Oh God, here again.
I sit in the ICU next to my mother. I look at her thin skin and her pale lips and I can’t believe we’re here again. The hospital smells stale and dry and hot. Can’t they open a window? The air has a bad, sick taste. I hear strained breathing from the other beds. I look up and see a man connected to tubes, gasping for air…boy, that can’t be good…and his bell is beeping and no one is coming and I can’t stop staring at him…oh well, look, I’m sorry, pal, but I can’t worry about you, I’ve got enough on my plate…a few hours ago my mom went in for abdominal aortic surgery. The same procedure she had done, unsuccessfully, one year ago. She wasn’t sure she would do it again, wasn’t sure she could get through it. But her aneurism is a time bomb and my mom’s not a gambler, so here we are. It’s over now and in her sleeping face, I look for some sign that she will be all right and that it will be OK… but that man’s damn bell is still dinging and why won’t someone help him for God’s sake? and no one comes and I feel on the edge and I can’t seem to find what I am looking for.
Lovely, please sit down
My mom is an incredible woman…for many reasons, but lately because she seems to resemble Rasputin…she has withstood terrible things in the last few years, she has shattered her hip, she has scalped herself, she has broken her arm, and she has had this surgery twice, so here we are again. I am an only child and my father is dead. It all falls on me. I have been dreading her passing for over 25 years, since the day my father died, I have thought about what it will be like when she is gone, how that would tear me apart. It’s strange when you’ve had a thought for so long, it almost becomes an annoying neighbor…Oh yeah, you again, now what do you want? Oh, I see you’re staying for lunch. Lovely, please sit down, let me get you some water. That thought no longer terrifies me or makes me sick or makes me scream as it used to. It saddens me and makes me tired. I want it to be OK, I don’t want that thought to move in for good…My mom’s hand quivers and I wonder if she’s dreaming.
This morning I was with her in Pre-Op as the parade of nurses and doctors entered with her charts and IVs and blood pressure monitors. The senior doctor, a very confident Brazilian man, is on the cutting edge of this kind of procedure. He makes it seem that it really isn’t an operation at all, it’s more like a picnic or small vacation interrupted by his cutting of my mom’s aorta and inserting a 6 inch device. The younger doctor, who tells us all the grisly details like it was playstation 360 game. I don’t want to hear all this… I don’t want to think about all this…I feel my knees growing weaker. Where is that other doctor, the one with the picnic? Then the anesthesiologist, in his 70’s maybe, with big glasses, pants oddly rolled up, top siders who strolls in singing “Come Josephine, in my flying machine” and addresses me as “toots”…My mom’s life relies on these men. I feel sick. They wheel her away… I wave… I feel that lump in my throat… the same lump I had when I waved goodbye in kindergarten. Aren’t I still a little child looking to my mother for strength? Aren’t I still the helpless one? The vulnerable one?
The unknowing, the beeping, this moment.
Suddenly back in ICU, I am taken aback by life’s reversal – I am the caregiver, yet still the child…How can both live in the same space? The younger and the older… how did we get here? I look at my mom and she takes my hand, her eyes still closed. I just want it to be-
… then a very round nurse rushes past me and attends to that man and the beeping stops and she pulls the curtain closed and I know he is better. Within an instant the room seems to change. I get the sweet whiff of the nurse’s orange blossom perfume. The lighting seems softer. I am suddenly grateful for it all… the unknowing, the beeping, this moment. I look down and my mom’s eyes are open. She looks at me the way she has looked at me for over five decades – with love and knowledge and a little bit of surprise at how big I’ve gotten. I ask how she is and she replies, “OK…but this sure as hell ain’t ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, huh?” and we laugh and I know for now it’s OK… that it has always been OK.
Alison Martin
Alison Martin -- wife, mom, Emmy-award winning actress, writer, chocoholic. Bronx Italian, daughter of Pultizer Prize winning reporters, who also identifies as L.A. Irish. Shout outs: Dan, Emilia, Brady, pooches - LuLu & Ted, friends, Mother Earth, serendipity, peace, VIPHS, Boldfaced Secret, living life like your socks feel real good.
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What a lovely piece of writing. I so related to the role reversal and the way these emotions can come like waves. Thank you.
