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“July is coming in with a bang, folks. As my granddaddy used to say, it’s raining cats and dogs out there. Man, what a storm. Don’t drive in it unless you have to. The streets are dark and wet and slippery.”
Rainman
Jean has been in San Francisco for four days, and here I am on a midnight run to the emergency room. Mama’s in the back seat in a nest of blankets and pillows and Aunt Mary Quana’s perched on the edge of the passenger seat like a small yellow bird about to take flight – yellow terry bathrobe unbelted, yellow fuzzy-duck slippers beating a tattoo on the floorboard and yellow night shirt declaring Who Made You Queen? I Didn’t Resign.
“Go a little faster, Maggie,” she says. “Lord, we’re never going to make it at this speed.”
Mama raises herself from the pile of pillows on the back seat and says, “Mary Quana, will you shut up? I’m the one dying here, not you.”
Fifteen minutes ago when I found Mama heaving on the side of the bed, she asked for the doctor instead of Pepto-Bismol.
I called Dr. Holman, and he’s waiting for us at the hospital.
“Gallstones,” he finally tells us.
“Cut me open and take them out,” Mama says.
“Let’s get you in a room tonight and get you comfortable.”
“I’m sick and tired of putting up with these old things. Lately, I’ve been sick as a dog. Go ahead and get them out.”
“We’ll discuss options tomorrow,” he says, and for once, Mama doesn’t talk back. But only because the pain medication has taken effect and she’s falling asleep.
While the staff settles Mama into a room and Aunt Mary Quana’s occupied with a hot cup of coffee, I have a private talk with Dr. Holman.
“This is serious, Maggie. The gallstones could go into her bile duct and cause pancreatitis, which could be fatal. But with her weakened heart, the surgery might also kill her.”
I feel as if I’m climbing a mountain with no end in sight.
“Mama’s strong-willed and determined,” I tell him. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“It does. Still, the risks of surgery are monumental.” He pats my hand. “You look tired, Maggie. Sleep on it.”
“I will.”
But first I have to climb another little hill - call Jean, which I dread. Problems have a way of getting inside her and eating her alive. To thrive, she requires “normal.”
I don’t even know what that is anymore.
I dial her cell phone, and when she answers, sounding perky and rested, I almost say, I was planning to do a workshop two weeks from Tuesday, and I wanted to confirm that you’ll be home to take care of Mama.
But then, what if they do surgery and Mama dies? Jean would never forgive me.
I tell her about the seriousness of Mama’s current situation, leaving out the part that she might not survive. I won’t let myself think about that.
“Walter and I will get the next flight out….” Jean’s crying. I can’t tell. “Maggie…did you hear me? I’m coming home.”
My sister’s words let me slump against the wall, drained. How do you accept a situation that is intolerable? How do you keep on putting one foot in front of the other when the only person who knows the road is drifting slowly away and might not come back?
“Maggie.” Aunt Mary Quana is standing in the doorway of Mama’s room. “Are you coming in?”
“Just a minute,” I say, and it’s only after she goes back inside that I realize I’m crying.
I wipe my face, take a deep breath and tell myself, Buck up, Mama’s in there fighting and so should you. Then I push open the heavy door and walk through.
There’s a word for what I’m doing. It’s
called faith. And sometimes it’s the only thing that lets you go
on.
*
At 5:00 a.m. I leave Aunt Mary Quana snoring in the lounge chair beside Mama’s bed and drive home to take care of Jefferson. The radio dial is still set to WTUP. When I hear Rainman saying, “It’s going to be a nice day today, folks. Plenty of sunshine after the big storm last night. Don’t forget the big Fourth of July celebration at Ballard Park. WTUP will be here all day, broadcasting.”
I could use a celebration – brass bands and marching music, red-white-and-blue cabanas and Rainman smelling of Irish Spring soap, charming the crowd – and me – with his patter.
There’s a wistfulness in this kind of thinking, a sadness that feels as I’m in mourning. And maybe I am. My coming-alive feelings are withering from neglect.
Rainman plays something jumpy and nerve-wracking that jerks me out of the doldrums, hi-hop stuff by a recording artist who probably has a name like Ham and Jam or Big Bad Mama.
Mama looked so pale and small lying under the white hospital sheets. Faded. Like a photograph that’s been left in the sun, the picture slowly bleaching until all that’s left is an outline, a faint shadow of the vibrant person who once occupied the frame.
I switch the radio off because even if Rainman had called, I’d have said no. It’s lovely having him as a disembodied voice, somebody who listens to my problems and never judges, never overreacts no matter what I say. He’s like a pen pal in Switzerland or New Zealand, somebody I’ve been corresponding with for years, a distant friend who understands. Always.
Well… It’s a darned good thing I’ll never see him again because he’d have a hard time living up to that fantasy.
I park the Jeep under Mama’s magnolia tree and go to the kennel to tell Jefferson about Mama. Not that he doesn’t already know. Dogs have a sixth sense about these things.
His ears are flattened and his mouth is drooping in mournful lines. I lean down, wrap my arms around him and press my face into his fur. He smells like kennel dust and summer sunshine and loyalty. He smells like home.
I want to take him into Mama’s house and lie down beside him on the rug, put my head on his chest and fall asleep with the sound of his big, solid heartbeat in my ear. I want to forget about hospitals and emergency rooms and surgeries that can destroy battered, worn-out hearts.
I need a break. I don’t want to think about tanked careers and shrinking bank accounts and failed relationships and workshops that might net enough to plug a small hole in the dam but will do nothing to shore up the walls and stop the plummeting flood of finances.
Inside, I check my e-mails and run my fingers across the items on my day planner: call editor, assemble workshop notes, check want ads for temp job, create unicorn file. The last notation is my shorthand way of launching a novel that burst into flames the night Rainman came to Jean’s dinner party. I’m raring to write, itching to tap into that beautiful flow, but, oh, I can barely keep my eyes open.
I lie on Mama’s sofa and close my eyes, just for a moment, while Jefferson stretches on the rug beside me. When he jars me awake with feet-flailing, mock-bark dreams of chasing rabbits, I slump with my head in my hands, groggy and guilty. Good daughters don’t sleep while sickness stalks their mothers.
I ease up so I won’t wake him, then go into Mama’s room to pack her good nightgowns, the ones she saves for special occasions. I want to open my mouth and scream until I’m hoarse. Nobody’s special occasion should be the hospital.
*
By four o’clock, Jean and Walter are back from San Francisco, and we all gather in Mama’s hospital room discussing options.
Mama’s sitting up, her color partially restored. I don’t know whether it’s from medication or a reflection of her red gown. Whatever the source, she’s revived enough to put an end to our endless agonizing over whether she should risk surgery.
“I’m having it,” she says. “It’s my body, and I’ll do what I want to. You might as well not say another word.”
And so we don’t.