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May. 7th, 2005
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May. 7th, 2005 08:49 pmIt's darkly amusing to see how well my mom navigates Loyola Hospital now. She knows which doors to leave by in order to get to the right section of the parking lot instead of having to walk around by way of the front desk. She instinctively turns her head to check this one lounge where she met this amazing woman when Aunt Sandy was brought there way back when she first contracted shigella. She calls her an "angel," and wonders whatever happened to her, if she was ever really real.
Ronnie's in the same ICU ward that her mother was in, just on the other node of the figure-eighted workstations. She seemed mostly bored, especially since there's a tube right now, going down her throat, preventing her from speaking.
She seems fine. Tired, wan, a little bit confused as to how she ended up there. Every time she laughed or coughed, the ventilator would make this comical honking noise, which would make us laugh even more, and then we'd clap our hands over our mouths and shake our heads and say, "That's not funny. Not funny at all. We're very serious," and then we'd ahem and clear our throats and talk about more boring stuff.
Found unconscious in her bed in her apartment, she was brought in a few days ago, and they still don't know what happened. She's tiny, though, a tiny little thing. She doesn't drink, smoke, or take any kind of medication on a regular basis. So, it's my pet theory that she was double whammied with the antibiotic/vicodin combo prescribed for some troubles with her teeth, and it completely crashed her system. The doctors are baffled, since no test thus far has revealed an obvious source.
There were two women weeping hysterically and as quietly as they could as mom and I stepped on the elevator to leave. I could hear that very core of desperation and love and, well, grief, and my mom's eyes filled with tears, and I felt the old instincts kick in, to protect, to cheer, to above all be the leaning spot. It's this out-of-body experience, it feels like, where I have to forget for a little while how I feel about Ronnie, and let my mom's fears wash over me, so I can absorb and hold them to me, wring them dry, and then hand back hope and cheer and reason. I am 12 again, I am 15, I am 17 and then 18 and leaving for college, I am 31 and in an elevator with my mother and there is this slight sour smell, very human, and I hate it. I know it, and I don't ever want to be used to it, and it is there, in every flecked tile and mauve blind, every surgical foaming soap dispenser and bed railing.
I am currently working on prepping the apartment for later this week, when it will be overrun with beekeepers. The lemon oil for the wood, the Murphy's Oil Soap, the ammonia in the glass cleaner. Buckets and buckets of cheap therapy for the caul of a hospital visit.
Ronnie's in the same ICU ward that her mother was in, just on the other node of the figure-eighted workstations. She seemed mostly bored, especially since there's a tube right now, going down her throat, preventing her from speaking.
She seems fine. Tired, wan, a little bit confused as to how she ended up there. Every time she laughed or coughed, the ventilator would make this comical honking noise, which would make us laugh even more, and then we'd clap our hands over our mouths and shake our heads and say, "That's not funny. Not funny at all. We're very serious," and then we'd ahem and clear our throats and talk about more boring stuff.
Found unconscious in her bed in her apartment, she was brought in a few days ago, and they still don't know what happened. She's tiny, though, a tiny little thing. She doesn't drink, smoke, or take any kind of medication on a regular basis. So, it's my pet theory that she was double whammied with the antibiotic/vicodin combo prescribed for some troubles with her teeth, and it completely crashed her system. The doctors are baffled, since no test thus far has revealed an obvious source.
There were two women weeping hysterically and as quietly as they could as mom and I stepped on the elevator to leave. I could hear that very core of desperation and love and, well, grief, and my mom's eyes filled with tears, and I felt the old instincts kick in, to protect, to cheer, to above all be the leaning spot. It's this out-of-body experience, it feels like, where I have to forget for a little while how I feel about Ronnie, and let my mom's fears wash over me, so I can absorb and hold them to me, wring them dry, and then hand back hope and cheer and reason. I am 12 again, I am 15, I am 17 and then 18 and leaving for college, I am 31 and in an elevator with my mother and there is this slight sour smell, very human, and I hate it. I know it, and I don't ever want to be used to it, and it is there, in every flecked tile and mauve blind, every surgical foaming soap dispenser and bed railing.
I am currently working on prepping the apartment for later this week, when it will be overrun with beekeepers. The lemon oil for the wood, the Murphy's Oil Soap, the ammonia in the glass cleaner. Buckets and buckets of cheap therapy for the caul of a hospital visit.
