October 2015 archive

27
Oct
2015

hell is a hospital bed in sacramento // past

categories: california, family

“Take her to the hospital!” I shouted to the bumbling attendant on the other side of the too-white desk. “She’s really sick. Just take her, for god’s sake. You sent her to the fucking ER when she fell out of her chair. A distance of, like, one and a half feet.”

“That’s policy, ma’am. We call in every fall…”

“That can hardly be counted as a fall,” I interrupted. “She scooted off her chair. Whatever, I don’t care about that right now. She’s really sick now. I can’t believe you haven’t sent her to the doctor. She doesn’t sound right. She can hardly breathe, she’s not eating. What is wrong with you? She’s coughing but it sounds like something is stuck in her chest. She is NOT OKAY! Take her to the hospital!”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down. If you feel as though she needs to go to the hospital, you can call 911. At your expense. Or, find a way to get her there yourself,” She said with steely eyes trained on my quivering lips. I could feel my pulse, my heart racing, my stomach turning. Why hadn’t I just borrowed a car? Why didn’t I ask my friend to wait while I checked on my mom before she drove off? I knew she wasn’t well. I should have come in to figure out what was going on before letting her drive off, leaving me–us, stranded.

“May I please use the phone?” I asked calmly. The attendant was whispering to another staff member. Why hadn’t we put her in a place with nurses and doctors? Why did we think she needed this make-believe, hotel-resort? It was a sham but it seemed like the right place at the time. All the nursing facilities were cold and too bright and too sterile. They smelled like shit and clorox. No character, no charm. This place looked like the Four Seasons. Fresh flowers, carpets, thick curtains and elevator music everywhere. Even a small, enclosed outdoor space where mom could get some sun, smell some flowers, look at the clouds. It seemed so perfect. It seemed so much better than the other places. It felt like the obvious, though regrettably most expensive, choice.

Now, it felt like a beautiful prison. A stupid, fucking facade filled with incompetent people doing whatever they were told. Nothing more. My mom was a body, a bed, a mouth, a dirty diaper. Nothing more.

“Hey, Rach? Can you come back?” I sniffled into the cream-colored phone, twisting the spiral cord between my fingers. “Yeah. I need you to take us to the hospital. My mom’s really sick and these assholes won’t take her.” The two women in white glared at me for a moment, then seemed to forget or lose interest and walk away.

My mom was frail by then. No more than ninety pounds. All five feet, nine inches of her reduced to nothing. She just looked at me. Pleading with her eyes. Sad, quiet. Spit pooling at her chin. She would cough and I’d tell her to keep coughing–pound her back, rub her chest–in the hopes that something meaningful would come out and the gasping would stop. It was just a long, never-ending string of spittle. I pulled at it and wiped at the creases of her mouth, holding the gooey drops in my palms. She was feverish and chilled and pale. Dark grey circles framed her giant, unblinking eyes. She looked like a skeleton. A shadow.

“Pneumonia,” the doctor had said after the chest x-ray. “It’s good you got her here when you did. It’s quite advanced. A lot of fluid in her lungs. And she’s dehydrated so we’ll start an iv immediately,” he explained. “Also, you’ll need to begin adding a thickening agent to her liquids if she’s going to be drinking on her own. It’s entirely possible she did this to herself, it looks like aspiration pneumonia.”

I pinched myself. Squeezed my fists until my fingernails drew blood from the soft skin of my bare palms. I felt the shame building in the back of my throat. Felt the tears pooling behind my lids. Fuck. I knew she was sick. I should have come yesterday. Or the day before, I thought. I should have been there. Why am I working these stupid shifts at the restaurant all day and the bar all night? What is it for? So I can pay rent for my shitty room in a shitty apartment in the middle of fucking nowhere? Meanwhile, my mom is dying sixty miles away. Why did I even move back? I wondered. What was the point. What good was I actually doing?

I laid down next to her in the stiff hospital bed. I pulled the white sheet up to our chins and played peek-a-boo. I fed her bites of hospital pizza and ate her rejected, drool-covered pieces. When was the last time I ate, I wondered. We turned on the television: daytime soaps and game shows. She smiled at me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I spooned small scoops of chocolate pudding onto her tongue. She licked at it, like a house cat and nodded in approval.

It took them five tries and three different nurses but they finally managed an iv. They only blew up her vein twice. Ballooned up and out into her skin, all blue and purple. I nearly fainted. I’ve seen a lot, I’ve been through a lot. But, I have never felt so immediately woozy. The fluids helped bring her back a bit. She let her eyelids fall, half closed. She rested her head on mine.

I am a terrible child, I thought. I let the tears slide, silently down my face. Let them gather and fall onto my chest. Let them pool and grow together. A salty pond to wade in, to remind me that I am not whole. I am nothing. I’m always a step behind, a moment too late. It’s never enough. It never will be.

26
Oct
2015

hell is a hospital bed in brooklyn // present

categories: me, new york

“Grampa, Grampa!” the woman next to me screamed. “Can I come to your bed, Grampa? I can’t sleep.” Silence. Maybe it’s over, I think. “Grampa, please! Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Grampa?”

