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LJ Idol Week 10
Nurses whisked past in the corridor, the tap of their soft-soled shoes joining the background of mumbled conversations, mechanical beeps, and the rumble of wheeled beds. Slumped in a chair, Linda rubbed her eyes with one hand. She carefully adjusted her position, easing the cramp in her back from hours of sitting, but never let go of the hand of the woman in the bed.
Mary's body, worn thin after nearly nine decades of life, barely made a crease in the covers. The outlines of her bones were sculpted through her papery skin, like shipwrecks in wind-ravaged sand dunes.
The curtain rattled gently, and Linda jerked upright. She glanced at the clock on the wall; while each sullen tick was a morbid metronome of precious seconds, somehow the hours had slipped past. She rubbed her eyes again. Shift change- this nurse was unknown, yet his motions were familiar. He checked the IV, hung another bag of saline. He glanced at the catheter bag; Linda flinched as she saw his mouth twitch downwards. The bag was as empty as it was the last time the shift changed.
A scribble of his pen and a nod of his head, and he was gone again, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Linda stared after him. After a moment she glanced back to the gnarled hand cradled inside her own.
She started to talk.
She spoke of memories, past adventures and holidays. The time William fell in the cow trough. The birthday doll that a jealous Cynthia shaved bald. How Dad put a flagpole in front of the house for Mary to use when he was out on the farm - a green flag for "lunch is ready", blue for "visitors here", red for "the baby's on its way, get home now".
She spoke of love.
She talked until her voice was rasping, until the words were gone. Then she sat, gazing at her mother's beloved face, hollowed and shadowed, watching each breath.
The curtain rattled again. Linda didn't even look, numb to the clinical rhythms around her. A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped. She was standing before her brain had even processed who it was, and she was swept into a three-way embrace.
The three heads huddled together had the same colour hair, all just starting to grey at the temples. Linda held her brother and sister close, and her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
"You made it," she said, her voice husky. William hitched a breath in; he stared at the bed, his face pale. He pulled away from the hug and moved to his mother's side. His hand hovered over hers as if afraid to touch her.
Cynthia nodded. "We managed to get the same connecting flight for the last bit. How is she?"
Linda looked away. "The doctors haven't said much. They're giving her antibiotics, but nothing really changes. I... I don't know."
Her sister nodded again. She gazed at Linda with an assessing eye. "Go eat, have a shower, maybe a quick nap... Will and I will be here." There was a pause. "Honestly. I'm a nurse. We're here now. We'll get in touch straight away if anything changes. You need a break."
Linda finally agreed. Cynthia was right. If nothing else, a change of clothes would help. She collected her bag, kissed her mother on the forehead, laid a quiet hand on William's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the chair, and left.
The automatic door at the entrance to the hospital slid open, and the wind ruffled her hair. The brisk chill was a relief after hours of sterile stuffiness. It was dark, not surprising at that time of year, and Linda glanced reflexively at her watch. Six o'clock. She stumbled a little, disoriented by the discovery that she doesn't know which six o'clock she's facing.
The parking machine demanded a ridiculous sum of money. She paid it, climbed into her car and turned the key. The click of the ignition was followed by the inane blather of the radio; definitely morning.
The drive home was sedate, as she concentrated carefully through a fug of tiredness. She fed the cat, and ate some toast- pausing for a moment, remembering after-school toast and Milo on rainy days, and Mum in her floral apron. It was a relief to shuck her antiseptic-and-sweat clothes and climb into the shower. She scrubbed away the last 32 hours, washing shampoo and tears down the drain together.
Exhaustion flooded through her, and could not be denied. The sheets of her bed, chucked hastily aside when the call came last night- no, the night before- weren't crisp and white, but they looked good. She carefully checked the ringtone volume on her phone, set an alarm for 9 o'clock, and crawled into bed. The slight jolt of the mattress as the cat joined her didn't even register.
Linda's eyes sprang open at the first tinny cheep from her phone. She grabbed for it, her heart pounding, and gasped in relief at the sight of the "Snooze" and "Dismiss" buttons on the screen. It wasn't even 9:30 before she was back at the hospital; three short hours seemed like too long to have been away.
