The tentacles encircled her, and the boneless creature slid with her down into the trench. I dove down after them and blindly felt for her, but instead I felt the first aid medical supplies, so I brought them to the surface and frantically tried to hand them to Michael and Alex in the boat. I knew we’d need the supplies to save her, too. When I returned to the bottom of the sea, though, I couldn’t find her. She’d gone deep into the trench, into a land where I could not follow.
I woke in desperation, but my Fiona was lying right next to me on the air mattress. It didn’t take long for me to figure out what my dream was about—not Fiona, but my mother. I went to see her in the hospital yesterday, post-appendectomy. She was miserably attached to a number of tubes—tubes draining the surgical wounds, IVs, pressure sleeves with tubes to increase pressure on her legs, and a catheter. Also, she had breathing treatments. She had to breathe into a spirometer and periodically, with a therapist, into a large breathing machine. I noticed that she very easily lost her breath, as well.
I should be grateful for modern medicine, for, in this case, its very best foot is forward. A hundred years ago, my mother probably would have died from the ruptured appendicitis. Yes, it did rupture. Of course, knowing how suit-conscious the hospitals are, I wouldn’t be surprised if it ruptured during the surgery and they didn’t want to admit it. But I won’t go into my paranoid distrust of hospitals and medical institutions… Truthfully, I doubt I’d really feel hard at the surgeon even if it were true, as I’m sure it was as easy as popping a balloon while trying to hold it with knives. But it was an elaborate surgery that lasted four hours, and she’ll have to follow-up to ensure that they cleaned it all out of her.
The nursing staff was warm and friendly and supportive. I got very good vibes about the hospital, actually, and the staff seemed solicitous and not overworked or stressed. On his way out, the head surgeon of the hospital stopped by, in his coat, just to check in on my mother. He knows my grandfather (as a patient) and father pretty well, though, so there’s a connection there.
Anyhow, they’d pumped poor Mom full of saline to wash her abdomen out—hence the need for drainage tubes. Between the saline and the breathing machines, I’m not surprised that I dreamt of ‘her’ drowning.
So, I showed up yesterday, at last, fully prepared. At least, I thought I was prepared. I’d brought my book and computer and dictionary and Synonym Finder. I planned to sit with Mom for the entire day, and, while she napped, I was going to do my work. I was so relieved to be with her, and I was equally happy to spend her waking and sleeping hours with her.
See my passion? Yes, I’m a bit of a workaholic with my book(s). I love it and obsess about it. I get that trait honestly, though. No, Mom doesn’t write books. Her passion is directing music at her church.
I was truly so relieved to be with Mom. I was perfectly happy to assist her while I was there. In fact, I stayed pretty busy with all that, and I worried that she wasn’t getting enough rest. Finally, I managed to get her to fall asleep. Within 5 minutes or so after I’d opened my printed book and begun to edit, Knock-Knock-Knock and “Hey, it’s me!” There was my dad and Michael. Mom was woken immediately…
By the time they left and we’d been through another big round of chat and assistance, I encouraged her to go back to sleep. Yes, I wanted her to sleep, but I’d also been starting to feel a little antsy at wanting to edit. Together, those factors really coalesced to make me feel pretty strongly about it. However, I was again thwarted, for my mother’s passion won the day.
See, I don’t believe I’ve ever gone into it in my blog, but my mother is most happy with her church music when she has her children join her. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she’s not really perfectly content with the music unless I’m there—or perhaps Lancer (my brother). She’s traditionally wanted us both there. My sister sings in the choir, but she never learned an instrument, so she’s not in on the performance requirements, excepting the constant demands of the choir and running the CD player during services (actually a constant bit of work).
So, today’s Saturday, right? I’d actually already agreed to play the flute with her for Sunday’s music. Not a huge deal, if we’ve already decided to visit. The flute is easy for me, and I don’t have to prep a whole lot. However, knowing she was hospital-bound, I left my flute at home. The church does have CDs to sing to, so there’s always that option, which Mom really doesn’t care for very much. She much prefers live music.
Over the years, I’ve worked hard to draw a firm boundary with my mother. She would gladly insist that I be there every Sunday, if I’d allow it. However, she had me yesterday at her beck-and-call. And, while she loves me and very much enjoyed me being with her yesterday, she happily sacrificed my presence for her PASSION. She asked me to take over part of the music, and I agreed. While she was at it, she went ahead and roped me into the Easter cantata. I couldn’t say no, and she reveled in her position.