Her thin frame lay mostly exposed above the white sheet, her wispy grey hair like a halo. A frail arm reaching toward the wall, a bony finger catching for a moment on the ruffle of her diaper.  A wild-eyed look of terror and confusion, not to me or the nurse, but just to the world. I knew it well. I recognized it immediately.

“Please,” I pleaded. “I don’t think I can stay in this room.”

“Miss, we don’t exactly have extra rooms lying around,” My nurse quipped. “This ain’t the Four Seasons. You’re lucky you got a bed. Ever since LICH closed, this is how it is. How long you was in the ER, huh? Exactly.” She paused for effect. To let me know I was being a pest. I was ungrateful and probably not empathetic enough. “You lucky you in here. We gonna take good care of you. Now, just relax.” Her tone shifted, perhaps because she remembered I too was suffering. Maybe she could see the look of fear in my eyes, genuine, real, huge. She knew how the hospital functioned. Blood work took half a day, CT scans ordered ‘immediately’ took 14 hours, iv fluids–for a a thirty-something woman exhibiting symptoms consistent with dehydration–8 hours. “You’re gonna be just fine. Just lay back. Call me if you need anything, sweetie.”

She threw in the ‘sweetie’ as a trick, I thought. So I’d let my guard down and so I’d think she was my friend. I pressed the call button immediately.

“Yes?!” a very annoyed voice from a loudspeaker asked insistently.

“Hi, um, yeah. Is there, can I, am I allowed to eat?” I stumbled.

“I don’t know.” The line went silent. “Looks like…no. No eating.”

“I, okay, I”m just…” she was gone.

I lay there, alone, numb from the knees down, my bottom lip still curled and contorted. The stiff, white sheet scratchy against my bare thighs. The neon light humming above my bed. A blue-white glare, hard and intrusive. It’s high-pitched buzzing like a zombie-mosquito, incapable of death, so it drones on, attacking, sucking, blood-letting through the night.

Hospitals are supposed to be places to rest and recuperate, I think. This is hell. This is where people come to be tortured. To humble themselves, to be lowered so far down into the depths of self-pity and shame and fury that they will submit simply because they lose the will to go on. What’s the point? you find yourself thinking. And the next minute you are crying and screaming that you need to get out. One breath of fresh air, the feeling of sun on your skin for just one moment. But, they ask you to wait. To be patient. So you try to breathe and you try to stay calm but every moment in that room–that room with it’s incessant beeps, its flashing lights, its filthy thin curtain, a veil, an illusion of privacy–feels like an eternity. Doctors unannounced, waking you just when you’ve finally drifted off to sleep to deliver, nonchalantly, some upsetting news. To announce a diagnosis, to provide no context, no explanation of process. They give you a card, walk out and in comes another one. With a different title and a crisp new card. Another theory, another acronym. Scrubs come in and poke your belly with needles, they draw vial after vial of your blood with no explanation. Where is all this blood going? you wonder.  Voices drift in, stories of other patients with attitude, with too many requests, with some sob story. This is their workplace, you remind yourself. It’s only fair that they should be so casual. It’s natural. Except that people are dying here. And being born. And doing all of the business in between. And, it’s too hard to be reminded that life, outside of your own experience, is continuing without you. Rivers will continue to flow, trains will stay on schedule, emails will be answered, books will be written. And the exact placement of your body–growing or dying– in space has little to do with the order of the world.

 

06
Oct
2015

alone not loneliness

categories: new york

I went from a commune–a house with anywhere from 20-25 people, where I shared a room with four girls–to a college dorm with a roommate and dozens of women close by, to roommates in a teensy city apartment, to living with my partner.

When my husband is out of town I don’t sleep. I don’t mean I have trouble sleeping, I mean I lose hours and hours of sleep.

On the first night we slept in our current apartment it became clear that we could hear everything from our downstairs neighbors. A cough, a sneeze, the telephone ringing. My husband very nearly cried. He was sure we would have to move immediately. I loved it. Noise. People sounds–all the time. It felt comforting. It felt like home.

The thing I love about New York is that you can feel like you’re in a giant community, surrounded by people–but, still be all alone. If I scream, I will be heard. If I’m in trouble, there will be help. But, I’m also anonymous and invisible. Alone with my thoughts, separate and individual.

The thing I was always so terrified of in the country was that sense of being all alone. Helpless and vulnerable. No one for miles. Just darkness and woods.

In the city, you almost never get that feeling. There is something so comforting about the 4am bar closing. It means people are out and about until the wee hours of the morning. You can ride the subway at 3am and it’s really not as sketchy as you might think. It’s still super crowded at midnight and even 1am can sometimes feel like rush hour heading into the city.

In 2005, we moved to Astoria, a crummy little apartment off of 30th avenue. We thought we were moving to this quaint little “suburb” borough of NYC but as it turns out, Astoria has it’s very own vibrant nightlife. It’s no East Village, in terms of ambience, but I might go so far as to say it’s more raucous and possibly more populated on any given warm, summer evening.

