I found out Tuesday at about noon that she would have surgery at 4 p.m. in Baton Rouge, two and a half hours away from where I live in South Mississippi. I had to board my dog, and I've never boarded my dog here in Mississippi before, so the process took longer than expected. I ended up literally running into the hospital and down the hallway to see her just two minutes before she was rolled away to surgery. "Don't worry. I'll be OK," she said as she was rolled away.
I've stayed overnight with her in Room 620 for the past two nights, filling her pink plastic cup with ice, helping her "find" her precious morphine button when she accidentally drops it on the floor, reminding her to press that button to release her morphine when she's in pain, ordering her food, turning lights on and off as needed, adjusting the room temperature, adjusting her socks on her feet when they're about to slip off, encouraging her to drink more water so her urine won't be that undesired shade of deep yellow, alerting nurses to the annoying alarms that various machines make throughout the day and whatever else comes up.
My dad comes every day sometime in the morning and leaves around 2 p.m., mostly around my 17-year-old brother's school schedule, although he lives only a 20-30 minute walk from school. Dad paces the room, reads the newspaper, walks down the hallway to use the bathroom (instead of using the bathroom in mom's hospital room.)
On surgery day, my dad and brother stayed for two minutes after she was rolled into the recovery room. Before he and my brother made their hasty escape that night, dad argued with me in the waiting room that it was "stupid" for me to stay overnight, "because the nurses are there to do stuff for her."
My mom keeps telling everyone that I'm a "good little nurse." Dad needs to be home with my brother, mom says. It's better that way.
"I don't think he could handle being here like you can," she tells me once he leaves for the day on Wednesday. She winces in pain throbbing from the surgery site. I remind her to push her button. She does, and her entire face relaxes as sweet, sweet painkillers flow through her veins.
She keeps reminding me that she could have died--I don't know if the repetition comes from the morphine or the lack of anything else to talk about. If the doctor in Lafayette hadn't recognized that something was seriously wrong, the infection could have spread throughout her body. The week before, she'd been misdiagnosed with severe constipation. She insisted on calling that doctor from the hospital on Thursday, just to thank him for saving her life.
She asks me over and over again to tell her what the surgeon has told me. She's only seen him once since the surgery, but she was too drugged to remember what he said or ask any questions.
"It was a complete hysterectomy, right?
"Right," I said.
"Good, they got it all out." she said. "That stuff can be more trouble than it's worth at my age."
She would know. She's had ovarian cysts before. Her mother died of ovarian cancer when my mom was still a child.
Then I remind her that part of her colon was removed and doctors don't know whether she'll have to use a colostomy bag for the rest of her life.
"Well, if I have to, I have to," she says. "That's just how it will have to be."
She says all of this in the same tone of voice as she uses to describe the disgusting taste of the hospital coffee, which seems to be her biggest disappointment at this point.
~*~
My mom keeps telling everyone that I'm a "good little nurse." Dad needs to be home with my brother, mom says. It's better that way.
"I don't think he could handle being here like you can," she tells me once he leaves for the day on Wednesday. She winces in pain throbbing from the surgery site. I remind her to push her button. She does, and her entire face relaxes as sweet, sweet painkillers flow through her veins.
She keeps reminding me that she could have died--I don't know if the repetition comes from the morphine or the lack of anything else to talk about. If the doctor in Lafayette hadn't recognized that something was seriously wrong, the infection could have spread throughout her body. The week before, she'd been misdiagnosed with severe constipation. She insisted on calling that doctor from the hospital on Thursday, just to thank him for saving her life.
She asks me over and over again to tell her what the surgeon has told me. She's only seen him once since the surgery, but she was too drugged to remember what he said or ask any questions.
"It was a complete hysterectomy, right?
"Right," I said.
"Good, they got it all out." she said. "That stuff can be more trouble than it's worth at my age."
She would know. She's had ovarian cysts before. Her mother died of ovarian cancer when my mom was still a child.
Then I remind her that part of her colon was removed and doctors don't know whether she'll have to use a colostomy bag for the rest of her life.
"Well, if I have to, I have to," she says. "That's just how it will have to be."
She says all of this in the same tone of voice as she uses to describe the disgusting taste of the hospital coffee, which seems to be her biggest disappointment at this point.
~*~
On Thursday, the doctor talks to mom while dad and I are out to lunch. Apparently now it's not just an abscess. It's an abscess plus a growth, although, in the back of my mind, I wonder if I can 100 percent trust my mom to get her facts straight. The drugs and pain make her lose her train of thought a lot.
Nobody has brought up the C-word since the surgery. Mom has several risk factors for ovarian cancer. She's the right age for it. She had her first child after the age of 30, and, most importantly, her mother died of it.
But nobody asks, so I don't ask. So the option just constantly presses on my chest in unspoken possibility. I'd ask the surgeon privately, but I never see him outside of mom's presence.
~*~
When she orders meals, mom always orders two of any drink she wants, because the drink portions are so small. I bet food service thinks I'm sneaking a drink for myself.
~*~
On Thursday evening, I leave the hospital room for about 2 and a half hours to eat Marble Slab ice cream for dinner and aimlessly wander in and out of the stores in a nearby mall. It's hard to enjoy myself, though, because I keep worrying that mom has dropped her morphine button, and nobody knows, because she doesn't remember what button to push on the television remote to call for a nurse. Or maybe I forgot to put the television remote within her arm's reach? I chide myself for not reminding her about the button before leaving.
~*~
On Friday morning, mom tells me to go home, even though she plans to stay overnight just one more night. I resist at first, even though I want nothing more than a full night's sleep and a hot bubble bath in my own home. She insists. "I'll be OK," she says while eating a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast.
Three hours later, I'm getting ready to walk out of the door. I notice the meal menu laying on her tray. She's never ordered a meal since she's been there. I hope the nurses don't think she's stupid if she has to ask for help. I write down the number to dial for food service on the menu--and circle it--so that she can do it herself. As long as she doesn't drop the telephone on the ground. Or accidentally dial the number with the television remote.
I walk over to her and wave goodbye--we're not much of a hugging family. She reaches out with both hands and grabs my hands and whispers "Thank you." I wasn't expecting that, because we're not a touching family either, and suddenly I begin to cry. I feel ashamed, because we're also not a crying family.
Plus, I was supposed to be the strong one. That's why I had to be the good little nurse. I feel like I failed, and I turn away to hide behind a curtain near the doorway while I wipe my tears with a paper towel.
"Don't worry," she tells me before I leave the room. "I'll be OK."
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