“Please.”
Both my dad and I follow the nurse through the maze of the hospital. Finally she stops and I take a moment to prepare myself. I can see her through the thin glass of the door, she is sleeping so peacefully. My dad clears his throat, obviously holding back the tears as the nurse opens the door for us. We head inside and the second that we enter, she turns her head, looking over at us with tired eyes, but still her same happy smile.
“How are my two guys?” she asks in a hoarse tone.
“We’re fine. You have to stop worrying about us, Barb. Let us worry about you, honey,” my dad says to her.
She nods her head, tears welling in her eyes. We both pull up chairs sitting on opposite sides of her. Seeing her upset absolutely kills me, and the helplessness I feel brings a surge of panic. To try to squash it, I search for the strength to speak some words of comfort, to stay focused on what she needs to hear, while all three of us are clearly shaken and silent. But I keep getting flashes of her on that goddamn bathroom floor. I shake my head to clear the shit out of it – I have to be strong for her.
“Ma, you know everything is going to be okay, don’t you?”
She shakes her head and looks at me, then my dad. “You don’t know that, dear. It might not be. I fell in the bathroom and knocked myself out, in pretty spectacular fashion too,” she jokes trying to bring levity to the situation. “Judging from this knot on my head. So who knows what’s going to happen next.”
Pain resonates on my dad’s face. He just wants to make everything better and since he can’t…that’s a struggle for him. And for me, too. “I could have slipped getting out of the shower and had the same thing happen,” my dad says. “These things just happen. I know it’s hard right now to be positive, but please try. For me, for us?” he pleads, looking at me too with grief-stricken worry on his face.
She nods her head and moves her arm to wipe the tears away. Jesus, she is slow, so extremely slow. It worries me. I’ve never seen her like this. I grab a tissue and stand up, wiping the tears away for her. She smiles at me and says, “Thank you, baby.”
“Do you want to rest?” I ask. “You look tired, Ma.”
“No, I want to know what the doctor said.”
I look at my dad and let him take the lead on this. I can’t be the one to break the news to her.
“It might be better if he tells you,” my dad offers.
She glares at him and shakes her head, “No, Jeff, I want you to tell me.” She’s clearly agitated, and scared. I wish I could make this all better. Just make it go away.
“Okay.” He exhales and looks at me before speaking, giving her the doctor’s assessment. He tenses up before he gets to the part about her having to move into a rehab facility, and as I look at my mom, tears gloss over her eyes.
I can see how hard this is for him, and I notice he purposefully left out the part about her possibly never walking again. She’s so down and vulnerable, and I can only assume he just doesn’t want to take her hope away. I know I couldn’t tell her that right now.
She begins to cry and shakes her head, “No, I want to go home, Jeff,” she demands.
It kills me to see my mom so upset. I watch my dad unravel, both of us feeling out of control in this situation. “And you will, but for now, this is what we have to do to get you back home.”
She closes her eyes, crying. “And what if I never go home?”
“No!” he yells, “Please, honey, don’t say things like that.”
None of us say another word. The room is haunted by silence and the fear that this might be the end of the normalcy that we’ve always known. Watching my mom and dad cry, I feel overwhelmed. After all that they have been through, this is not the end they deserve. I wish there was something I could do to help. But there isn’t. Fury brews inside of me and pushes me toward my breaking point. To at least spare them this, I do the only thing I can. I leave.
Driving home, my insides are a twisted mess of worry and pain. My mom means so much to me, to see her so weak and suffering, it’s…well, it is indescribable. My mind starts to swirl just like when I found her, and I do my best to stop the images. I can’t go back to that place. The darkness starts to creep into my thoughts, and I just want to hold it off, but it’s almost impossible. I focus on what my therapist has taught me. Coping with the aftermath of trauma is hard, especially learning to trust that I won’t be totally overwhelmed by my feelings, that I can, in fact, handle it. I try to remind myself of this and take another deep breath.