I grab some dog-eared women’s magazines off a rack and settle down for a two-hour wait. I am just into the third “How to Reduce Clutter” article, when I hear my name. “Elizabeth Jackson?” I can’t believe Mom is done already. Inside the treatment area, I follow the nurse past rows of people in recliners, hooked up to infusions that are no doubt keeping them alive, at least for now. Mom is sitting in Dr. Schuleman’s office. “The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse lies. They are always overbooked. “He thinks I need to go into the hospital. I’m not going to be in the hospital for the holidays!” Mom says defiantly. “You talk to him. He wouldn’t listen to me.” She has a coughing spasm, a bad one. “Let’s see what he has in mind before you get all worked up.” I get her a cup of water. “Last time I landed in there, they wouldn’t let me go for a month! I’m not doing that again,” Mom insists. I hand her a magazine. We wait in the
treatment room for an hour. Finally the door opens. “As I told your mother, she has a serious lung infection and needs to be in the hospital so that we can administer an intravenous antibiotic,” Dr. Schuleman says. “I prefer that you take her now, before the infection gets any worse. We took a sputum sample so that we can specifically target the infection with the most effective antibiotic for that particular bug.” “How long do you think she will be in there?” “We’ll see.” He’s out the door and on to the next patient. We wait another 45 minutes for the paperwork we need for her admission to the hospital. We reverse our steps and retrieve my car from the valet. “I need to go home and get my clothes,” Mom says. She is already bargaining. “You know you’ll be in a hospital gown until they finish your tests for admission. Once you get settled in a room, I’ll go get you some clothes. I promise.”
“Nobody understands what I’m going through, nobody.” She starts coughing again, choking on the mucus. “I’m sorry. I know you are the one going through this, and I’m really, really sorry. I wish there was more that I could do. You know we love you very, very much.” “So you say.”
M
om insists on going to the small hospital near her home. We know the routine. Mom is ushered into one of the rooms in emergency, where we wait for a nurse. They check her vitals, draw blood, and are going to try to get a catheter in place. She refuses. “I can go myself,” she says. She won’t take no for an answer. We wait for three hours while they find a room for her and schedule her X-rays, CT scan, and PET scan. She is finally in her room. I order her an egg salad sandwich and coffee. When they arrive, I am free to leave to retrieve her clothes.
Prayer annd meditatio meditation … the perfect gift
4 2 ❘ Dec ember 2016
St A n t h o n y M e s s e n g e r . o rg