Nothing much had changed; Mary lay in the bed, even more shrunken and still. William dozed in the chair, jet-lagged from the flight. Cynthia was perched gently on the edge of the bed, holding Mary's hand and talking quietly. She glanced up at Linda and smiled, but didn't stop speaking to Mary. As Linda came closer, she realised that Cynthia was doing the same thing she had done; pouring a lifetime of love, memories and appreciation from her heart.
The clock ticked through the day. As doctors and nurses came and went, shifts changed, and the meal trolley rumbled past and past again, the three siblings shared their stories. They remembered other times, laughing over the different perspectives and blame from childhood incidents. William confided that he'd recently got a ginger cat, just like Mary had always had, and laughed to discover that his sisters each had one already. He hadn't heard that Poppet, the young successor to eight ginger cats before him, had been hit by a car. Mary had found him crumpled beside her mailbox just last week.
They spoke of their dad, quiet but immensely proud of his family, and their eyes met with the unspoken question of whether his sudden, shocking, early death had been easier than this slow possibility.
The truth was there in the nurses' eyes, and in their hearts, but it took a doctor to speak it. "There's not a lot else we can do," she said. There were other words, too; sepsis, anuresis and microthrombi. "We can keep trying to fight the infection, but in all honesty, all it's likely to do is lengthen her discomfort."
"Is there nothing else we can do?" Linda asked.
The doctor tilted her head to the side, looking directly at Linda. "We can keep giving antibiotics, but as you can see, they aren't having any effect. We've already tried all the usual drugs. Your mother was in good health for a woman her age, but an infection like this..." She shrugged.
"Is she in pain?" Linda felt Cynthia's hand on her arm, squeezing gently in reassurance as the doctor showed her Mary's chart, and the opiates listed amongst the six-syllable medications.
"So... we just let her go?"
A movement from the bed startled them all. Mary opened her eyes- barely, but enough- and nodded slowly, once, twice.
Topic: If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time.
This piece is dedicated to my mother, and to my grandma, Betty. We miss you, Grandma.
Mary's body, worn thin after nearly nine decades of life, barely made a crease in the covers. The outlines of her bones were sculpted through her papery skin, like shipwrecks in wind-ravaged sand dunes.
The curtain rattled gently, and Linda jerked upright. She glanced at the clock on the wall; while each sullen tick was a morbid metronome of precious seconds, somehow the hours had slipped past. She rubbed her eyes again. Shift change- this nurse was unknown, yet his motions were familiar. He checked the IV, hung another bag of saline. He glanced at the catheter bag; Linda flinched as she saw his mouth twitch downwards. The bag was as empty as it was the last time the shift changed.
A scribble of his pen and a nod of his head, and he was gone again, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Linda stared after him. After a moment she glanced back to the gnarled hand cradled inside her own.
She started to talk.
She spoke of memories, past adventures and holidays. The time William fell in the cow trough. The birthday doll that a jealous Cynthia shaved bald. How Dad put a flagpole in front of the house for Mary to use when he was out on the farm - a green flag for "lunch is ready", blue for "visitors here", red for "the baby's on its way, get home now".
She spoke of love.
She talked until her voice was rasping, until the words were gone. Then she sat, gazing at her mother's beloved face, hollowed and shadowed, watching each breath.
The curtain rattled again. Linda didn't even look, numb to the clinical rhythms around her. A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped. She was standing before her brain had even processed who it was, and she was swept into a three-way embrace.
The three heads huddled together had the same colour hair, all just starting to grey at the temples. Linda held her brother and sister close, and her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
"You made it," she said, her voice husky. William hitched a breath in; he stared at the bed, his face pale. He pulled away from the hug and moved to his mother's side. His hand hovered over hers as if afraid to touch her.
Cynthia nodded. "We managed to get the same connecting flight for the last bit. How is she?"
Linda looked away. "The doctors haven't said much. They're giving her antibiotics, but nothing really changes. I... I don't know."
Her sister nodded again. She gazed at Linda with an assessing eye. "Go eat, have a shower, maybe a quick nap... Will and I will be here." There was a pause. "Honestly. I'm a nurse. We're here now. We'll get in touch straight away if anything changes. You need a break."
