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My Mother’s Lesson

Karen Gregory

    I got the first hint that something was wrong when I was sitting in Mr. Hughes’ high school history class. I always liked Mr. Hughes. He could be boring and dry and wore the same tan/brown suit a lot, but he was one of the understanding teachers, like Mrs. Robey, who made me feel like I was worth something...that I could succeed in my life.
    I was farm girl in Iowa, a teenager going to high school in a small town, doing my best. I loved school, and usually I was an “A” student. Except for Algebra and Chemistry, in which both of the male teachers told me (when I asked for help after class), are subjects “girls don’t really need to know about.” In other words, ‘I’m not worth your time,’ I thought. It made me angry, and made me wonder about how people perceived girls who really wanted to learn. I never told my mom and dad about those incidents. I probably should have.
    It was mid-December, just ten days after my mom’s birthday. It had turned frigid early that year, back at the end of October. We had dry snow and it was really cold. Then, suddenly, it turned warmer and wet — ugly, rainy wet — and the snow melted and froze into sheets of ice. Now, mid-month, the air snapped and crackled again with the dry snow, and the smell of it was in the air every day. It fell on the ice that had accumulated. But any snow was okay, we thought, because it was going to be Christmas soon, and snow was always neat at Christmas. (At least when you’re still sort of a kid.)
    Suddenly the intercom blasted over Mr. Hughes’ lesson. “Karen Schmidt, report to the principal’s office immediately.” A chill went through me. The entire class, as one, commented, “Ooohhh...you’re in trouble!” What? I’d never been called to the principal’s office. I was an introvert. I was a good kid. How could I possibly be in trouble?
    My teacher nodded “go on,” so I collected my books and stuffed them in my bag and went out the door, shaking a little. I heard comments from classmates, like “I hope they go easy on you!” I left the room, wondering what my fate would be.
    As I rounded the quiet corner and looked to the right, I could see all the way down the empty linoleum-floored main hallway, lined with most of the students’ lockers. At the very end, before the main entry/exit doors to the school and where the principal’s and administration staff’s offices were located, I saw my dad standing in front of the sliding glass window.
    Dad?
    Why was dad there in the middle of the afternoon? I could see he was in his farm clothing: work shoes covered in mud, worn jeans, a dirty blue denim work shirt — but no jacket, and it was damn cold outside. I felt a stab of shame. Why did you come to my school in your dirty farm clothes? Then I thought, What am I thinking? Something is definitely wrong. As I hurried towards him, he turned and looked down the hall at me. I’ll never forget what I saw. He had blood all over the front of his shirt, and he was crying.
    My heart lurched, and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I’d never seen my dad cry. His shockingly blue eyes had always been clear and usually happy, although at times, they were filled with worry about the farm or anger at something stupid one of us kids had done.
    When I reached him, he didn’t even let me say anything. “I might have killed your mother,” he blurted out. The tears coursed down his cheeks. “I took her to the emergency room. I need to take you kids to her now.” When he talked, it felt like I was far away, that I wasn’t experiencing this at all. Kind of like an echo in the universe.
    Oh, God, what had happened?
    Then I rallied; I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll get Kevin,” I said. I knew my older brother Kevin was in physics class — with one of the teachers who told me I wasn’t worth his extra time. “Just stay here,” I told dad. I ran down the side hallway, burst into Kevin’s class, and told him to come with me, now. He could see it was serious, and grabbed his things and followed me. Surprisingly, the teacher didn’t stop us. I guess he saw the “this is no bullshit, so leave us alone” look on my face.
    Dad had composed himself a little bit by the time we got back up the hallway, and told us to get our books and coats from our lockers. He was trying to be stoic, I could tell. He had parked the old yellow pickup truck right outside the front of the school in the no-park zone. “Now we were going to find out what happened,” I thought, “what horrible thing happened.” Once we opened the door to the cab, we saw blood everywhere. Mom’s blood.
    Dad tried to tell us about mom’s accident. That he’d taken her to the hospital as quick as he could. He still couldn’t really tell us much; he was so distressed, but he drove the truck. “We have to stop at the junior high and get the other children,” he insisted. So Kevin went in and had Steve and Susan paged out of class, the same abrupt and rude awakening that life will never be the same as I had experienced. They came out, as confused as we had been. Now, we four kids and dad were crammed in the pickup truck cab, and we were all getting blood on us. We were very quiet. All I could think of was, is mom still alive? I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing.
    As we drove on to the hospital emergency room, dad finally, haltingly, explained what had happened. He and mom were going to sell a load of hogs that day. They were up at the barn. Dad was backing up the pickup, and mom was outside directing him back to the barn door so he could get close enough to load the pigs up without any gaps for them to escape. Dad was looking in his rear view mirror, then his side view, to watch mom’s signals and see how close he was getting to the barn.
