If It Wasn't So Funny...

Mom was awake and holding a tea cup when I walked in her room this morning.

"There was a...what's it called...I couldn't figure out how to get to my tea," she said. "Finally, I just had to tear it off."

I looked down at her tray, and the torn, opaque drink lid that had covered her cup.

"A good looking young man was in here a little while ago," she said, with a little rise in her voice.

"Oh really?" I said. "Who was he?"

She paused. "I don't know..."

"Was it your doctor?" I asked.

"I don't know why he was here," she mused.

"Did he talk to you? Did you recognize him?"

"Oh, he was very nice," she said.

Just as I realized we wouldn't be getting anywhere with that conversation, Sarah, Mom's nurse, walked in to remove her breakfast tray. She gave Mom her Neupogen injection and dispensed a cupful of medications.

"I want your father to bring my lip balm and my wig," Mom said.

"Why do you want your wig? Is someone coming to visit?"

"Well, I don't know. They might!"

Restless, she puts her glasses on, then takes them off a minute later, only to put them back on again. 

"These are dirty! Can you clean them for me?"

I get up to wash them, and by the time I give them back to her, she's no longer interested.

She rolled to one side and closed her eyes. Dad walked in not long after, and she opened her eyes at the sound of his voice.

She fidgeted with her hands. "My hands are numb," she said, tapping the tips of her fingers against each other. "Whatever they're giving me is making me so tired, and it's making my hands numb."

She pointed to the boxes of exam gloves mounted on the wall. "I've been watching those," she declared. "They change form every time someone take gloves out of the boxes and it's a new shape. I see an Eskimo right now. The middle box says that it's one of the comedy things, you know. Terror. No, not terror. Where they're... it's theater."

"Do you mean comedy and tragedy masks?" I asked.

"Yes. That's it. You know what I'm talking about," she said.

She put her glasses back on and went to sleep.

Comic Relief

A girl with cute cropped hair, khaki bermuda shorts and ballet flats robed up in the doorway.

"Are you family?" she asked as she peered in.

"Yes," I replied, thinking, that if I'm not family, what the HELL am I doing sitting in this room?

She stepped in, looking at Mom, then at us. "I'm a social worker, and I'm here to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?"

We have nothing else to do, so, whatever.

With her yellow paper robe falling fashionably off of one shoulder, she positions her pen atop a form that sits on a thick file she's cradling. Ready to check her boxes, she gets started.

"Are you able to walk?" she asks.

"Well, I don't know...I suppose they could tell you at Clarkson or Methodist..."

Mom a) doesn't understand the question, and b) she's referring to two hospitals in Omaha. The social worker has no idea that Mom has suddenly taken a trip back a few decades and it's not worth explaining.

"Yes, she was walking fine on her own before she got sick," Dad said, knowing that we could move on.

The next questions were about whether Mom is able to drive, whether they have medical insurance and whether they can afford to pay for prescription medications, because if the weren't able to afford prescriptions, "they" could help.

Yes, yes, yes and not necessary. Check, check, check and check.

"Do you have any other questions? Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes," Dad replied. "She wants hair."

Mom stammered. "What? What was the question?"

Dad raised his voice a bit. "Hair, Betty. She's going to give you hair!"

The social worker had this look that said she was in an awkward moment, and had no idea whether it was supposed to be funny. Never mind that I was laughing.

We decided it was time to give her an easy out, and she ducked out the door.

"That was a waste of time," said Dad.

The Conspiracy

A doctor walked in and introduced herself as an Internist. She leaned over to examine Mom's neck and shoulder, and said that the dark spots forming underneath the skin didn't look like Shingles, and said that she wanted to get some cultures from the fluid and measure the sores. 

She left to get her culture swabs, and Mom said matter-of-factly, "They're going to send me to Atlanta. I know it."

"You think the CDC wants you?" I asked.

"Yep."

The doctor told us that her white blood cell count was rising, a good sign. Up to "2" or 2,000 today, it's a big improvement from being told her count was a zero when she was admitted the day before. Normal, or acceptable, the doctor explained, would be about 2.5, or 2,500.

Mom ate her lunch, chatting about her distaste for eating squid and eel, European restaurants, recipes from neighbors and fancy watermelon carving techniques. Satisfied, she reclined and shut her eyes, our cue to leave for our own lunch.