Every night for three days, the temperature has dropped lower than predicted. It wasn't supposed to freeze last night. It did. Nothing seems to be going right.
No shit?
Did I tell you about the E.R, fuck up? I'm not sure. My mind is a gumball machine right now. I had a call from somebody in E.R. on Monday night at nine. I called back the number the woman had left, but as always, it went straight to a mechanical voice. . . yea, yea. . . I remember writing that yeseterday now. Here's what I haven't reported. I called them back at 9:30 yesterday morning, the time they apparently wander in to work.
"I just wanted to let you know that the X-rays show your mother has a collapsed vertebra."
WTF?!? This was the X-ray done on Saturday, the day my mother went to the E.R. and the made for t.v. doctor wanted to discharge her without having seen her after mom lay in a bed for four and a half hours.
But wait--it gets better (worse). They didn't know my mother was in the hospital. They hadn't been informed she had been admitted, so. . . "We haven't sent this to her management team. I will do that now."
What a fucking shit show this has been.
I sit around my mother's room for hours and only see her nurse. Yesterday I was told the attending physician was in a meeting with staff until eleven going over the patients' charts, then they would make their rounds.
"What time?"
I just got a sad shake of the head for an answer.
So far, I have only seen mom's E.R. doc, and then only because I was. . . "adamant." Last night, I was told that "tomorrow" mom would have an Interventional Radiation appraisal. The IR docs are the ones who perform the kyphoplasties. Meanwhile my mother lies in bed. We try to talk, but she can't hear me and she keeps falling asleep. But I am so burnt out, I do, too, sitting up in the little folding chair. My eyes just go shut and I am gone until my head falls.
"You look tired," my mother said. I've looked in the mirror unwillingly. Yea. I don't look so good. I feel myself running down, feel the internal collapse.
When I left my mother's room last night to go get dinner, I told her I loved her and said I'd see her tomorrow.
I was hardly out of the parking garage when my phone rang. It was my mother.
"I've lost my notes," she said in a panic. "I don't know how to get out of here. How do I get out?"
"You are staying there," I told her.
"I am? Oh. I don't have any food. What am I going to do?"
"They are going to bring you dinner."
"They are? Oh. . . I'm so confused. Stay in touch."
Another piece of scaffolding fell inside.
I went to an "upscale" Mexican place and had "street tacos" and a skinny spicy Margarita. This place makes the best in town, and I drank it down. The tacos came, but I could barely eat. I ordered another Marg. I let them take my plate away and sat for a bit with the thousand mile stare. Finally I got up, painfully, and limped slowly to the car. I felt I could lie down on the sidewalk and go to sleep.
The tenant texted a photo with the message, "The light is still on."
I was confused. What light? Was the my attic light? I'd been in the attic that day cleaning my a.c. lines. That wasn't my house. What the. . . oh. . . then I got it. A strange fellow lived in that house with his little dog. He looked a bit like Gandalf. He was an artist of some repute who worked for The Big Mouse. His house sat far back from the road near the canal. I think the house is probably older than mine. He lived alone and no one had ever seen a visitor, so who knows how long he lay before his death was noticed. It is very sad, especially to me who doesn't even have a dog and knows I could suffer a similar fate. But that was a couple years ago. Since then, the house has sat empty, the shrubs growing up to obscure it. Rumors have it that coyotes have taken up residence there. A contractor down the street looked it up wanting to buy it, but he said it was held in a family trust. A few months ago, the tenant told me there was a light on in the second story window. And there it was on again. It is very odd. If you were a person who believed in spooks. . . .
When I walk down the hallway to my mother's hospital room, I see she is on the floor of the dying. These are all old people who lie in bed unmoving, mouths open. I don't want to see it anymore.
My mother wants to know what is going to happen because the case worker was asking her where she would be going when she was discharged. I told her it depended on how much care she would need. I have no idea yet.
I came back to my mother's house because this is where my own meds and supplements are and because there is no food or other necessities in my own cupboards. My refrigerator has only an onion that has been there forever and packs of film. I poured a scotch and sat on the couch. I turned on the television in which I had no interest and fell asleep.
Another frozen morning. I will go to the hospital in a little while and see what's gotten fucked up now.
My response to the tenants text: "I just want to go to sleep forever."
"Don't say that."
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