A Mother's Tears • Ch. 15 of 16

From Misery to Something Melodic

“A new day, a new life,” my mom would say. The sunlight let us know how true Gabriela’s words were. We began a normal routine again, slowly but with confidence that everything would go back to normal sooner than later. I was starting my new journey of being completely clean from all the things that’d put my life on hold for so long and I couldn’t have been more grateful that I was able to do so with my mom by my side. Unfortunately, we were home for only a few weeks before my mom’s breathing became so labored that she had to call her doctor.

“Go back to the E.R.,” he told her. With a look of desperation, Gabriela started to pack her bags for what would undoubtedly be another long stretch away from home. We arrived and were quickly admitted to the main section of the large hospital. There she stayed, and would stay, for another three months. Everyday I was there, I’d go down into the cafeteria and get us coffee. I started reading the Bible more often, afraid to try getting back into God’s good graces but more afraid to not try. I began praying more regularly—, something I’d almost forgotten how to do. There was a Bible course that I started a few months back which I stopped doing, just like everything else. I picked that back up and began my studies again. There was a chair in the corner of the hospital room that turned into a little bed—, on it, I’d flip through the pages in my booklets I had and started making sense of flawed heroes who were still people after God’s own heart. That was always a comforting thought.

Walking those white hallways, I always thought of how lucky I was to be mobile and active and young enough to still be able to change the course of my life. A lot of other people I saw there weren’t as fortunate. This time, I was sober enough to truly appreciate my situation and how blessed I was to even recognize it as so. I saw the hospital through new eyes; what I’d fought so hard against before now was restoring life to those in most need. The random sounds of a medical room no longer seemed cold and mechanical but rather full of hope and even slightly melodic. I didn’t enter my mom’s room with the dread of losing her anymore but exactly the opposite; I was thrilled to see her doing better than she was the day before. The I.V. monitor didn’t bring up bad memories but instead, began resembling a staff for her to hold. This went on and on until the darkly-tinted glasses I’d worn for so much of my life were finally taken off and shattered against the ground beneath my feet.

Week after week passed, month after month. I began to keep a daily record of my mom’s strengthening. She was so tired that all she could do was fifteen minutes in the wheelchair at a time. The physical therapists came in and did little exercises with her as I recorded her progress throughout the stay. They did more tests and found that the lymphoma was no more. She’d beaten her fourth bout with the illness. Though ecstatic about the news, she’d soon have another mountain to climb on her way back to full-health again.

Beyond the Stratosphere

The nurses were doing their daily evaluations when they noticed a decent-sized bedsore on her lower back.

“Oh no...,” they said, “you’re probably going into a nursing home until this clears up.” Just when Gabriela was getting excited to go back home, her situation called for another few months away. They lifted my mom’s stretcher and clicked it unto its tracks inside the back of the ambulance as I hopped in the passenger seat. We’d eventually go to a couple of nursing homes, each different from the other in terms of people, vibe, and surrounding stores. I’d push her wheelchair down the bleak corridors as she worked on regaining strength in her legs.

“A few more steps and you’re done,” the physical therapist would tell her as she held my mom’s waistband, making sure she wouldn’t fall. “Good job Gabriela!” they’d collectively say. Everyday, a few extra steps. She’d always been a fighter and everyone was beginning to see it.

I’d walk the hallways of the nursing home slowly, stopping and staring at the randomly placed paintings on the walls. They were of better scenes; valleys full of flowers, mountaintops, and palm trees from random locales spread across the planet. All were from such different places and I wondered how the people there lived. If they too, came down with the same types of illnesses the patients in these rooms were dealing with. If they too, had nursing homes like this one which their families could rely on when needed. Or if they too, felt the desperation of being left there alone and completely forgotten.

I’d eventually look away from the pretty pictures when my mind would travel too far out into the stratosphere above. I’d reel myself back in and continue the lonely walk into the living area where an electronic keyboard had been set up, but was never really used. I sat with its black and white keys in front of me and slowly let my fingertips glide across the silent teeth. I left it turned off so they never made a sound, but in my head, elaborate melodies played. I’d pretend I was the one who wrote them, though they came out of nowhere, from a nothingness.

