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Solitaire

Barry Zabell

    Why don’t they paint hospital hallways a soothing color? Instead, the poor lighting somehow accentuates the white walls, making them implausibly bright. Perhaps the intention is to wash everything out of focus so we are unable to see our circumstance clearly.
    So it was when my brother, Terry and I met with a young doctor a few feet beyond the doors of the Intensive Care Unit. We had seen this doctor only once before, although we had been coming to the hospital for two weeks.
    “It’s not good,” the doctor told us. “Your mother should have regained consciousness by now, but she’s still unresponsive.” The white coat was not telling us something we did not already know. Either Terry or I had been at our mother’s bedside since she was admitted with a brain stem stroke.
    My mother phoned me one evening to say she could not move her legs. Her speech was slurred. I jumped in my car and called 9-1-1 so someone could get to her quickly. I was an hour away. When I arrived she was being carried to an ambulance strobing in front of her building. My mother’s brown eyes were dancing manically, searching for a foundation she had lost.
    “We’re taking her to the Cornwall Pavilion,” a paramedic told me as I stepped into the ambulance.
    I was too familiar with this annex of the area’s largest hospital since my father died in their emergency room twelve years before. The ride with my mother took only a few minutes, but lifetimes raced by as we sped to our destination. Reality intensified as time condensed.
    “What day is it today?” the paramedic asked my mother.
    “April Fool’s Day,” she responded with some difficulty, but correctly. The sad irony was not lost on me nor was the fact she was unable to identify the year or the name of the President of the United States. In each case she was short by a decade. I would have given anything to actually turn back the calendar in order to sidestep that day.
    Even Albert Einstein could not comprehend the concept of time in a hospital. No place more so than in an emergency room. Wait for a doctor. Wait for tests. Wait for results. Then wait some more. After watching bleary eyes hunt and peck my mother’s information into a database I called Terry. Naturally, he was extremely upset and said he would drive down immediately. He lived more than two hours away with his wife, Rachel and their twelve year old daughter, Morgan so I promised to call him again as soon as we received some test results, hoping for some encouraging news. However, the next thing I knew, Terry was walking through the emergency room doors. Our mother, who had been drifting in and out of sleep or consciousness, became alert as he approached her bed. As she reached out to take his hand her face regained some of its color and her eyes closed with evident relief. Both her sons were with her.
    Despite medical efforts our mother’s condition deteriorated. She no longer opened her eyes, no longer spoke, and no longer moved. Terry and I continually implored her to respond to us. An occasional doctor came by and tried to rouse her also. They pinched her, shook her, and shined small flashlights into her eyes. However, she remained motionless, sustained by intravenous tubes that discolored her translucent skin; so translucent as to reveal her frailty. Terry and I obsessed watching monitors mounted above her head. Each time green turned to red or a monotonous sound altered or momentarily ceased our hearts jumped.
    “You should prepare yourselves for the worst,” a doctor told us. Possibly soon. He also said our mother could remain in her condition indefinitely and we should consider continuity of life options. Decisions would have to be made. Choices no one should have to make yet needed to be made with a clear mind. My brother and I were nowhere near clear-minded, but no one said life was fair. Ask our mother.
    “Can she hear me? Is she trying to talk? Will she wake up?” The doctors plunged their hands into the pockets of their white coats but the answers were not there. All we heard were platitudes and uncertainty. They were ‘keeping her comfortable’. It did not seem so.
    After our father died Terry and I discussed life-sustaining contingencies with our mother. While this offered a measure of direction, neither of us could accept the diagnosis of The Worst and the variables of our mother’s prognosis complicated any decision we might have to make. There seemed to be only one salient question: at what point, if ever, do you discard hope?
    Terry and I found a family room so we could have privacy as we considered what to do. However, the room was occupied. Three adults were staring at each other while two children were hypnotized by a muted cartoon playing on a closed circuit television. Our first decision was to walk outside.
    The evening air was cool. Jacketless, Terry and I walked through a small parking area, our bodies clenched against the chill. With so much at stake we found little to say, as if verbalizing the situation would solidify it. Terry distanced himself a few steps from me to phone his family. He told Rachel to pack what she and Morgan would need for several days, including some black clothing. They would arrive in the morning.