Linda finally agreed. Cynthia was right. If nothing else, a change of clothes would help. She collected her bag, kissed her mother on the forehead, laid a quiet hand on William's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the chair, and left.
The automatic door at the entrance to the hospital slid open, and the wind ruffled her hair. The brisk chill was a relief after hours of sterile stuffiness. It was dark, not surprising at that time of year, and Linda glanced reflexively at her watch. Six o'clock. She stumbled a little, disoriented by the discovery that she doesn't know which six o'clock she's facing.
The parking machine demanded a ridiculous sum of money. She paid it, climbed into her car and turned the key. The click of the ignition was followed by the inane blather of the radio; definitely morning.
The drive home was sedate, as she concentrated carefully through a fug of tiredness. She fed the cat, and ate some toast- pausing for a moment, remembering after-school toast and Milo on rainy days, and Mum in her floral apron. It was a relief to shuck her antiseptic-and-sweat clothes and climb into the shower. She scrubbed away the last 32 hours, washing shampoo and tears down the drain together.
Exhaustion flooded through her, and could not be denied. The sheets of her bed, chucked hastily aside when the call came last night- no, the night before- weren't crisp and white, but they looked good. She carefully checked the ringtone volume on her phone, set an alarm for 9 o'clock, and crawled into bed. The slight jolt of the mattress as the cat joined her didn't even register.
Linda's eyes sprang open at the first tinny cheep from her phone. She grabbed for it, her heart pounding, and gasped in relief at the sight of the "Snooze" and "Dismiss" buttons on the screen. It wasn't even 9:30 before she was back at the hospital; three short hours seemed like too long to have been away.
Nothing much had changed; Mary lay in the bed, even more shrunken and still. William dozed in the chair, jet-lagged from the flight. Cynthia was perched gently on the edge of the bed, holding Mary's hand and talking quietly. She glanced up at Linda and smiled, but didn't stop speaking to Mary. As Linda came closer, she realised that Cynthia was doing the same thing she had done; pouring a lifetime of love, memories and appreciation from her heart.
The clock ticked through the day. As doctors and nurses came and went, shifts changed, and the meal trolley rumbled past and past again, the three siblings shared their stories. They remembered other times, laughing over the different perspectives and blame from childhood incidents. William confided that he'd recently got a ginger cat, just like Mary had always had, and laughed to discover that his sisters each had one already. He hadn't heard that Poppet, the young successor to eight ginger cats before him, had been hit by a car. Mary had found him crumpled beside her mailbox just last week.
They spoke of their dad, quiet but immensely proud of his family, and their eyes met with the unspoken question of whether his sudden, shocking, early death had been easier than this slow possibility.
The truth was there in the nurses' eyes, and in their hearts, but it took a doctor to speak it. "There's not a lot else we can do," she said. There were other words, too; sepsis, anuresis and microthrombi. "We can keep trying to fight the infection, but in all honesty, all it's likely to do is lengthen her discomfort."
"Is there nothing else we can do?" Linda asked.
The doctor tilted her head to the side, looking directly at Linda. "We can keep giving antibiotics, but as you can see, they aren't having any effect. We've already tried all the usual drugs. Your mother was in good health for a woman her age, but an infection like this..." She shrugged.
"Is she in pain?" Linda felt Cynthia's hand on her arm, squeezing gently in reassurance as the doctor showed her Mary's chart, and the opiates listed amongst the six-syllable medications.
"So... we just let her go?"
A movement from the bed startled them all. Mary opened her eyes- barely, but enough- and nodded slowly, once, twice.
Topic: If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time.
This piece is dedicated to my mother, and to my grandma, Betty. We miss you, Grandma.
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WELL done.
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Beautifully written piece
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The outlines of her bones were sculpted through her papery skin, like shipwrecks in wind-ravaged sand dunes.
Beautiful description there!
I loved the little details of the family's lives over time, the flags on the farm, the humor and poignance, and the sense that yes, it can be time to go. With her children gathered around her and her husband already gone, even this tragic scenario somehow finds perfection.
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(Anonymous) 2014-10-11 09:53 am (UTC)(link)Funny how I just realised how few people will have ever actually seen that.
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