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Welcome to familywisdom.com, a website dedicated to informing and inspiring couples and families. Each week you will find a new article, story or essay about parenting, marriage or life. Suggestions for articles and questions to Ellen Terich are welcome. You can contact her at e.terich1@verizon.net |
THE WAITING ROOM - CHAPTER ONE: OCTOBER, 2007 2011-12-15 Early Sunday morning. I’m still in bed, pulling up the covers to fend off the autumn chill, though the aroma of brewing coffee is enticing me. I glance at the clock. 6:15. Tony’s already up and dressed, so I grab a robe and join him. The phone rings just as the coffee maker completes its gurgling. It’s Mom and she doesn't begin with her typical, perky "Good Morning." "Ellen, did I wake you?" she whispers. "No. What’s up?" I say. "Could you come over?" she says. "I don't feel well." My eighty-one-year-old mother is never ill, or at least never admits it, so I struggle to comprehend, as a growing unease envelops me. "What’s wrong, Mom?" I say. "I must have the flu," she says. "I'm so tired. I barely made it from the bed to the bathroom. Your father’s already fallen once. I hate to ask, but someone has to take care of him." "I’ll be right there." "Take your time, honey," she says, sounding out of breath. "We’re not going anywhere." By the time I hang up, Tony has his arm around my waist. "What is it?" "My mom’s sick. She wants me to come over and help with Dad." "I’ll put our coffee in travel mugs," he says. I hurry into the bedroom, throw on the clothes I wore yesterday, then run a comb through my hair. The image in the mirror startles me. Black circles beneath puffy eyelids, patches of gray hair, and lines crisscrossing my forehead. When did this happen to my face? Tony’s reflection appears in the mirror, and he puts his arms around me. "I love you, pretty lady," he says, and I laugh. "Your eyes must not be focused this morning," I say. He ignores me and asks if I'm ready. I nod, and we head into the dark together. Tony drives and I stare out the window. Though I have no idea what's ailing Mom, there’s a familiar fist pressing on my stomach, like the one I felt forty years ago. In twenty minutes, we arrive at my parents’ retirement community, stopping at the pink stucco gate house. The guard takes forever to find our names on the approved guest list, though we're regular visitors and he's seen us before. When he finally lets us through, we drive past rows of Coco Palms lining the golf course, an orange glow following us as the sun struggles to chase away the night. Tony pulls into the driveway of my parents’ modest home, and I hurry out of the car. A recent chill has replaced the Santa Ana winds, and I shiver while I walk up the path to the house, past the newspaper lying untouched on the driveway. My hands are shaking and I fumble with the key before opening the door to a house that is dark—and silent. We discover my parents in the family room at the back of the house, a dim light emanating from the adjacent kitchen. I turn on a standing lamp next to Dad who’s sitting in his recliner, his bare feet and pajama bottoms peeking out from a navy blue blanket. His walker is next to the chair. Two years ago, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and my mother has been caring for him ever since: driving him to his many medical appointments, assisting him with his shower, serving his meals, and helping him up when he falls. Although he doesn't have the characteristic tremor of Parkinson's, his severe balance problems and unusual visual impairments make it impossible for him to get by without her help. "Hi kiddo," Dad says. "Your mom isn’t feeling well." I kiss him on the cheek, then turn to Mom, lying on the red-checked sofa under a row of windows. Ordinarily, she opens the shades, starts the coffee, and retrieves the newspaper, but this morning she’s only managed to walk ten steps from the bedroom to the family room. She’s still in her nightgown, the pink one I gave her last Christmas, and gray roots are visible on her tousled brown hair. Her skin is the color of wallpaper paste. The scene is shocking, but I can’t let feelings take over. I have to figure out how to help my mother, so I shove my fear behind the armor she helped me construct so many years ago. The thermometer sits on the coffee table in front of her—next to a bottle of Pepto-Bismol—and I pick it up. "I don’t have a fever," she says waving it away, "or not much of one." "What was it?" I say as I put my hand on her clammy forehead. "Just ninety-nine." "When did you eat last?" She pulls her nightgown around her fragile body. "I had some toast yesterday," she says, "but I’ve been feeling kind of oogy for a couple of days." "Have you been vomiting?” "No, just oogy." I tell her I’ll brew some tea, and then I join Tony in the kitchen where he’s preparing oatmeal. The sight of my six foot three, white-haired husband cooking breakfast for my parents touches me, and I reach up and caress his face. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. When the oatmeal is ready, I scoop some into a small bowl, along with milk and brown sugar, place it on a plastic tray next to the tea, and take them to Mom. She stares at my offering before closing her eyes and nodding toward Dad. "Take care of him," she says. "After he eats, give him his pills. They’re in the organizer by the kitchen phone." While Tony brings Dad his oatmeal, I find the pills, open the shade covering the kitchen window, then return to the family room and open more shades. Outside on the green belt, a few early risers are engaged in their daily exercise. Inside, with the sun illuminating her face, my mother looks even worse. I wither under a mountain of guilt. I’m a psychotherapist, for God’s sake, trained to listen, to see, to pick up clues in the way people sound and look and act. She sounded okay on the phone this week, and she looked all right a week ago at my house, when we celebrated my granddaughter Maddie’s birthday. Acting like her usual feisty self when she arrived with Dad, she demanded to see her great-grandchildren, whom she calls her "Pasadena punkins," before she walked through the door. She gave her usual orders to Dad to "stand up straight" and beamed as my three grandchildren skipped down the stairs shouting, "Hi Gigi. Hi Bob," the names they call Mom and Dad. She did say she wasn’t hungry when I offered her cake, and that she wanted to go home early because she was tired. Clues I had obviously missed. "Mom, you really look sick," I say. "Let me take you to urgent care." "I’m not going to urgent care. I’ll feel better after I rest and drink my tea." She opens her eyes, sits up, and reaches for the cup. I hand it to her. "At least let me call the doctor." "No," she says. "It’s probably just a virus. "You wouldn’t have called if it was just a virus." "I would if it was a bad one." "You've had bad viruses before, Mom, and you've never asked for my help." Dad raises his voice. "Listen to Ellen, Fran. Call the doctor, damn it." She frowns at him, and then turns to me. "Ellen, I’m sure it’s nothing, and if your father and I are too much trouble, then you can go home now. I’m feeling better. Just give him his pills before you leave." She waves her hand as if to dismiss me, then sets down the cup without taking a sip, and lies back on the sofa. "I can take care of myself," Dad says, "but Mom needs you." "You both need me," I say, "and I’m not going home, but Mom, I want your word that you’ll call the doctor tomorrow." "All right," she says, closing her eyes again. She sleeps for most of the day, though she makes an attempt to eat: a few sips of broth for lunch and a slice of cinnamon toast for dinner. Tony keeps Dad company while I cook a pot of vegetable soup and two casseroles for the coming week. Mom gains a little strength as the day goes on, and at her insistence, we leave just after Dad finishes his dinner. On the drive home, though, I feel queasy. In the entire time I have been her daughter, my mother has never been sick enough to need my help, and I know something is terribly wrong. Part two of Chapter One - "October 2007" will be posted next week. |