    The laws of physics do not apply within an Intensive Care Unit. Although the mass of our planet remained constant and its place in relation to other bodies of the solar system had not changed, gravity between the walls of the ICU intensified and time became erratic; today and tomorrow the same as yesterday, days and nights interchangeable.
    Faces in the hospital corridor hungered for compassion, understanding or release, their averted eyes searched for strength or answers. I saw this on Terry’s face as he reflected mine. After the evening nurse came by for the second or third time we decided to spend the night at our mother’s apartment.
    Entering the apartment I was assaulted by its emptiness and an overpowering sense of the imminent hurrying to overtake the present. Evidence of the night our mother was taken to the hospital remained: bloodied cotton balls, a cold cup of coffee and an unfinished game of solitaire. The television, left on, had been broadcasting weather forecasts non-stop. Weather for days already in our past; days that she may have ventured outside without the benefit of a forecast there was a tempest brewing that would cloud her future.
    The apartment walls were covered by her artwork: caricatures she drew when she was much younger, collages made from pictures cut from magazines and many intricate needlepoints she invested considerable time and effort to complete. Scattered among these were family pictures, photographs of Morgan outnumbering the others.
    On the day Morgan was born my mother and I were standing outside the nursery when a gray haired woman approached my mother and pointed at Morgan.
    “What a beautiful child,” the woman said.
    She could not have been more correct and could not have filled my mother with greater pleasure.
    “She’s my granddaughter,” my mother glowed.
    Terry and I distracted ourselves with memories the apartment surfaced. While I washed dishes Terry cleaned crumbs from a small table in the kitchen, where years ago our mother would supervise our homework while preparing dinner. Later, we sat on the living room floor going through a cabinet that displayed small cup and saucer sets Terry and I had given to her on numerous Mother’s Days. We inspected a trove of items she saved, including our old report cards, souvenirs from the 1964 World’s Fair and our trip to Washington D.C.
    “Take a look at this.” Terry handed me a sepia toned photograph of a World War II soldier posing with our mother. “Any idea who he is?”
    I shook my head. “Mom’s got some explaining to do.” The picture predated our parents meeting but I was curious to get the story behind it. I wondered if I ever would.
    We rummaged through a closet in what had been our shared bedroom and dusted off games we used to play: SORRY, RISK, TROUBLE. Were the toymakers trying to tell us something?
    “I should bring some of these games home for Morgan,” my brother said.
    “Leave a few here for us to play with when we come to visit.” I grinned like a man without an umbrella stepping into a downpour.
    Terry suggested we keep busy by playing cards. I almost gathered the cards our mother was playing solitaire with, but doing so felt like conceding she would never have an opportunity to finish her game. I left the cards where they were as a declaration of hope and Terry found another deck so we could play the games she taught us. Eventually, we stretched out on a well-worn green sofa and closed our eyes to find sleep.
    In the morning, I suggested we clean the apartment more thoroughly, anticipating we might be hosting sympathizing guests, but Terry reinforced our resolve against The Worst and told me it would not be necessary. I did not remind him that he told his wife to pack black clothes and he did not object when I ran a vacuum over the floor.
    When we returned to the hospital Terry stayed in the lobby to wait for his wife and daughter while I went upstairs to look in on our mother. I walked passed phantom people, lost in their own oblivion, who took little notice of me. As I was about to enter the ICU I was hailed by a diminutive red haired nurse, who was animatedly ushering the Head of Neurology in my direction. Terry and I had been trying to see him since our mother was transferred from the emergency room.
    “I understand you have been asking for me.” His posture and tone communicated that he was less than pleased to be standing in front of me. His white coat was tailored in an attempt to flatter his pickle barrel frame and ensure he stood out from the many other white coats that circulated throughout the building. I did not hide my annoyance.
    “About our mother,” I explained. “Have you examined her? What do you think about the diagnosis and her prospect for recovery?” I spoke quickly, sensing I would not have his attention long.
