The Saints

The EMTs would ask which hospital and I'd always say "Saints". Mom was then off to St. Mary's Hospital once again.

Diabetic, blind, deaf, crippled and over 90 she often ended up there to solve the most recent emergency. I sat by her bed, reading or beading or talking with her. I became an effective caretaker and advocate. From ER to surgery to recovery and step-down units I learned the ropes. I also perfected caretaking.

From her uncomfortable ER beds we'd laugh at the even more uncomfortable visitor chairs. I'd adjust her bed, her blankets, her pillows. I'd wander the halls spying out a doctor who I thought should be seeing my elderly mother. When she was more stable I still didn't leave the hospital so I spent much time wandering the the halls , finding the coffee bar or cafeteria. Once admitted, her nurses became well-known to me and I to them. I'd camp out in her room with my own pillows and blankets, laptop and books, sitting close to her bed. She'd sleep or talk or phone one of my siblings.

Saints became very familiar to me - a sprawling added-onto labyrinth of hallways with lettered elevators in hidden corners. The old brick hospital grew increasingly more modern, the junctions of additions seen in the joins I the hallways, the updated decor and evident moderniazation.

It was a rather natural role this caretaking. I grew confidence and competence in sometimes agonizing situations. Explaining to her, as best she could understand, the latest news or procedure so that she be as comfortable as possible physically and emotionally.

This was not always very easy. She would distrust the doctor, take offense at how she thought she was treated, sometimes refusing to follow instructions. Mom could be a brat. Even then I stayed in my confidence and competence and familiarity with the hospital and medicine.

Mom is now gone from this world, released from the indignities, frustrations and pain of her 93 year old body. But Saints still remains familiar.

I discovered this recently when I went there for a Myleogram (dye) CT scan. I drove with Dan to where he would pick me up later. It was odd to walk those halls again without Mom upstairs. But I noticed the familiarity and ability to navigate. Like taking Mom to the 2nd floor surgery and checking her in, I took myself. I sat in the same waiting room when she had surgery until I was called.

Unlike Mom I had no one with me. Dan's Parkinson's renders him overwhelmed in such circumstances but I didn't need him or anyone else. I had myself. I had the cozy shawl my sister gave me, the banana in my purse, and two books. Instead of undressing Mom I undressed myself. This procedure was entirely unfamiliar and probably painful but I trusted the staff. I did all they said. I took care myself and they took care of me.

All those years with Mom taught me what it is to move through medical procedures. I learned to trust the nurses and doctors and technicians, to proceed with ease through the pain and indignities of the tests and treatment. Although this particular test could not be completed due to the restrictive nature of my crooked spine I still spent the three hours on my back in recovery. Doing as I was told was easy.

Though I did well, still being the recipient of care was a new experience. It has always been easier to care for someone else than myself. I'm not proud of this. I know I don't see when I need to care for me so I get exhausted or injured. And I realize I can become bossy or overwhelmed. With my husband's Parkinson's Disease I walk a thin line between hovering and allowing him the dignity of his own adult abilities. Taking care of me is so much more difficult when I could be taking care of another.

So while alone I managed well at St. Mary's but I learned that my self-care had limits.

With recovery over I was wheeled to meet Dan at the front door. I felt a strange sensation in my head. Pain. Avoiding a headache after this procedure was paramount. So hearing of my pain the nurse immediately returned me to Recovery. She made me wait to see if the headache returned. I wailed, "But Dan will be worried since I'm not there and that will exacerbate his symptoms". She assured me he'd be all right. She firmly refused to take me regardless of my attempts and ploys. Until she was satisfied the pain would not return did she finally reunite me to my un-worried spouse.

Oh, Saints. You've taught me confidence and competence, caretaking, trust and yes, compliance. As well you showed me the need for the art and balance of taking care of myself.

Grace prevails.