    Suddenly, he felt the truck bump up against the barn. This was wrong...he knew he had at least 6 inches or more before he’d get to the barn door. He looked out and couldn’t see mom. “She just disappeared,” he moaned. “She’d been there a second before; then she was gone.” He thought, Where was Katherine? He threw the truck into park, and got out.
    Then he saw the blood, already starting to pool under the truck, running down the slope of ice, and mom caught hanging there, her head stuck between the truck bumper and the barn door. At the very moment he’d been backing up, somehow she’d slipped on that dry snow that coated the ice beneath it. At the exact moment she fell, her head was caught and crushed between the truck and the barn.
    Dad panicked. “This is my lovely wife! And I’ve killed her!” He pulled off his jacket, put it on the cement stoop under mom’s head, ran back to the truck cab, put the truck in drive, and pulled away.
    Mom fell, bleeding profusely. When Dad got back to her, he saw she was still breathing, and he could only think of one thing: getting her help as fast as he could. So he swaddled her bleeding head with his jacket, picked her up in his arms, put her in the cab of the truck, and drove like a madman to the nearest hospital, praying “Dear God, don’t take my Katherine,” the whole way.
    Once she was in the emergency room doctor’s care and he was assured mom wasn’t going to die while he was gone, he came to get us kids, speeding to the high school first. But we know now that he feared the worst, and really didn’t know if mom would still be alive when we returned. He told us all that the ER doctor said her injuries were life-threatening. But he said mom was conscious and talking. Dad had actually said his goodbyes, but mom didn’t understand why he was so concerned.
    When we pulled into the emergency room parking lot, we knew this would be very hard for all of us. Our lives would be forever changed. The hospital smelled of pine cleaner and disinfectant when we pushed through the door of the emergency room area. They let dad in first; then we were allowed in. Amazingly, mom seemed very calm and alert, lying (it seemed) high up on an examining table. She was still covered in blood except where they had cleaned her up a little; there was still some on her face and head and arms and down the front of her sky blue jacket. And her face was skewed in a strange way. She turned to us and tried to talk, and it sounded all crazy, slurred, like we’d heard on TV from people that had strokes. She tried to smile and said, “I’m going to be just fine.” Then she wanted to know how school was that day and she felt terrible that she’d slipped and fell, because now Susan was going to miss out on Christmas caroling that evening. She wondered aloud why her head hurt. It was so scary. Now the doctor was wrapping up our visit, quickly. So we said our goodbyes. “Is this our last goodbye?” I thought. “Please, God, no...”
    After the doctor shooed us kids out, he pulled dad aside to tell him the plan. Dad came out moments later, and said, “We’re going by ambulance to Gunderson Hospital in La Crosse. That’s the only place that can save mom. I’m going with her. You kids go back to the farm. Kevin and Steve, take care of the livestock. Karen, call Grandma Sutton and Grandpa and Grandma Schmidt, and call Pastor Urlaub, and tell them what happened.” “It’s really bad”, I thought, “if he wants our Pastor to come.” With that, he went back into the emergency triage area, and we kids were on our own.
    I let Kevin drive the bloodstained pickup home. He was the oldest and seemed the calmest. Inside, I was freaking out. Outside, I was trying to put on a brave face. Later, I found out he was in the same state, but for him, driving was a good way to concentrate on something else than “Mom might die.” He told me later that he put all his feelings inside, and didn’t let them surface for years. He just didn’t know how to deal with it...and he was angry. He knew the setup for loading the pigs was flawed, and had talked to dad about it. He blamed dad for not getting it fixed up right.
    Steven and Susan were, I think, also in shock. They were so much younger. And we still had to worry about Karl, our youngest sibling, coming home on the bus like normal from Waterville Elementary School, and then finding out what had happened – he had no idea. So we drove in silence.
    When we got to the farm, it felt so strange. Empty without our parents. Dark. Foreboding. Too quiet. I called Grandpa and Grandma Schmidt first, and immediately regretted it when I hung up the phone. What was I thinking? I should have called Grandma Sutton: my mom’s mother, Ruth. After all, it was her daughter being carried off in an ambulance with her life on the line to a hospital in Wisconsin. But the phone call was done. They said they’d immediately call Ruth and then the Pastor, and they did. What a way to find out your daughter could be dying, I thought. Thanks to me.
    After the phone call I knew I had to set aside the guilt and make supper for everyone. Mom would want me to. Kevin and Steven had gone out to do the chores that needed to be done. A farm never sleeps. The livestock didn’t know we’d had a tragedy; they expected to be fed. So did the people in the family. “We have to have our strength,” I thought. I don’t remember what I cooked up, but I’m sure it was something like sandwiches and milk or macaroni and cheese. That part is all a blur. Karl arrived home. I had to tell him what had happened. It wasn’t easy.
