Ms. Martínez
It seemed unbelievable that I was spending the Christmas holiday in the hospital with an IV hooked up to my arm. Damn it. I hated hospitals with a passion. Why did this have to happen to me now of all times? It must be “la mala suerte,” bad luck, as my grandmother used to say. I thought back to the events that had brought me here that horrible afternoon. I was sitting in my office getting ready for my next patient when I suddenly started to feel nauseated. I tried to get up, and before I knew it, I was vomiting. I managed to reach underneath my desk and pull out my waste-basket before I puked all over the carpet. After about a minute or two, the vomiting subsided and I leaned back in my chair, feeling terrible cramps in my abdomen. Then the vomiting started all over again. That was when I knew I was really sick.
I waited for the vomiting to stop and then dialed Frank’s number at work. By then, the cramps had become more intense and I was beginning to feel weaker. When Frank arrived fifteen minutes later, he found me lying down on the couch holding my hand tightly over my stomach. Frank helped me out to the car and drove me straight to the doctor’s office.
After he had examined me, the doctor explained that I had some sort of virus and that I needed to be hospitalized. I tried to talk him out of it, promising to go home and spend the entire day in bed. But it was useless. The next thing I knew, Frank was having me admitted into the hospital. And now, here I was in bed feeling miserable at Christmas time.
I really disliked being in the hospital. It was almost impossible to get any sleep because the nurses keep coming in every two hours to check my IV. And the woman next to me snored all night. I was hoping that the doctor would let me go home as soon as possible. My patients needed me. Frank needed me. Poor Frank. All I’d done for the past two days was complain about having to be stuck here during the holiday. Frank didn’t get upset. He listened to me patiently. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
The sound of footsteps interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to look at the doorway. Oh, God, it was my mother.
“Sandy, I came as soon as Frank told me,” she said, pulling up a chair next to the bed so that she could be closer to me.
I tried not to appear upset at her unexpected appearance. “Mom, what are you doing here? It’s so far for you to come. When did you get here?”
“I got here late last night. I thought you might need some help until you get back on your feet again. Your dad didn’t want to come. You know how he hates traveling. And we both hated for you to be alone at Christmas.”
“I’m not alone, Mom. Frank is with me,” I told her, trying hard to conceal my frustration.
“Yes, I know, m’ija, but Frank works all day and I know he can’t take too many days off, so I’ve come to stay with you until you feel better.”
I could hear the concern in her voice. I knew she meant well. After all, wasn’t that how mothers were supposed to behave? A few days couldn’t hurt. I tried to sound cheerful. “That’s nice of you, Mom. The doctor said I can go home in a few days if my fever is completely gone.”
“I knew you were working too hard, Sandy, especially when you didn’t come for Thanksgiving.”
It was unbelievable, but my mother always seemed to know how to make me feel guilty. She treated me more like a teenager than like an adult. I debated how to respond. It was hopeless; she always won. Why argue with her?
“Mom, I’m feeling a little sleepy,” I said, faking a yawn and hoping that she would take the hint.
“You go right ahead and sleep, m’ija. I brought a magazine to read,” she said, reaching for her handbag.
Oh, well, as Frank would say, “If you can’t beat them, join them. “I turned over on my side and pretended to go to sleep.
Two days later, I was back home feeling like a prisoner again. Or maybe a baby. I wasn’t sure which one. My mother insisted that I stay in bed until ten or eleven every day, even though I kept telling her that I was feeling fine again. She was driving me crazy. She’d already rearranged the entire living room, reorganized the kitchen cupboards, and she kept cooking huge dinners. I knew that she was hoping to fatten me up. Frank loved it, though. He kept right on eating everything my mother made in spite of the fact that I told him he was going to get fat. He ignored me, telling me to relax and reminding me that my mother was only here for a week. A week to me seemed like an eternity.
One evening during dinner, I couldn’t take it any more and I snapped at her. Frank apologized quickly for my rudeness, but not before I saw my mother’s eyes fill with tears. Later that night, I had trouble sleeping because I felt so guilty for snapping at her.
Frank was probably right. I was too hard on my mother. But I couldn’t stand her over-protectiveness. That’s exactly how she had been with Andy all those years. Maybe if she hadn’t been that way, he’d still be alive. Oh, God, my mother was right. I did blame them for Andy’s death. But maybe I was to blame just as much as they were. Maybe if I’d been with him that night I could have stopped him. I should never have left him behind and gone away. I should have gone back for him. If anyone had known how hard it was living at home, it had been me—seeing dad drunk all the time, the constant arguments. All that pain. The last time I had been home, Andy had seemed quieter than usual. I remember teasing him about girls at dinner time. Then we had watched T.V. together. When I invited him to go see a movie with me, he had begged off, saying he was busy with the guys. He left in mom’s car. When I told mom that I thought Andy was too young to be driving her car, she had defended him, telling me he was very responsible. She always spoiled him.
The police report said Andy was high on alcohol and cocaine the night he died. It also stated that it appeared to be a suicide, since they couldn’t find any skid marks. His car had crashed straight into an electric pole. I went back home that night. Mom was hysterical and dad was sober for a change. At the funeral, I swore I’d never go home again.
I fell asleep remembering Andy’s funeral and my mother’s sobs. I promised myself that I would try to be more patient with my mother.