    He looked at me as if I had asked him the weight of the moon, until the nurse, still standing at his side, handed him a green folder with our mother’s name printed on it. He snapped it from her and flipped through the top few pages. “The attending physician’s notes indicate you have been advised of the prognosis,” he said without the courtesy of looking up. He handed the folder back to the nurse with a look of disdain. “Unfortunately, there is nothing more I can tell you.”
    All the emotions I had been suppressing since my mother’s telephone call erupted within me. However, as I was about to explode, Terry turned the corner with Rachel and Morgan. Rage burned the walls of my stomach as I swallowed it.
    “Excuse me,” was all that the well-educated white coat could muster as he sidestepped my family. The nurse who had been kind enough to extend herself on my behalf bowed her head and looked at me through the tops of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I will not try to excuse his behavior.” She retreated to her station.
    “Was that ...?”
    I abbreviated Terry’s question with a nod and knelt on one knee to embrace my niece. She was wearing a floral sundress covered by a denim jacket. Morgan and her grandmother had brought the ensemble back from a shopping expedition a few months earlier. I didn’t think Morgan’s selection today was accidental. When she put her arms around me the anger boiling within me evaporated. She took my hand in hers as Rachel pulled me toward her with a warm hug.
    “I need to speak to your dad a second,” I told Morgan, passing her hand to her mother.
    Terry and I walked toward the nurses’ station while I told him about my brief encounter with the Head of Neurology. Terry’s annoyance colored his face.
    “Rachel told me that all Morgan could talk about this morning was seeing her grandmother,” my brother shared. “She doesn’t really understand how serious her condition is.” He struggled to get the words out.
    As Terry looked back to his wife and daughter I took a few steps in the direction of the red headed nurse and thanked her for her thoughtfulness. “I hope this does not come back on you in any way,” I said.
    “Don’t worry yourself. By the time he got to the elevator he forgot about us,” she assured me.
    Forcing a smile, I turned to rejoin my family. As I neared, I felt the walls press toward me, my vision tunneled and lightheadedness seized my breath.
    “Are you alright?” Terry asked.
    I put a hand on his shoulder to steady myself. “Just tired, I guess.”
    Rachel recommended we go for a cup of coffee. When I declined, she volunteered to bring some back and took Morgan to find the cafeteria. I found a chair in front of a large window overlooking the parking lot, leaving Terry to check on our mother. A light rain was falling and people were scrambling to stay dry. Despite the rain, the sun reflected in narrow ribbons flowing from the elevated north end of the lot. The precipitation had begun to paint the window darker by the time Rachel and Morgan returned with coffee and granola bars.
    As Morgan climbed into my lap Terry stepped into the corridor. “We can go see Grandma now.”
    “Why don’t you eat something first?” Rachel handed him a breakfast bar.
    Terry slid the granola into a back pocket and crouched to face his daughter. “Honey, remember, Grandma won’t be able to talk to us, but I think she will know we’re here and that may help her get better.”
    “I know, Daddy. I just want to see her.” Morgan’s eyes held her father’s.
    Our mother’s bed was along the far left wall, which required that we walk the distance of the large room. Noticing that Terry and Rachel had flanked Morgan to shield her from the surroundings, I positioned myself in front.
    “Let Terry and me go in first,” I said.
    Terry squeezed Rachel’s hand and kissed Morgan before he stepped through the curtain with me.
    I took a brush from a small table and did my best to arrange our mother’s hair. She took pride in her appearance, dressing meticulously and going to a salon regularly to have her hair combed out and colored. Gray strands had begun to infiltrate her auburn. She would not like that.
    “I’m worried how Morgan will react when she comes in,” my brother said softly.
    “I can take her outside,” I offered.
    Terry gazed intently at our mother. “I want her to be able to see her grandma.” He lost his breath but continued, “One more time.” He nodded to me like a defendant accepting a guilty verdict, prompting me to reach through the curtain to invite Rachel and Morgan to join us.
    Morgan did not hesitate to move to the foot of the bed. A single, pure tear formed in the corner of her eye. Terry stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Rachel stepped to the head of the bed and kissed our mother’s cheek as she gently rubbed her arm, the skin kneading as she did. Morgan glided to the other side of the bed and carefully slipped her fingers around her beloved grandmother’s discolored hand.
    “Hi, Grandma.” Morgan’s voice was strong and sweet.