    Dad called late in the evening. They’d arrived in La Crosse. Mom was still alive, but she was in critical condition in the ICU. He asked for Kevin and me to drive there immediately, and leave the other kids with Aunt Janet and Uncle Francis up in Waukon until we knew what was happening. Two hours later, driving on icy roads, we were in Wisconsin at the imposing edifice of the Gunderson Hospital. We weren’t used to such a big city; we’d only gone up there for shopping trips. We found the ICU inside the maze of a hospital. Dad was sitting in the waiting room area, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He wasn’t crying, but when he looked up, I’ve never seen him so pale and sad and exhausted. It was like he was being torn apart from the inside out. He was still dressed in his blood-soaked clothing. I kicked myself for not having thought to bring him a clean change of clothes.
    He couldn’t tell us anything, really, except mom’s head and brain were both very injured and the doctors were doing everything they could to save her life. So we just sat together, and waited...and waited.
    The doctors didn’t come out at all. Pastor Urlaub finally arrived around 10pm. Dad started really opening up, telling him about the swelling and pressure and fluid on mom’s brain, that they were going to do emergency surgery to relieve it, that they would come give us an update. So the Pastor sat with us and we all prayed — not out loud, that’s not how Midwesterners do it. But we all knew we were praying. There was no one else in the waiting room. I was glad. It would have felt like they were intruding.
    Very late into the night, maybe past midnight...I don’t remember...the surgeon came out. I’ll never forget what he said to dad. “If Katherine makes it through the night...” I gasped. “...with the major damage to her skull and brain, she may be able to live a reasonable life,” he finished. He went on, “There was so much swelling, and she will likely have severe brain damage. If she does recover, she may never be the same. I want you all to be prepared for this. You can’t go and see her now, there’s too much of a risk for infection. She needs to rest. We’ll come get you if things change.” That’s when the Pastor stood, had us all join hands, and say The Lord’s Prayer. Then he read Psalms 23 from the Bible:
    1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
    2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
    3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
    4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
    5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
    6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
    I started to cry.
    
    The pastor stayed by our side the remainder of the night into the new day. We tried to sleep (and did, fitfully, at last) in the incredibly uncomfortable chairs in the ICU waiting room, not knowing if mom would make it. It was the longest night of my life. I couldn’t even imagine how dad felt.
    The sun came up as always the next morning. It seemed like a joke, like it was laughing at us. It was such a pretty day, when nothing was pretty inside this place. Just the smell of the hospital was nauseating. It’s weird how you can smell the blood. We were dirty and tired and hungry, and worst of all, we didn’t even know if our mom was alive.
    It seemed like hours with no news. Finally, dad said we needed to eat, but we didn’t want to chance going to the cafeteria and miss an update from the doctors. I found a vending machine close by and got something for all of us, I don’t remember what. It was dry and horrible, that I do remember; probably crackers, with pop to wash it down.
    At last, the surgeon came in to the waiting area. We were so afraid. When he shook his head, I thought, “Oh, God, you’ve taken my mother!!!!!!!”
    But when he started to speak, my heart filled with thankfulness. “How Katherine survived the night is beyond my comprehension,” he said. “In fact, now the swelling is way down. She’s awake and asking for you. I’m going to let you go in and speak to her, but only for five minutes each.” Dad cried. I cried. Kevin cried. And Pastor Urlaub, he teared up, but said only, “It’s the Lord’s Will.”
    Separately, we went in to see mom. First in was dad, of course. When I walked in, I was shocked again at her appearance. Her face was completely skewed: one part up and one part down. One eye was almost completely closed. It wasn’t mom. But it was mom. She just looked like she’d had a stroke. At least all the blood had been washed off. But now there was a big place they’d shaved off her beautiful auburn — almost black — hair. And there were huge stitches in her scalp. I think they were green.
    The first thing she said to me was, “Oh, Karen! I don’t know why everyone is making such a fuss over me, I feel just fine!” Of course, I wasn’t going to tell her she didn’t LOOK fine. The next thing she said grounded me completely. “Now dearheart, since I’m in the hospital, you have to make sure Karl does his homework. He has gotten behind in his arithmetic. Make sure he keeps up.” I almost cried with relief. This is really MOM. She hasn’t lost anything at all! She KNOWS things, and she REMEMBERS. She’s ALIVE!
    I won’t say the following days were easy for any of us. Since it was the holiday season, Dad decided we were going to put up a Christmas tree in the parlor as we always did. We all wondered, “Why bother?” It wouldn’t be the same with mom in the hospital, and she was going to be there a long time. But he insisted. He went out to the woods with the boys, and they found a fragrant cedar tree and chopped it down. We decorated it in silence. We each added little presents now and then. It just didn’t feel right. Dad told us, “We’ll have our Christmas when mom comes home.”
