S cried and the phone rang. Calls in the early hours are rarely a Good Thing and this one didn’t break the rule. I was at the hospital within the hour.
I knew the woman in the crib was her but today she was unrecognisable. It wasn’t the oxygen mask or the In and Out tubes, the missing false teeth and glasses or her messed up silver hair, today her face was red and swollen and sagging. She fidgeted. But only down one side. Not in a nervous controlled manner, like impatiently tapping fingers on a table, but in a primitive, unrestrained and random way. I held her hand but she didn’t hold mine. The skin was surprisingly smooth and soft. Her wedding ring still looked brand new. The skin on her arms and legs looked like old parchment though; pearl white but carrying crimson blotches of anonymous bruises. Here and there she was punctured by assorted devices, some connected some not.
In the bed opposite a woman lay with her husband sat beside: her suffering the constant attention of doctors and nurses; him watching the television and cocooned with headphones.
Though deaf, I whispered “It’ll be all right”, not knowing what that meant. I choked as I told her we loved her. I couldn’t complete the sentence about Baby’s first tooth. They say the unconscious can hear though, don’t they? But every sentence of small talk took on unwieldy significance making it impossible to utter.
The agitated old lady in the next bed continually pulled out the tubes and monitor leads and called for help. She took off her gown and lay droopy and wrinkled and naked before us. We pulled the curtains around her until the nurses came.
Our cubicle was noisy too. The Sister showed us how to silence the alarm on her monitors as her vital signs so frequently went outside normal limits it was impractical to check every time. We watched the numbers change and the heart beat line redraw itself. Beneath all the bleeps and buzzes, Nana rasped for each breath. Each one made the sound of ice cracking over distant thunder. Each one was a reflex struggle, a body in mortal combat. Periodically, nurses came to drain the fluid from her lungs. In between I cleaned her mask of the sludge she exhaled. Nasty yellow froth that reminded me of expanding foam filler. The mask seemed to irritate her; each time I took it off to wipe her nose and mouth and chin, she calmed ever so slightly.
I stroked her head but mostly we sat and watched and waited.
I left past a man standing outside in the rain having a quiet cigarette. He wore a dressing gown and slippers. He had his wheeled saline drip still attached.
Im sorry to hear that.
I hope everything is better soon.
Posted by: The Boy Who Likes To | Thursday, 14 December 2006 at 10:55 AM