In the corners of the room were big bookshelves housing different volumes of prose and poetry behind thick sheets of glass that’d have to be opened gently. I reached in one night and took the first book I saw. It didn’t really matter what it was or which stories were in it, I just wanted something to read while sitting by the dimly-lit desk light. I started flipping through the pages and wondered who wrote these words I was barely skimming. Who were these writers and where did they end up in life? Did they have mothers and fathers who like mine, came down with sicknesses and did they eventually write about the experience? I knew I wanted to do that for myself—, to capture my mom’s journey and her bout with the illness but couldn’t think of a single sentence to start with. I was still too close to the process, living it out in real-time. Write about it. I thought of the advice my friend had given me in Houston so many years ago. I always knew that I would. That I’d take all of my mistakes and misfortune and most importantly, my mother’s own story and let it flow out onto the page one day. I just didn’t know when it’d happen or where I’d be when it did. I closed the book I was holding and went back toward Gabriela.

So Many Lives With So Many Stories

The alarm clock on my phone was set to go off every two hours—, that’s when I’d be able to go and rotate my mom from her laying down on one side to the other so she wouldn’t develop another bed sore. It was a strange schedule to try and sleep through—, just when I’d begin drifting away, the phone would go off and up I’d jump. No dream lasted until the end, they’d all be cut just short of full resolve.

The people there broke my heart—, some were dropped off by their families and forgotten for good. The lucky ones saw their loved ones once or twice a year. Then there were those who still mattered to their sons and daughters, who would be visited on a regular basis. I made a promise a long time ago that I’d never put my mom through that treatment, but now it was more real than ever. I walked past the gathered wheelchairs by the nursing station on the way to the vending machines and looked over the faces of those whose families were who knows where. I thanked God I was able to be near my mother and that she’d never feel as lonesome as some others who weren’t so fortunate. There was a girl around my age who came every single night to visit her grandfather. He didn’t speak very well, but there she’d sit, in a chair right next to him as he watched the TV screen, deep in his thoughts.

There was a woman next door to my mom’s room who was having a birthday. She was turning one hundred years old. Her nephew had bought her a beautiful bouquet of one hundred long-stemmed red roses and placed the large vase holding them upon her windowsill. People were streaming in and out of her room, wishing her a happy birthday. I wanted to at least meet her so I slowly walked over to her open door. I was a bit hesitant as I didn’t want to disturb her if she was asleep or relaxing. To my surprise, she was just finishing up talking to another woman who’d passed through when the birthday girl raised her eyes toward me. I walked over to her wheelchair where she sat, near the window so she could see outside.

“Hello ma’am, my name’s Andrei,” I introduced myself, “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” I slowly shook her frail hand and gently brought it up to my lips to kiss.

“Thank you sweetheart,” she gracefully said. I looked at her in amazement—, thinking of how much she must’ve been through. She’d probably forgotten more experiences than I’d made at that point in my life. I wanted to ask her so many questions about so many things, but didn’t want to keep her too long, I could tell she was getting tired and just wanted to shut her eyes.

“You Should Travel”

The days continued to roll by, one after another. Gabriela was getting stronger with each new sunrise.

“Hello Ms. Carlan,” a woman said while walking into my mom’s room one day. She wasn’t dressed in scrubs like the other nurses or carried a clipboard like the main staff. After introducing herself she told us she’d be my mom’s new physical therapist during her stay. She had jet-black hair that reached down to her shoulders and deep craters around both eyes. I immediately took to her thick accent. Over the next couple months, I’d come to learn more about her and how she’d visit her family back home in India as often as she could. We briefly spoke about Bollywood and how the India-Pakistan border held ceremonies of friendship and community. “You should travel,” she said to me one day. I quickly took her advice to heart.

While I daydreamed like I used to do so many years prior, my mom was accomplishing her own set of goals in the real world thanks to our therapist.

“Good job Gabriela, just a few more steps,” she’d say to my mom every time we’d all walk together down the long hallways and around the physical therapy room. She wasn’t bossy but she was direct. I liked the passion she brought with her to work everyday. Not only was she helping my mom come back to full-strength, she was inspiring me as well. Finally, a thought passed through my mind and I couldn’t let it linger for too long.