I love the honesty of this piece. Moving through humor to true fear. Thank you for sharing so much!
Your piece is beautiful. I can feel the love you have for your mama. You got me thinking about how roles may reverse for our children one day too. And that one day, if we’re lucky enough to get there, our kids may be the ones waiting for us to wake up and say that everything’s ok. Thank you for sharing.
Absolutely refreshing amidst the uncontrollable fires and senseless shootings…Congratulations to all of you and best wishes for continued success in this wonderfully creative endeavor! Thank you very much for sharing it with me????
Thank you so much for sharing! I enjoyed reading the article! A wonderful piece!
It was as if you wrote a moment of my life. I was there, in the same shoes with the same thoughts and your words painted the moment clearly, simply with relate-able emotions. Life is precious, parent and child relationships are precious and this reminds of being my mom’s daughter and the one she looked to for comfort and support. Thank you for inviting me to read this.
The bitter sweetness of this piece reminds me to be grateful for every second of life. I was with both my parents at the end of their lives, and remember being afraid, irked, angry, and the full gamut of emotions, until finally love and gratitude settled on my heart. Thank you for bringing me to this same place with tenderness and truth.
Love love love! Such a natural storyteller! More please. Now!
Love this! It speaks to all of us who have faced the role reversal that comes with aging parents. Wonderful piece written with such love sprinkled with humor.
Love this! It speaks to all of us who have faced the role reversal that comes with aging parents. Wonderful piece written with such love sprinkled with humor.
A wonderful experience, hanging out here for a time…
Thank you for this space of Love & Light!
Beautiful, I especially loved the little girl/ grown woman, the wanting to be taken care of and the taking care, this piece was detailed and real and lovely.
What a lovely piece of writing. I pictured myself in that room, the love, fear, frustration, love, the impersonalization yet the great person. Thank you for sharing. You are an incredible writer, and even more, an incredible human. I can’t wait to read more.
Love your story telling and writing… funny, poignant, touching, soulful. Was back there with you! More stories please
Thank you for sharing your stream of thought in such a way; often times when we are in situations such as this we do not share at all how we felt, or even what we were thinking – our feelings are pushed out of the way by what needs to be taken care of in the moment. It is easy to forget that we are connected to others, and to take things that are personal personally, “This is what I am going through”. I am always inspired by you, no matter what the situation, and this is no exception. Such a wonderful piece, thank you.
What a beautiful story about your mom. It is amazing that in the position she was in that she could still crack a joke! It sounds like you definitely got her sense of humor! In my opinion it is the best quality a person can have. We are never really the same person after we lose a parent. It makes us grow up fast, again. But…we will ALWAYS have wonderful memories to hold onto. Thank you for sharing Alison~
I’ve lived that scene too, and you express it so beautifully.
Bravo, Alison. Well-written and real. I so related to it. There’s nothing like a mother’s love. Your mom was a winner.
Beautifully observed and written, Alison. Thank you. I’ve been there with my mom and know exactly what you’re talking about when you say “the thought” is like “an annoying neighbor.”
Alison- how wonderfully you write… I feel like you suspended time for me, as I wait to be in that position. I must treasure every second, every phone call, every too short visit. Thank you for the heads up.
I just watched Alex on Good Morning America and he is an amazing person which I knew before the interview, but is reinforced from time to time. Having never heard of “Insidewink” until he mentioned it in his interview, I am certainly enjoying it. I am so happy he did. In reading within your website, I have gained much insight into life that I had never stopped long enough to contemplate in depth and I want to thank you so much for your contribution to that. Keep me wondering what comes next. I will certainly have Alex, as well as you, in my prayers for the brightest outcome possible on his journey. As I have had family members succumb to this disease, I feel as though I am making this journey along with him. God bless.
Thank you so much, Ms. Ellison! It means a lot to us.
Thank you for the reposting, Alison. I’m reading this after getting my mother up and dressed for the day, grateful for my daughter’s assistance. This, after saying goodbye to my sister who is heading off to chemo. I’m not sure she’ll receive it, she’s weak and hasn’t eaten in 2 days. But somehow I know you are right. It’s going to be okay. I don’t know the how but just that it is. I never thought I’d be okay after my husband died, but somehow I was, somehow I am. Namaste, Sweet Alison