Oh, to be clear, it’s not that I dislike these things. I enjoy music and playing music. It’s nice. However, it’s rarely done to my taste, and my mother is so zealous that she becomes a little tyrannical with it at times… and, as I have trouble taking advice on my stories, so my mother refuses advice about the music—to an even greater degree!
Once I’d agreed to play the music (on her guitar) for the children’s choir and agreed to look at the choir anthem (for which they have the CD), I expected to mellow out with Mom and maybe get some editing done if she could sleep. As she finally began to settle down (and her next dose of morphine began to kick in), she kicked me out. No, not so that she could rest. She liked me being there and felt better with me there. In fact, her fever disappeared once I was there, and, when I joked it was because I was finally there, she agreed with seriousness and said how much better she felt with me there. She sacrificed my presence, though, so that I could PRACTICE. Yes, once I’d agreed to play for the church, she needed me to go and practice. Right then. No dilly-dallying.
I wanted to stay. I was willing to stay. I was asking to stay. I truly wanted to stay with my mom as long as possible. I can’t believe she booted me out for her passion! Ironically, once I got back, though, Dad had gone to visit my granddaddy, and I had to wait a good while before I could get into their house to practice!
You know, not only did it mean I had to leave early yesterday, but it also means I don’t see her until late tomorrow afternoon. This may be the first time ever that I attend her church without either of my parents! Of course Dad will spend the morning with her. After church, we’ll head up to Kingstree to visit with my granddaddy for a little while before heading to Manning to see her. So, we’ll pop in for a quick ‘Tally-ho!’ and be back off for Savannah—and that’s where the dream analogy comes in for her slipping away, into the trench, where I can’t see her.
I get it, though. It’s rather like I needed to meet deadlines for a book, and, somehow, though I was temporarily incapacitated, my child was able to help me meet those deadlines. While it might be nice to have her by my side, the best thing she could do to really help me would be to leave my side and finish my business for me. I have no doubt she’d willingly relinquish everyone else to the same cause!
So, I’ll do it for her sake. I’ll travel up here and spend the bulk of my time carrying out her business rather than spending it with her…sigh. But, you know, it was a little fun yesterday evening to do things my way! The kids’ songs now include boy/girl division of labor and two solos! The choir anthem? We’re sticking to the CD, but I practiced with the adults and little girls here at home so that we can keep up the tempo (Mom’s big concern about the CD version). Oh, yes, I drafted the newly-minted soloists, Fiona and Elizabeth, into the adult choir as well! They can both belt it out, and Fiona’s an ace at holding her part—which is desperately needed with a choir of slow, Southern-style singers.
cont. on Monday morning:
The children did well, and I want to give my sister due credit. While I managed the children’s choir, she took care of the rest of the music—plus printing off bulletins and her own work for the church. She’s been secretary for ages and is now taking over as treasurer as well. She’s always been a member there, and she devotes a lot of time and energy to the church, including much for the music program with Mom.
Mom was down one tube yesterday afternoon—whew! Bye-bye catheter! She had a fever and headache again—and, like me, Mom’s not particularly prone to headaches. I only saw her for an hour or so with my family before heading back to Savannah. She looked pretty miserable, but she seems quite accepting and pleasant about it all. Michael graciously offered to let me spend the week with her, but she declined. I think she just wants to hole up and be alone.
After church we visited my granddaddy first, who is again not doing as well. I was sad to see him so gray. Last time I was there, he had a twinkle in his eye and was so animated—sharing stories with me for over 3 hours. He can’t hear a word I say, but he can tell I’m interested in his stories. This time, although he tried to talk and share stories, he was clearly feeling run down. His last platelet transfusions were quickly nullified by his immune system, so they didn’t do him a lot of good.
You know, Granddaddy loves to entertain, but he seemed a bit uninspired, so I wrote a question for him (I’ve never done that before, but he couldn’t understand us and was a bit at a loss, so it was a desperate attempt.) I asked him if he had any childhood stories to tell the kids. He shook his head and said, “No, I’m afraid I really don’t. We were so poor and my childhood was pretty bleak.” He did go on to share a little bit, but I was struck by his usage of the word ‘bleak’. I think there’s a bit of a poet in him. Honestly, I think he was feeling a bit bleak himself yesterday, which is not his characteristic mood.
Poor granddaddy. Poor Mama. I hope they both feel better soon.
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