    I remember that dad also insisted that us older kids go uptown and do some Christmas shopping. We weren’t really in the mood, but I think dad felt it was something we could do together, even though mom wasn’t there. We were at the end of Main Street, just coming out of a store, when Kevin suddenly started looking very strange. I said anxiously, “Kevin? Are you okay?” His eyes got glassier and became unfocused...then his lips started turning blue. I had just called to my dad out on the street that something was wrong, when Kevin fell onto the sidewalk, shaking violently — it was obvious he was having some sort of a seizure. A passing lady saw what was happening, ran over, and said, “I know what to do. Stand back.” Later I found out she had a family member who was epileptic. She saved Kevin’s life...he was breathing normally and feeling fine within minutes. Still, we took Kevin to the emergency room. This is getting too familiar, I thought. To this day, I think it was the stress of everything that had happened over the past few weeks and how he internalized it all. He was a rock during that period of time, except for that one incident. And I never found out the name of that wonderful lady that helped so much that night. And Kevin never had another seizure.
    So Christmas came and went. We exchanged small presents at home on Christmas Eve. We’d gone up to La Crosse and seen mom for Christmas day. New Year’s came and went. I spent many evenings in the parlor, listening to music. The tree still was up, lit at night. I prayed a lot and wondered about the future.
    We all spent a lot of time at the hospital. Mom was still, according to the surgeons, “not out of the woods.” But slowly, oh, so slowly, she was getting better. We found out that her skull had been cracked completely across. Her saliva glands had been severed. Both of her eardrums had been punctured. Her tear ducts no longer worked, so her eyes were always dry, and she had no sense of smell. One eye would never be able to close – the eyelid muscles were so mangled they couldn’t be repaired. There were so many obstacles for her to overcome, and the surgeon worried. Dad worried. We all worried.
    Eventually, though, after a lot of rehabilitation and under numerous surgeons’ care, mom was deemed well enough to come back to the farm. “You have to be very gentle, and help her a lot,” her main doctor said. Well, yeah. She couldn’t eat without adding liquid to everything, because she didn’t have working saliva glands. She could barely hear and would have to get hearing aids for both ears, which was going to take some time; she eventually got fitted for both.
    Dad or one of us kids had to constantly add drops to her eyes, since she had no operating tear ducts. And she was so thin and pale. We were used to a mom who was always working hard, out in the field, tanned and fit and healthy, someone who could always handle herself plus a husband and five active kids.
    And maybe that’s what brought her through it all: her love of life, her strength, both in body and soul, the support of her family and church, and the absolute love of her husband and children.
    So she came home. And finally, we got to celebrate Christmas together. It was the most meaningful holiday I ever remember, even though it was in late February.
    I also remember that day, months later at the supper table. It was summer. Eating was such an ordeal for her. She was slowly working on trying to chew up some food. All of a sudden she cried out, and liquid literally shot from her mouth. Her saliva glands had grown back together! It was like a miracle, because the doctors doubted it would ever happen. Yet it did. But when she cried over this miracle, she still had no tears. She never would. The rest of us cried a river for her.
    Mom healed. We healed. Life went on, albeit very differently than in the past. And we all had our way of dealing with it; some of us facing it head on, some of us not so much.
    She told me that soon after the accident, without a shadow of a doubt, she knew she would be okay...it was just going to take some time. And some things wouldn’t be the same. But she would be alive and productive and live a good life. She said she knew, because God told her.
    Over the years, people stared. Mom was disfigured, of course. And I could hear them, sometimes, saying things like, “What is wrong with her?” “She looks like a monster!” from kids that didn’t know better. These insensitive people enraged me. But mom never said anything. She just went about her business, as if there was nothing wrong.
    One day long after, I finally asked her, “Mom, how can you stand comments like that? How can you not be angry?” She was quiet for a minute as she thought about how to respond. Finally she said, “At first it DID bother me. But I know what I’m like on the inside. And God knows what I’m like on the inside. And dad and you kids and everyone that cares about me and loves me knows what I’m like on the inside. You all love me no matter what. I know that I’m beautiful to all of you. I know that you think I’m worth something, no matter how I look.”
    It made me think of those teachers who made me think as a girl, that I wasn’t “worth it.” Now I knew the truth.
    The accident happened when my mom was 45 years old. This year, she’ll be 92. The love of her life, my dad, passed away last year. She misses him every day. But she says, “Every day is worth it, dearheart, no matter the troubles. Rejoice in every one.”
    I know, mom. You are so beautiful.

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