleeping pill.

The next day, her surgeon asked if she wanted to leave.

My mom whispered ‘yes’. And before I had time to think about what it meant to care for her in this state, I bundled her up, and took her home.