Just One More Phone Call
Some days are harder than others. Some moments are harder than others. Sad moments and happy moments are the hardest. The times when you would naturally reach out for the person who knows you the best. When you would immediately call your mom to share your sorrows or your joy. She would just know what to say. She would have the right inflection, the right words. She would respond in every right way to make you feel like you deserved to be on cloud nine. Or that you could survive this setback. Because she made you. She already understands the flaws, the minutiae that makes up your thoughts.
Yesterday one of the nurses told us that although Dad's chances after he was admitted were 50/50, in her experience only about 20% of patients in that shape actually make it to where he's at. And today he was actually cleared to have a liquid diet. That's such a major accomplishment. And all I want to do is call my mom and tell her. I want to hear the elation in her voice when I explain that not only did he get this far, but he actually remembered to say thank you while I fed him. That would only matter to her and I. I want to hear her laugh when I relay the stories about all of the nurses on the entire floor knowing his story, but him not actually knowing who most of them are. That people pop their heads into his room to check on him all day and I explain who they are to him, because they were nurses he had when he was sedated and intubated and they remember him. They helped keep him alive and they still check on him. I just want to have one of my stupid daily check in phone calls where I tell her dumb shit and make her laugh and she does the same and then we talk about nonsense because that's what you do.
I'm so lucky that the things I want to tell her are dumb things. I told her everything that mattered every day. I told her I loved her. I told her I was glad I was her daughter. I thanked her for teaching me to be a strong and decent person. I told her I appreciated her. I wrote her a letter last year that made her cry telling her all of that. And I tried to remind her that I felt all of those things every chance I got. I spoke to her minutes before she left us, and my last words to her were I love you. So I'm lucky. I'm so damn lucky. But I miss her with such an intense fierceness that at times I'm in tears before I realize I'm even crying.
Driving home is the worst. I used to call her every day when I left work. Now I drive back to my temporary home from the hospital and I want to call her. It's not routine anymore; it's not been a routine this entire time, but it feels like it should be. I've never gone so long without asking her for advice, asking her to tell me a story about something or just asking her some random idiotic question.
And Dad looks at me every few days and tells me it's so strange to not be telling Mom all of this. He keeps thinking to himself we should be making sure to update Lisa. Then realizes. And I can't even begin to imagine what it's like for him. To be going through all that he is going through on top of losing his wife. They were married for almost 42 years. I can't even begin to comprehend the grief he must be feeling; what he wouldn't give for one more phone call too.
Yesterday one of the nurses told us that although Dad's chances after he was admitted were 50/50, in her experience only about 20% of patients in that shape actually make it to where he's at. And today he was actually cleared to have a liquid diet. That's such a major accomplishment. And all I want to do is call my mom and tell her. I want to hear the elation in her voice when I explain that not only did he get this far, but he actually remembered to say thank you while I fed him. That would only matter to her and I. I want to hear her laugh when I relay the stories about all of the nurses on the entire floor knowing his story, but him not actually knowing who most of them are. That people pop their heads into his room to check on him all day and I explain who they are to him, because they were nurses he had when he was sedated and intubated and they remember him. They helped keep him alive and they still check on him. I just want to have one of my stupid daily check in phone calls where I tell her dumb shit and make her laugh and she does the same and then we talk about nonsense because that's what you do.
I'm so lucky that the things I want to tell her are dumb things. I told her everything that mattered every day. I told her I loved her. I told her I was glad I was her daughter. I thanked her for teaching me to be a strong and decent person. I told her I appreciated her. I wrote her a letter last year that made her cry telling her all of that. And I tried to remind her that I felt all of those things every chance I got. I spoke to her minutes before she left us, and my last words to her were I love you. So I'm lucky. I'm so damn lucky. But I miss her with such an intense fierceness that at times I'm in tears before I realize I'm even crying.
Driving home is the worst. I used to call her every day when I left work. Now I drive back to my temporary home from the hospital and I want to call her. It's not routine anymore; it's not been a routine this entire time, but it feels like it should be. I've never gone so long without asking her for advice, asking her to tell me a story about something or just asking her some random idiotic question.
And Dad looks at me every few days and tells me it's so strange to not be telling Mom all of this. He keeps thinking to himself we should be making sure to update Lisa. Then realizes. And I can't even begin to imagine what it's like for him. To be going through all that he is going through on top of losing his wife. They were married for almost 42 years. I can't even begin to comprehend the grief he must be feeling; what he wouldn't give for one more phone call too.
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