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“A couple hours ago.”
“You sure you don’t want to go home for a bit and get some sleep? I can stay with Mom today.”
“No,” I tell her. I haven’t left the hospital since we got here, and I don’t plan on leaving until Mom’s ready to go home with me. “I’m good.”
I feel Jackie’s eyes on me, and eventually, she asks, “Everything okay with you and the hunky librarian?”
Where do I even begin? We broke up, so no, we’re not okay, but before that happened, we had an amazing night together. Probably one of the best nights of my life. Can this thing between us be salvaged? I don’t know. “Not really” is all I say because I’m too tired to get into the details, and these chairs are nowhere near comfortable enough to sleep on. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She nods. “Fair enough.”
We listen to the steady beep of Mom’s heart monitor, intentionally not addressing the elephant in the room. I want to ask what she thinks will happen to Mom, but I’m not ready for another depressingly negative response, so I remain quiet. She does the same.
By day three, the swelling in Mom’s brain still has not gone down despite the many tubes attached to her and the many beeping machines connected to said tubes. Marty and Jackie have created a routine around their visits, where Jackie comes first thing in the morning and stays until Marty arrives in the afternoon. There’s an overlap of about an hour when the three of us are together, and Marty stays into the night until he gets tired.
Holly and Dan have come by several times to deliver flowers for Mom or snacks for us, and it makes me tempted to text Mylo to see if we can start again after all this is over and Mom is home. But ultimately, I decide against it before I reach for my phone. It’s better to wait until I know Mom will be okay before promising any of my time to fix what’s broken.
Marty arrives around three in the afternoon, just as a nurse comes in to pull more blood from Mom’s arm. She’s had a slight fever since yesterday morning, and they’re worried about an infection. The doctor on duty comes in and tells us they’re switching her to a different antibiotic because the one they put her on yesterday doesn’t seem to be working.
“Okay, and this one will work?” Marty asks the doctor, whose name tag says Dr. Walsh.
“We can’t say for sure, but we’re hoping it will,” she replies.
Typical doctor. I haven’t gotten a straight answer from any of them since we got here. I know they can’t make any promises, but it would be nice to see some confidence from someone in charge of keeping my mother alive.
“What about the swelling in her brain?” I ask. This is my main concern. Antibiotics fight infections. That’s their job. But are we really living in a time when the medical response to a swollen brain is “let’s wait and see?” Waiting and seeing never saved anybody.
“I can assure you, Miss Rodriguez, we’re doing all that we can to decrease the swelling,” she explains patiently. “Oxygen therapy, the medications we have her on, and the IV are all working together to accomplish this. We just need to wait for the brain to respond.”
Why isn’t there a surgical procedure, or, like, a fucking laser that can reduce swelling in the brain? What they’re doing now isn’t working quickly enough. What if it stays swollen and causes brain damage? What if she loses her sight or her ability to walk? What if––
The doctor reaches her hand out and places it on my shoulder, and my anxious train of thought slows enough for me to catch my breath. “I know the waiting is the worst part. But this is out of your control. For now, there’s nothing left to do but wait.”
I don’t like that answer, but it seems pointless to argue, so I pull up a chair and hold my head in my hands as the doctor leaves. Marty goes back to playing games on his phone while Jackie reopens the book she brought. And we wait.
I haven’t checked my phone since we arrived at the hospital days ago, and as bored as I am just sitting here, I also have no interest in updating anybody on Mom’s status. Particularly since it feels like we still don’t have enough information.
Will she be okay?
When will she be released?
Are you okay?
I don’t have answers to those questions, and I’m unable to fake positivity right now and say that everything will be fine, even via text.
For the first time since I was ten years old, I pray. I don’t do it aloud because I’m certain Marty and Jackie would give me shit, but I know Mom would appreciate it. She was still lighting a candle every time she lost something until the frequency of that became a fire hazard. Her church friends stop by once a week to check on her, and her rosary beads are always on her nightstand.
So for her, I send a silent plea to God to bring my mother back. To give her more time.
Hours pass, and Jackie stays. I’m not sure why, but I’m glad about it. I need her and Marty here right now. Mom does too. I offer to get us all coffees from the little cart down the hall, and Marty and Jackie reply with matching smiles––smiles I haven’t seen in days.
Just as I’m adding sugar to Marty’s cup, I hear a commotion coming from down the hall. I turn to see a doctor and two nurses racing into Mom’s room, and Marty and Jackie being pushed out. The coffee in my hand falls to the floor, the hot brown liquid splattering over the immaculately clean tile, and I run toward my siblings as my heart sinks.
“What, what, what?” I shout when I reach their side. “What’s happening?”
Jackie sobs as she leans into Marty’s chest, and his skin turns so pale, I worry he’s about to pass out. “I-I don’t know,” he says, trying to swallow back tears of his own. “Her machines started beeping louder and, and, and when the nurse came in, she said something about blood pressure dropping, and I don’t…I don’t know.”
One of the nurses must’ve shut the door because it’s now closed, and I can’t hear what’s going on inside beyond a flurry of activity.