    As I watched Terry studying his daughter I perceived a change in his expression. But he was no longer looking at Morgan. He was looking at our mother, whose chapped lips were struggling to open. Her eyes fluttered but remained closed.
    “Hi, Morgan.” A voice I had prayed to hear again muffled through an oxygen mask.
    Tears rolled down my face.
    Terry moved next to Morgan and leaned over the bed, his face close to our mother’s.
    “Mom, can you hear me?”
    Moments stretched without a response. Within each moment, exhilaration and hope was shaded by doubt. I took my niece’s hand and was about to ask Morgan to speak to her grandmother again when my mother’s tongue flicked into the mask.
    “Thirsty,” she said weakly.
    I ran to the nurses’ station. “She’s awake! She’s talking! She’s awake!”
    The red-haired nurse jumped up and said something over the public address system.
    “The doctor is on his way,” she said, walking around the desk and taking my elbow in her hand. “Let’s go see your mother.” We raced to her bed.
    “Your mom keeps saying she’s thirsty.” Rachel’s voice caught in her throat.
    “Let’s not push her,” the nurse said. “We have to help her come back to us at her own pace.”
    “She said hello to me,” Morgan bubbled.
    “You’re her miracle.” The nurse was fighting back tears of her own.
    “She must have been listening for your voice,” I said and hugged Morgan.
    After the nurse methodically examined the monitors and tubes she rested her palm on my mother’s wrist. “Good,” she seemed to say to herself.
    “Can she have some water?” Rachel asked.
    “We have to go slow. Be careful. She hasn’t taken anything orally for quite a while and we don’t want her to choke.”
    As if hearing this, my mother opened one eye and fixed it on the nurse. She said something that sounded like ‘cold water’.
    The nurse spoke to her loudly, addressing her by name. “Do you know where you are?”
    My mother’s eyes were open, her focus tenuous.
    “Do you know where you are?” the nurse repeated.
    Morgan wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs. Rachel brushed her daughter’s hair from her forehead and planted kisses on it. Terry and I alternated between looking at each other and our mother. Finally, a doctor pulled the curtain open. It was the same doctor who had uttered The Worst.
    “Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” He claimed the bedside from the nurse and placed his stethoscope under my mother’s gown.
    I watched her face change from semi-wakefulness to annoyance. She shook her hand with the intravenous tubes and flailed her other arm, perhaps trying to find the oxygen mask.
    “She’s fighting, fighting her way back,” Terry exclaimed.
    I agreed. “She’ll be driving the nurses crazy soon.”
    We were both right. Although her condition was still critical, a few days later our mother was transferred from the ICU to a Step-Down Unit. It was determined that a blood clot caused the stroke and she was going to need blood thinning medication for the remainder of her life. This alone presented a concern as too much medication could weaken her to the point her wellbeing was endangered, too little could result in another stroke. She would also need extensive physical therapy to enable her to walk and regain productive use of her hands. The condition that scared me most was her inability to eat without the risk of choking. A month later, Terry and I were happy to meet at the hospital to take our mother to a nursing and rehabilitation center for continued monitoring and therapy.
    On most days she was there I would rush out of work to get to the facility in time for dinner. I relieved the nurses by feeding my mother myself, thinking it encouraged her to eat better. When she was ready, I induced her from her bed and into a chair by bringing a deck of cards so we could play on a cart between us. I watched her physical and mental acuity improve - day by day, game by game.
    “Are you cheating?” I jokingly asked her one evening after she flipped her cards over, clearly declaring ‘Rummy’. My question heralded a turning point in her recovery. She understood this and smiled warmly. Our eyes glistened with thankfulness.
    My family celebrated that Mother’s Day in the rehabilitation center. We spent the morning of a sunshine drenched day outside. With Terry following close behind with a wheelchair, Morgan assisted her grandmother take a short walk. Later, we sat around a table and played cards - all of us. A special lunch was served in the facility’s cafeteria. I watched my mother closely as she navigated through her meal, reminding her with virtually every mouthful to chew thoroughly. Having taken all the well intentioned pestering she could tolerate she paused, grinned at me and said, “Yes, Mother.”



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