I’m making my second- to- last bicoastal trip this year. The flight is 5 hours. I’m sitting in the exit row. They asked me if that was ok with me. Like there was some reality where I’d emerge from our wreckage with door in hand like a trophy, saving us all. I sit and imagine a situation where I’d miraculously survive like that- it passes the time while I limit myself from my phone- 3 hours left and I’m only at 32%. I need it for my Uber home. I’m attached to the idea of surviving.
I’ve seen videos of what my mom looks like right now, been on FaceTime with her mouth full of carrot juice while she struggles to swallow. The corners of her mouth were sharply turned downwards. Maybe she recognized me at that time. She groaned more looking at me. But her eyes didn’t light up, so maybe she didn’t. It’s hard on a screen.
I spent my summer in LA, visiting her twice a week. It was painful, but I did it and I witnessed some real life magic at that time in some surprising things she said, a few hearty laughs and us singing together. Since I saw her last in October, she was hospitalized for Covid (it flourishes in care homes.) Soon after, she developed a UTI and was hospitalized again. At this time heavy antibiotics were administered that had minimal effect on the infection. She was sent home and left untreated for a few days, got so much worse, and ended up back at Cedars-Sinai for the third time, this time with an added blood clot in her lung that was discovered last minute. She was saved from that quick death. It’s ironic she’s ended up in the hospital so many times- her Power Of Attorney, our close family friend, refused to take her to a clinic for diagnostic testing and a blood test. “We’ll test her when she’s next hospitalized.” Now she’s hospitalized and they can’t test her. I was strongly in favor of her being tested over a year ago and desperately tried to change her POA’s mind to no avail. Her fear was that she would be traumatized in a medical setting.
After 10 days of refusing food and being placed an an IV for hydration, she slowly began taking in fluids and soft foods again. At that time it seemed like she might recover, albeit only to some degree. I’m reminded of what it is to see someone through hospice, where my mom was moved a few days ago. This seesaw of emotions and possibilities, sewing up my own wounds only to start bleeding out again. I did this with my Grandma and now two years later I’m back with my mom. God, I’m sick of being here alone. I want people to know her. I want people to know what happened to her.
I wanted to stay in NYC. I didn’t want to be back in LA. I thought my Mom would want me to be living the life of my dreams, having big adventures, not tied down by her illness. Yesterday was the blow- “She’s emaciated, has several bed sores, can barely mouth a word, is barely eating, she’s lonely and in a lot of pain.” I booked my flights without thinking,
Being at this part of the story feels like being in a movie. I’ve been waiting for this for so many years, dreading it, wanting it to come sooner, imagining what it would look like- exactly what colors it would be. And here I am in real time helpless as walls I started building when I was 13 years old are torn down- my detachment from my Mother battling my grief. My Dad’s words soften the challenge of feeling anything- “She’s been waiting for you to come say goodbye.” And I’m hunched over in silent sobs in my plane seat while people beside me read their screenplays and watch cartoons.
Like in Little Women– the tide comes slowly but it can’t be stopped. I’ll walk alone through the Valley of the Shadow.
Both Things Are True 