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I step away and walk to the window, gazing out at the world beyond, my clenched and unclenched hands furiously trying to quell the fury I feel toward my God.Why her? Of all the people You could have picked, why her?
After a while, I join my siblings by my mother’s bedside, and we all process the impending doom and loss our own way, each seeking solace in whichever way works for them.
I know what my mother would want. For as long as I have been alive, my mother has about three things: her religion, her husband, and her children, in that order.
I give her all three by reading her the Bible, singing Christian songs; recounting memories about her and Dad that stand out to me, and telling her about her children. . . all four of us. My siblings join in, and we ride the time all through till 10 PM when visiting time is over.
Ten o’clock heralds itself with the soft approach of a nurse, her smile sympathetic.
"Time to leave, folks," she says gently.
"I am staying," I say to her with authority, my voice firm and unyielding. "I'm Mrs. Ricardo’s private duty nurse."
"Of course. I’ll get you a blanket."
"Thanks." I watch as my siblings gather themselves around Mom’s bed, their goodbyes, a series of hugs that linger too long, promises to return tomorrow that sounds more like pleas, and little teardrops that stain her sheets where a face just vacated.
As they file out, I follow them to the corridor and give each one a hug. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be downstairs in the family room,” Lola says softly, unashamed to let the tears flow.
“Me too,” says Dick and Jenny in union.
Together, we stand in the shadow of darkness, fighting a war we’ve already lost.
Chapter thirty-three
CODE BLUE.
TONY
The shrill of the rapid response alarm pierces the silence, pulling me from the depths of restless sleep. My eyes snap open, my body already coiling into action before my mind fully registers where I am—a cramped cot in a darkened hospital room, smelling of lost hope and despair.
"Code Blue, Room 908 . . . Code Blue . . . CodeBlue, the intercom blares repeatedly, and instinct propels me off the cot. My feet hit the cold linoleum with practiced urgency, and I know just what to do. The stakes couldn’t be higher; I have responded to this particular alarm before, so I know exactly what it means, but today is different. Today, it is my Mom calling for help. I will my trembling feet to carry me quickly to my mother’s bedside before the reality hits me—I don’t belong here. This isn't my turf. No badge, no authority, no right to intervene.
"Ma’am, STOP!" A voice hisses from the doorway to my mother’s room. It's the night shift nurse for the patient nextdoor, and she glares at me, her face a blend of concern and reprimand. "You can't be doing this. You are not a nurse here."
I hover over my mother, my hands still holding the IV machine flap, ready to adjust a dosage. She's right. I pause, hands clenched, as the sounds of life-saving chaos spill into the room—my mother's room.
Before you know it, people in all sorts of uniforms, all color-coded so they all know who belongs to which department, swarm the room like hungry locusts in a feeding frenzy.
Commands are barked, the crash cart wheels squeak against the resistance of the floor, and the rhythmical beeping of the heart monitor is replaced by an ominous singular monotone. My training screams at me to act, but I'm frozen in time, helpless, stripped of my role.
The floor charge nurse dashes in, and I am thankful it is a face I’m very familiar with. "Please, Rihanna,” I plead. “She's my mom . . . "
The words escape me in a breathless, futile plea, but they do me no good.
"Tony, you know the rules." Her gaze softens, but she blocks my path with a firmness that stops me cold. "Let us do our job. I could spend precious minutes here talking to you, makingyoufeel better, or I could spend that time trying to help her. You choose."
She is absolutely right.What am I doing?
I stand there, chastised, helpless, a statue of despair, as the minutes stretch into an eternity. The staff inside move with practiced precision, their silhouettes dancing frantically behind the frosted glass, and a big part of me wants to go back in and watch closely. Maybe I’ll see something, maybe they are short-handed, and they will need an extra pair of hands to hold something, maybe . . .
I am losing my Mom. I can almost feel the defibrillator's charge in the air smell the sharp tang of fear and disinfectant that clings to these walls. I know what is coming.
"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, pressing a shaky hand against the cool surface of the door. I should be in there, lending my hands my knowledge, but none of that is happening. Today, I'm just Tony . . . the daughter. Powerless.
My heart races, each beat echoing the dread that tightens around my chest. They're fighting for her, I know it. Every push of CPR, every dose of adrenaline—they're doing everything right. I wouldn’t have done differently if I were in there. My mother is getting the very best care she can get, but I also know the cruel truth of what those flat, unwavering beeps mean. The relentless sounds drill into me, a grim reminder of what's slipping through my fingers.
