Good morning,
An
endless string of lovely Saturdays stretch behind me in time. I turn
the calendar's page with a brief whisk of my finger and see months upon
months of them. Birds squawk; squirrels bark; and a woman clad in
cotton strolls past with her dog on a leash. The black cat, having
eaten a handful of dog food that its shameful owner foisted upon him,
stares balefully at me, then tosses his body down onto the concrete pad
of our porch, and tends to grooming his paws. I close my eyes and let
the wind toss my hair against my cheeks, surrounded by nothing but
beauty, relentless, cool and serene.
I
feel the rush of caffeine hit my veins, and think of the pale grey of
my mother-in-law's face, three days ago, as she lay in a hospital bed,
her worried spouse of fifty-eight years hovering nearby. It will take a
little hissy fit by her daughter-in-law who does not care about the
nurses liking her, before a unit of fluids and two of blood will restore
color to the delicate skin of the ailing lady's face. I am struck by
the amount of time women spend standing beside others during
post-surgical hours. I wonder, briefly, if there is a gene for knowing
the proper ratio of diplomacy to insistence.
On
the wall next to my cedar closet hangs a framed piece of fabric, with
the words, "Tomorrow Begins Today". I remember my mother sitting beside
my grandmother's hospital bed, needle flying quickly through the creamy
cotton, embroidery hoop holding the work taught beneath her
brown-spotted hands. Nana shifted beneath the sheets; a machine
trilled; and my mother jumped from her chair. A soft touch on the
taught forehead; the machine's noise settled to a rhythmic, periodic
beep.
I
pull my car into the long driveway of the hospital, day after day.
I've learned to lie to the guard. The parking lot for the Heart
Institute affords me a shorter trip to my mother-in-law's bed, past the
better coffee shop. I'm supposed to park in the garage for the main
hospital but have learned that the trip from there to her room exhausts
me. My father-in-law doesn't cheat. At eighty-four, he could fib with
moral justification and park wherever he chooses, but he makes the
longer journey, in his tightly laced Rockports and camper's shorts,
twice a day, to sit by his wife's bedside.
I
greet the coffee shop clerk as though we know each other. I tease her
about her co-worker, whom I have seen flirt with her on other days. She
knows my order already -- a twelve-ounce Americano, no room for cream
-- and I have exact change ready. It's day five, day six, day seven;
and for someone who favors routine, these hospital visits tuck neatly
into my morning.
As
I walk down the corridor to the Blue Elevators, lab-coated figures
stroll on either side of me. Their thumbs fly across the tiny keys of
small black devices. Smartphones or iPods. Eyes down, elbows crooked,
feet on auto-pilot set to rapid, as I trudge beside them, a heavy bag
with my own gadgets tucked neatly inside slung over one shoulder. They
keep typing in the elevator, and I gingerly sip my coffee, straining to
read their badges. A doctor who looks to be half a decade younger than
my son; a nurse with an unpronounceable name smacking gum; a couple of
worried relatives. The doors open on Four and I disembark, swiftly
glancing at
the small waiting room where others clutch cups of coffee just as I do,
but moving on, having seen no one I know, not really expecting to see
anyone but looking just in case.
The
ladies at the desk raise their eyes as I approach, then look back down.
I'm one of a series of faces with which they will for a short time be familiar.
After my mother-in-law returns to the Memory Unit where she lives, the
fabric of time will re-seal, leaving no trace of me. Some other grumpy
daughter-in-law will make an impression, on some other day, for
some other reason. I know that their knowledge of me will not endure,
but I don't mind. I respect their profession and most of their work.
Our dumb luck dictated that the one inefficient nurse among them
happened to be on duty the day of my mother-in-law's sharp decline. She
hasn't been assigned to Joanna's room again, and not necessarily by
chance. I smile when I see the assignment board; as long as certain
names appear on it, and certain names do not, I know Joanna will be as
fine as she can be, given what she has had to endure and the present
state of her long life.
The
hallway to her room smells the way all such hallways do. I pause
halfway down, and breathe in the mix of antiseptic and
sweat, Lysol and despair. I see a little clutch of medical students in
the distance, stethoscopes shoved in deep pockets, narrow
shoulders pulled back, eyes pinned to the doctor standing in their
midst. For a moment, I am lost. I could be in the hospital where my
mother's cancer marched her towards a hastened end; the long ago
facility
in which my grandmother recovered from one devastating stroke after
another; or the Arkansas nursing home to which I brought a sheaf of
papers for a client's son to sign, as he stood, soundlessly sobbing,
over her dying body.
Yesterday
morning, I arrived at my mother-in-law's bedside before her husband.
She had just awakened, and lay quietly beneath a white sheet, her hands
on its edge, her eyes alert in the pink flush of her face. Good morning, Joanna!
I said. She does not know me. But she knows that I come to see her
wherever she is. I can only imagine who she thinks I am -- an aide or a
hired hand, I've decided -- but she smiled at me, as she always does,
and echoed my greeting. I hear you had a long visit from somebody special last night!
I am talking about my stepson, whose name is Mac, but I don't refer to
him because I do not want her to be stressed with the challenge of
trying to remember.
But I need not have worried. OH yes! She answered. Mac came to see me!
And her radiant smile confirmed that she does, indeed, remember. I set
my coffee down, and bent to kiss her forehead. The lingering pleasure
of that visit has made a permanent mark on her mind. Whatever else
might happen to Joanna this day, this weekend, this life, she has had
that moment when a six-feet-two handsome young man, with his baritone
voice and his broad shoulders, has sat by her bedside and held her hand.
In
a few hours, I will watch a young couple exchange their wedding vows.
When they have been married sixty years, as my in-laws nearly have
been, I will be long dead. One of them will fall ill, and the other
will travel from the parking garage to sit in the uncomfortable
visitor's chair and watch the dials of the machine which monitors the
patient's progress. Some young relative will bring a brief ray of
sunshine into the room, and some nurse will forget to monitor the
patient's condition as carefully as she should. Another nurse will
intervene, and disaster will be averted. As they stand in the church
this evening, this brave, slender couple who have chosen each other, I
will sit with my husband, hold his hand, and wonder which one of us
will go first and who will come to mourn us. Then I will turn my eyes
back toward the bride in her beautiful dress; and the sturdy, strong
groom, and for a few minutes, nothing will matter but the light of love
shining from their faces.
Mugwumpishly tendered.
Corinne Corley
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