What day is it? Oh. . . Monday? I've been confused lately. When did my mother go to the hospital? How many days has she been there now?
I'll guarantee you my mother doesn't know, either.
Sobeit.
I was there most of the day again. Yesterday. By nightfall, I was pooped. I planned on going back, but I couldn't rally. There was no point in my going but comfort. Still. . . .
My mother's neighbors came to see her. Three women. A forth came, but she was from" the church" and not a neighbor. My mother had called for pain meds before they arrived. She was to receive Tramadol, but when she heard that she got angry.
"I can't take Tramadol. It makes me sick."
"That is not on your chart. I will have to contact the doctor to get that changed."
"I need something. I'm in pain."
Then the girls came. And then the nurse. She had a syringe that hooked into one of the IV ports.
"What's that?" one of the women asked.
"Morphine."
In a bit, my mother was loopy and talking all kinds of crazy shit. At times that afternoon, everybody was talking at once.
"Old people should have all the drugs they want," I said. "Especially once you are as old as my mother."
Everyone in the room agreed.
But things were weighing on me. I had talked to my mother again about having the woman who could take care of her move in. Again, "No. I don't want somebody living with me." I knew she meant no one but me. I needed to call the woman and talk to her, but I couldn't manage to do it. "Later," I would whisper to myself. "Tonight."
I was worried about something else, too. I was to begin work with the carpenter in the morning. I wasn't sure what was happening with my mother, yet, but I knew I'd have to juggle.
My phone rang. It was the carpenter.
"I'm not going to be able to come tomorrow," he said. He was just coming off recovery from his TURP operation. He felt fine. Then, on Friday, he couldn't pee. "When I talked to you on Wednesday, I was feeling good. Maybe I was too cocky. Maybe I cursed myself. I don't know. I'm sorry. . .."
I stopped him. I told him not to worry about the house right now. We talked for a long time. It was obvious he felt better talking it out. He might go to the E.R. he said, or if he could, he'd wait until Monday and go to his doctor. I asked him to keep me informed.
Curses are now blessings, it seems, and vice versa. I wouldn't have to juggle my time now with my mother. But again. . . no repairs. It was like a scene from some old movie where they tie a man's arms to two horses going in opposite directions or in that old Tarzan movie where they did the same thing with bent trees. Brutal.
When I went back into the room, the girls were still raucous. I sat quiet, thinking.
The doctor came in. He remembered all the women from my mother's last stay at the other hospital. He seemed hesitant to talk with so many people around. He paused, then said that the MRI showed that the L4 vertebra was indeed fractured. It had a loss of around 40% of its height. On Monday, she would see the specialists who would decide whether or not to do the kyphoplasty. He turned to me and said, "The blood test showed an elevation in her potassium levels." He paused. "I am giving her some medicine for that."
I know someone who is struggling with high potassium levels. It is a kidney problem, and so I was worried.
With that, he left.
All the women heard that my mother's potassium levels were low. That is what people are used to hearing. Nope, I said, high. The ratio between sodium and potassium in the blood can affect blood pressure, and so, I proffered, that might explain why my mother's blood pressure varies so wildly.
"I'm not a doctor, though. . . ."
One of the women with whom I have a mutual chemical distaste said, "Google Doctor."
Yes, I said, we've all become that.
They had stayed a long time and my mother's mania was wearing off, so they gathered up their bags and told my mother goodbye.
"We'll come back to see you," they said.
I helped my mother rearrange things so she could lie down in the bed. With an IV in her arm and a monitor attached by multiple wires to her torso, getting there was an ordeal. When she curled up and closed her eyes, I said I'd come back later.
"That was fun," she said.
Sure, I thought. Fun.
When I left the hospital, the sun was brutally shining. The late afternoon was a pressure cooker of steam heat. I'd thought I might exercise, but no, I didn't feel like it now. I'd been sitting for two days. What I wanted was. . ..
I stopped at the store and got what Ili used to call Mimosa juice. I was doing this rather than going to the cafe for one. I couldn't handle that right now.
Unexpectedly, the mimosa put me on my ass. I slumped down into the couch and closed my eyes. I was shot.
In a little while, I got up poured another drink, and went to the computer. I Googled TURP and read that there were some newer, less invasive techniques that were as or more effective. I copied this and sent it to the carpenter.
"FYI," I said.
In a bit, he wrote back:
"That is interesting. Thanks I will see what they say tomorrow and let you know I just I pissed something that resembles a snail. So that could be good or bad. Just clueless.
Thanks again for looking into that for me!!"
Holy shit! WTF?
Sickness, illness, and disease were all around me. I felt I was living in the Kingdom of Doom.
I needed to eat. I'd planned on using leftovers. But I didn't know if I had the energy even for that. I pulled out the enameled Dutch oven. Olive oil. I cut broccoli florets and halved them. Chopped garlic. I set the broccoli in the hot olive oil for one minute, then I poured in some garbanzo beans and chopped tofu. Soy sauce. Five minutes. Then I added the garlic. A couple minutes more and I spooned in leftover brown rice and lentils. I cut the heat and put on the lid. When I put the concoction into the deep bowl, I realized I'd made more than I could eat. I poured a glass of wine. I turned on t.v. I watched a video on what Carl Jung had to say about why intelligent people detach themselves from others. Oh, hell. . . it was flattering. Too much so. There were the thinkers, and there were the sheep. The whole thing was too skewed. The word "intelligent" should have been swapped out for something like "cognitive." It really wasn't a matter of brilliance but more a matter of what one needs to think and what one chooses to think about. That was, at least, how I brought myself down from the pedestal on which I thought I was being placed. It was a Herculean task, though, for I DO think I am more. . . something. . . than those who need to be part of a crowd. If you are interested, here's the link, but don't think I am recommending you watch it (link). . . you sheep 😂.
Oh, if you do watch, you'll recognize the A.I. generated voice. It is not smart A.I. It doesn't know how to correctly pronounce Jung. However. . . .
After eating, I knew I couldn't get back in the car and go to the hospital to sit for a couple hours. I called my mom.
"How are you doing."
"I'm o.k. I'm bored."
"Well, yea. . . the party's over."
I know what my mother wants in life now--to have people wait on her and entertain her. That is what she has gotten used to, and when that is not happening, she doesn't feel good. And she whines. I understand.
"Mom, I'm wiped out. I don't think I can come back up tonight."
"Oh, I didn't think you were."
"I had planned to, but I just can't make myself do it."
I poured a scotch and turned the television on. I thought about the other thing I had bought at the grocery store. They would only take ten or fifteen minutes. I got the package and pinched off a few rows of dough and put the rest back into the refrigerator.
I know, but I needed some emotional comfort. It is the second time I have made them in my life (but the second time in a month, too).
I let YouTube tell me what to watch. I've been told this is an old man thing. Probably. What do I know anymore. Just one thing. Cookies and whiskey and music were my knockout drops. My night was over and nothing was solved. All my problems would still be there in the morning.
Funny thing--sunset was a blazing red. So was sunrise.
"Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight."
That's just the kind of clarity my life has right now.
But there is this.
Though it is not technically perfect, I like it. More, perhaps. It is cafe/cabaret music. They drift off the metronome at times, but there is an energy in it that ameliorates the mistakes.
Satie wrote some of the most beautiful music, but he was a cafe performer, too. Again, some people would find much fault in this rendition, but I think Satie would probably approve. Picasso et. al. surely enjoyed something like this at Le Chat Noir cabaret.
I'd like to meet you thee.
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