The sidewalk cafe’s turn into bars, the restuaruants all open their windows and spill onto the street–there is a legitimate and bourgeoning “Euro-scene” there. People come from Jersey, Connecticut, Philly and (gasp!) Manhattan even, to hang out in these places that feel a whole lot like the cafes of Europe. There really isn’t a Manhattan equivalent. All the restaurants are Greek or Italian, and let me tell you about the quality of seating you get if you speak neither Greek nor Italian. It’s a real bummer and the hosts have no problem being totally upfront about it. “You speak Greek? No? Okay. You wait.” The food is well worth the hour and a half delay. Especially since they bring trays of wine around to the dozens of loiterers waiting for tables. It’s a brilliant plan. You’ve already started on the wine, you’re tipsy by the time you sit down. You order way more than you can eat and, obviously, you have to have another carafe of the house white!

You can spot the regulars from a  block away. They walk, arm in arm, not a care in the world, strolling down the street. They breeze right in, kiss the waiters, grab glasses of wine, smile and are whisked off to their table. Eating at the Greek restaurants in Astoria is a little like showing up to a family reunion that isn’t your family. “Oops. I think perhaps my kin are in the hotel next door. But, what the hell. You’re food looks way better. I think I’ll stay.”

When we first moved to Park Slope I was actually kind of freaked out by the neighborhood. I mean, all those babies and dogs?! Well, actually that did kind of freak me out. But, really it was the dark, vacant streets. Seriously, this neighborhood is shut down by 9pm, even on a Saturday. And, unlike a lot of other parts of the city, the residential streets are really separate from the commercial zones so those sidewalks are particularly empty. It took me quite a few months to stop looking behind me every half a block, nervous I was being followed. Now, I laugh out loud thinking about my initial fear of this bourgeois hood.

I guess what I am trying to say is that the thing that a lot of people complain about–cramped living quarters, folks stacked on top of one another, busy streets, crowded sidewalks–those are the things that most endear New York to me. Those are the things that I would miss most. That feeling of closeness and family and belonging amongst strangers. The incredible ability to be both alone but never alone.

05
Oct
2015

time

categories: new york, parenting

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we choose to spend our time. The royal we. You know, us.

I’ve also been thinking about the judgment around those choices. Judgment from family, friends, perceived judgment from strangers. But, mostly my own self-inflicted scrutiny.

Choosing to keep my daughter in daycare for an extra day, choosing to pick her up early when I can, choosing to watch television and zone out for hours, choosing to take a nap, to sit quietly and read, to go out with friends til all hours of the night.

It has always felt difficult to create extra time and space for myself. Add a child to the equation and it feels like there is very little wiggle room. Our schedules are so mapped out. I used to scoff at the idea of a shared calendar. Now, we couldn’t get by without one. “Did you see I added an extra PT appointment on Tuesday?” I ask my husband. “That means you’ll need to do pickup. Can you make that work?”

We often talk about how easy it is to become nothing but parenting partners. Because, you can, literally, spend ALL of your time planning and just getting by as parents. And we only have one! Don’t even get me started. So, somewhere between all of these conversations about who is doing drop off and who can do pickup and when he’s squeezing in a run and I’m fitting in a doctors appointment, it’s really easy to forget about doing something nice for yourself.

Any free minute “should” be spent doing a load of laundry, cleaning the bathroom, tidying the living room, doing dishes, writing a blog post… But, if that’s all we’re doing then what’s it all for? We both work too many hours. Our jobs and commutes take too much out of us. One of us always gets home too late to have a sit-down, family meal. So, our daughter often ends up eating alone. Which is so crappy.

And so, taking time out to do things for ourselves just seems so selfish. But, it must be done. It’s like on the plane when they’re doing the safety intro and they tell you to put your mask on before putting your child’s mask on. What bullshit. I’d totally put my kid’s mask on first. But, perhaps, therein lies the problem.

I think my husband would put his on first. Not because he’s a dick. Just because he’s practical and follows rules. He somehow always seems to find time to go on runs and have a drink with a friend. To duck out for a quick NYU brunch reunion or catch a Mets game. I’m getting much better–at least partially at his urging. It was so different when I was nursing but now that I’ve got my body back to myself, I have much more flexibility.

So, we’ve implemented a one-night-a-week plan. Where one of us does bedtime and stays home and the other one can go do…whatever. It’s not a weekly date night, which would be nice, but it’s a weekly “me-time” night. Which is pretty great, actually. A lot of couples that I know don’t set aside any time for themselves. They do a monthly date night, or a more regular one if they have family nearby, but don’t think to give each other much space to do their own thing. Hey, whatever works is great! But, we are definitely people who both like  alone time. So, this has been an amazing addition to our shared calendar.

I’m thinking of spending an evening sitting on a bench in Prospect Park, staring at the trees. Perhaps with a fall-themed beverage in hand. A pumpkin latte or something. Ah, yes. And, I’ll try really hard not to think about whether my daughter is being a tricksy little beast and delaying bedtime with all her new tricks or if there is a tantrum situation and my poor husband is suffering through it, white-knuckled and furious, confused and helpless. I will push those thoughts aside and take long, deep breaths, and roll my shoulders back, and undo the top button of my jeans and just sit. Alone.