“Can I read to the people here?,” I asked the head nurse. I wanted to do something for them but I didn’t know what. There weren’t many things I was good at but I was already reading aloud to my mom everyday so I figured that was as good as anything else.

“Of course,” the nurse replied back, “we can set up a time to do it in the next couple days.” Eventually the moment came and I was standing outside the front doors on a beautiful summer afternoon. With about a dozen or so people—, my mom included—, staring at me, I rose up from my seat and stood front and center. I didn’t know what was best to read but I figured something inspirational and with positive energy would work. A Joel Osteen book was perfect. I flipped to the chosen chapter and began reading. I saw expressions of happiness on their faces—, the little bit I could do, I did. That was enough for me, to try and change their outlook on the day by even the slightest degree.

A Return to Form

Back inside, my mom and I would try everything we could to make the best of our situation. The food there wasn’t great so we’d buy fruit and chocolates from the nearby stores and place them on the single table in the new room she’d been assigned to. It was large enough to house two patients, but there was only my mom’s bed and an empty floor next to it. I took it as my own and laid down blankets to sleep on before buying an air mattress I’d lay atop. I felt happiness, even within a nursing home, because I was near my mother. I could witness her progress in real time, we could pray together every night before sleep, and I’d be able to take authentic Jerusalem oil and make a cross on her forehead with it. Everything seemed to be working together; the past and the present, both laying foundations for a brighter future than either of us could predict at the time.

It was her birthday when my mom finally got to go home. The nurses surprised her not with one cake, but two; chocolate and vanilla. Everyone sat around a few foldout tables while celebrating the event. My mom wished everybody the best of luck.

“I hope you all get to go home soon yourselves,” she said. We packed up our belongings and piled the car to maximum capacity. I began pushing her wheelchair down the long hallway toward the front doors as every nurse and assistant stopped to say their goodbyes to her. I wanted to thank Gabriela’s physical therapist one last time but she was off that day so I’d never get the chance. We approached the house with excitement. My mom began tearing up knowing she was finally going to sleep in her own bed again, finally get to have her favorite coffee in the morning, finally be back home.

Things slowly picked back up from where they’d left off. We started watching our favorite TV shows again, started cooking dinner, started our lives over once more. I’d hold out my arm so she could interlock it with her own and slowly walk together from the living-room to the kitchen and back, up and down the hallway, throughout her bedroom. I wanted her legs to come back to full-strength. We needed to move around as much as possible. We couldn’t let the mistakes of the past take hold of our hearts again. We pushed all the pieces of negativity out of our daily routines and our lives overall. Only positivity remained. Gabriela needed more of that than anything else. I tried my hardest to make sure I stayed in a healthy state of mind—, not letting it get hung up on the past or worried over the future. I tried to stay present in everything I did. My friend’s words from Chicago came back like a boomerang; “Cherish each other, always.” We started going back to the movies, to the grocery stores, we started having our old lives back.

Penultimate Panic

It was a cold night out when we decided to head toward a favorite store of ours so we could get some hot soup to warm up with. Upon reaching the parking lot, I suggested to head inside myself, buy the dinner, and come back while my mom sat inside the car. That’s what I did and though it didn’t take longer than a few minutes, that’s all it took to get the night going in the completely opposite direction. I got back inside the car and though I didn’t notice anything immediately off, I did note that my mom was strangely quiet—, barely saying anything at all.

“I got you minestrone,” I said to her cheerfully. She slowly nodded but not much else. I figured she was just getting tired so I took off the lid to the soup, handed Gabriela a spoon, and was about to give her the container as well when I realized she wasn’t holding the spoon quite right, like she was trying to grasp it correctly, but couldn’t. “Mom, are you okay?,” I asked, slightly confused. She just sat there, looked at me for a few seconds, then looked away again, as silent as can be. “Have some soup,” I suggested, thinking she was just light-headed from being hungry. Again, she gave me a strange look then stared off into the parking lot. She tried speaking, but was only getting out a word or two per minute. I began cautiously worrying, hoping it was nothing serious, but the feeling wouldn’t subside. A couple of phone calls later and I could hear an ambulance racing up the street, heading straight toward our parked car.