She careens down the highway intent on her destination. Her vehicle responds only to her own signals and needs. There are no side mirrors, no rear view mirror, no headlights. Even the windows lack transparency. She sees only her goal ahead. She sees no one and nothing around her. And no one can see her coming.
Cars veer to avoid her. Some are forced off the road, and their drivers sit in stunned silence. Some collide with her and sustain unspeakable damage. There are other drivers on this road. Other vehicles that are being ruined. Other lives that are being destroyed by her carelessness. She leaves nothing but chaos in her wake.
No one can make her understand the danger. No one dares get in front of her, because she will run them over. No one can signal to her to slow down, because she does not see. No one can tell her to stay in her lane, because she does not hear. No one can tell her to watch out for other drivers, because she does not care.
She continues blindly at high speed until her energy is spent. Only then does she exit her vehicle. But she does not look around her and see the mangled bodies and broken souls of those she has left behind. The suffering of those that have crossed her path. She sees only her goal, and she has reached her destination. She smiles. For her, it is over.
But we have only begun to grieve.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Cruise Control
I pull out onto 127 and set the cruise for 65. If I pull my leg up off the accelerator, the back pain will ease up some. Curse of the squished disk. Twenty minutes later I loop onto 69 and hit resume on the cruise. Ten minutes gets me to town, another five to the rehab. I fight the nausea as I approach the door. I don’t know why I feel queasy. There were no calls from the nurse this morning. No falls reported. No ambulance called. No decisions to be made. We’re past that. We’re on cruise control.
I walk slowly through the parking lot, taking the long way through the building to loosen up the back. Mom is waiting. I get the aide to load her into the wheelchair and we head to the atrium. We check on the baby finches, greet the cockatiel with the usual “pretty bird,” and set up at our little table in the corner. I pull the wheelchair legs to the side, push the chair up to the table and lock the wheels. I’m getting pretty good at it. We play cards until dinnertime, and then cruise back to the room. An aide will guide Mom to the dining room. She rolls her walker down the hall at a snail’s pace, the aide loosely holding a strap around her to catch her if she stumbles or falls. It’s a torturously slow process, but valuable movement to a recovering elderly patient. I head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Then I lay across the back seat of my car to read, giving my spine time to decompress and stop pinching the nerve in my leg.
I pull into the parking lot of the rehab and repeat my long walk to my mother’s room. We cruise once again to the atrium for cards. I greet patients I have begun to know. My mother doesn’t hear us chatting – she resists using her hearing aids – but they ask me how she is doing, and I tell them she is doing better. Even when I’m not sure she is. She often beats me at cards, so some part of her is still working. We say goodnight to the finch babies and the “pretty bird” and cruise back to the room. I press the call button to summon the aide for Mom’s bedtime rituals. I tell her goodnight, I love you, I’ll see you tomorrow. Back in the car, I head for the highway and put the car on cruise control, taking 69 to 127. As I turn onto the long farm road that takes me to the house, I recall part of the conversation I had with my mother at the end of our evening together.
Are you tired, Mom? I asked her. Not so much tired as weary, she replied. You know?
I know, Mom, I know.
I walk slowly through the parking lot, taking the long way through the building to loosen up the back. Mom is waiting. I get the aide to load her into the wheelchair and we head to the atrium. We check on the baby finches, greet the cockatiel with the usual “pretty bird,” and set up at our little table in the corner. I pull the wheelchair legs to the side, push the chair up to the table and lock the wheels. I’m getting pretty good at it. We play cards until dinnertime, and then cruise back to the room. An aide will guide Mom to the dining room. She rolls her walker down the hall at a snail’s pace, the aide loosely holding a strap around her to catch her if she stumbles or falls. It’s a torturously slow process, but valuable movement to a recovering elderly patient. I head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Then I lay across the back seat of my car to read, giving my spine time to decompress and stop pinching the nerve in my leg.
I pull into the parking lot of the rehab and repeat my long walk to my mother’s room. We cruise once again to the atrium for cards. I greet patients I have begun to know. My mother doesn’t hear us chatting – she resists using her hearing aids – but they ask me how she is doing, and I tell them she is doing better. Even when I’m not sure she is. She often beats me at cards, so some part of her is still working. We say goodnight to the finch babies and the “pretty bird” and cruise back to the room. I press the call button to summon the aide for Mom’s bedtime rituals. I tell her goodnight, I love you, I’ll see you tomorrow. Back in the car, I head for the highway and put the car on cruise control, taking 69 to 127. As I turn onto the long farm road that takes me to the house, I recall part of the conversation I had with my mother at the end of our evening together.
Are you tired, Mom? I asked her. Not so much tired as weary, she replied. You know?
I know, Mom, I know.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Psych Ward
She didn’t expect to have to come back here. Two long weeks and seven hundred miles later, here she was again. Three different medicine combinations had been tried, and Mom wasn’t back yet. She could see hints of her somewhere behind those 87-year-old eyes. Mom was in there somewhere. Come back one more time, Mom, she thought. Even if it’s just to say good-bye.
She walked off the fourth floor elevator and passed an elderly gentleman. He seemed a little dazed. It’s a madhouse in there, he said. She smiled. Yes, yes it is. She laughed to herself. What did you expect? she asked him silently. There are crazy people in there! Perhaps this was his first visit to the psych ward. Perhaps he had to leave his wife there, and it was breaking his heart. She knew that feeling well. This was her fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. It never got any easier.
She waited at the door to the locked unit for someone to let her in. She stated her mother’s name. Sign in at the desk, the aide said. Like they do every single time. She recognized some of the patients. Ruth was doing her usual silent pacing, leaning slightly forward in her determined gait, marching the unit perimeter over and over. Heaven knows where Ruth is going, but she’ll be pretty fit when she gets there. Black Chris was in his wheeled recliner in the Group Therapy room, near the window so the nurses could see him. He must have been yelling profanities again. White Chris was reclined in the hall in front of the station, with a handful of other non-ambulatory patients. The nurses like to bring them out where the action is. Sometimes White Chris smiled when she looked at him. Not today. Phil was in the hall. He must be in time out. Did you pinch another nurse, Phil? she asked as she passed him. He winked at her.
She walked to her mother’s room and Bob followed her in. You can’t come in here, she told him for the umpteenth time. This is a woman’s room and you’re not allowed in here. She guided him out and he planted himself in a chair in the hall. She and Mom headed for the lounge, and Bob followed them in and sat in the corner. The usual litany followed. The food is bad. The doctor is a bitch. No one comes when you call. I’ll never be well enough to leave here. I’ll never go home again. She uttered some reassurances, trying not to make empty promises, forcing herself to be optimistic. If she truly believed Mom would get better, if she refused to accept the alternative, maybe she could make it happen. Clapping for Tinkerbell.
After a few hands of rummy, she walked Mom back to the room. She waited at the unit door for someone to let her out. She heard a woman moaning loudly. She heard it most days, but she never saw the patient. She didn’t know if they were wails of physical pain or emotional despair. A man’s voice reached her as she tried to clear the thought from her head. Isn’t anyone going to help me? he bellowed over and over. She heard him a lot, too. Why do they call them patients? she wondered.
An aide unlocked the door and let her out. She smiled and thanked the woman, relieved to be able to escape. She didn’t know how anyone could work there, but she was grateful that somebody could. She walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She thought of the old man she had passed earlier.
Yes, sir. It’s a madhouse in there.
She walked off the fourth floor elevator and passed an elderly gentleman. He seemed a little dazed. It’s a madhouse in there, he said. She smiled. Yes, yes it is. She laughed to herself. What did you expect? she asked him silently. There are crazy people in there! Perhaps this was his first visit to the psych ward. Perhaps he had to leave his wife there, and it was breaking his heart. She knew that feeling well. This was her fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. It never got any easier.
She waited at the door to the locked unit for someone to let her in. She stated her mother’s name. Sign in at the desk, the aide said. Like they do every single time. She recognized some of the patients. Ruth was doing her usual silent pacing, leaning slightly forward in her determined gait, marching the unit perimeter over and over. Heaven knows where Ruth is going, but she’ll be pretty fit when she gets there. Black Chris was in his wheeled recliner in the Group Therapy room, near the window so the nurses could see him. He must have been yelling profanities again. White Chris was reclined in the hall in front of the station, with a handful of other non-ambulatory patients. The nurses like to bring them out where the action is. Sometimes White Chris smiled when she looked at him. Not today. Phil was in the hall. He must be in time out. Did you pinch another nurse, Phil? she asked as she passed him. He winked at her.
She walked to her mother’s room and Bob followed her in. You can’t come in here, she told him for the umpteenth time. This is a woman’s room and you’re not allowed in here. She guided him out and he planted himself in a chair in the hall. She and Mom headed for the lounge, and Bob followed them in and sat in the corner. The usual litany followed. The food is bad. The doctor is a bitch. No one comes when you call. I’ll never be well enough to leave here. I’ll never go home again. She uttered some reassurances, trying not to make empty promises, forcing herself to be optimistic. If she truly believed Mom would get better, if she refused to accept the alternative, maybe she could make it happen. Clapping for Tinkerbell.
After a few hands of rummy, she walked Mom back to the room. She waited at the unit door for someone to let her out. She heard a woman moaning loudly. She heard it most days, but she never saw the patient. She didn’t know if they were wails of physical pain or emotional despair. A man’s voice reached her as she tried to clear the thought from her head. Isn’t anyone going to help me? he bellowed over and over. She heard him a lot, too. Why do they call them patients? she wondered.
An aide unlocked the door and let her out. She smiled and thanked the woman, relieved to be able to escape. She didn’t know how anyone could work there, but she was grateful that somebody could. She walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She thought of the old man she had passed earlier.
Yes, sir. It’s a madhouse in there.
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