Here's what Dixie wrote to you about today. (Notice that she has the correct spelling of Gill's name. I've been spelling it "Jill."):
As I've approached the exit to Parkland the last few days, I have been struck with familiarity. You know your sister - coming to the hospital the first few times I approached the route down Motor St. with great temerity. Then a decision about where to park had to be made. After finding a parking place I rushed to figure out how to get to you, not even thinking to be sure I could find the car upon my return or even planning the way back into the garage. Next came a maze of halls and elevator alcoves to decipher and negotiate. Now, that whole process has become familiar enough to begin to be muscle memory.
After a week, I'm now remembering to tuck my hair up into the hair covering before washing my hands. I walk over to the rack for the gown to cover my body and walk back toward the shelves as I'm tying up the neck so that not a moment is wasted in preparation to check on you, my brother. Last, my hand reaches easily towards the correct box for the mask as I remember that first morning of panic when Asia showed me this foreign procedure. Today, I heard a small child crying as I pushed the silver release button that opens the double doors and wondered about the challenge that a child and her or his family must be facing. I look into a woman's eyes above a blue mask and wonder if she is the mother who has to go to that cry.
Nurse Angela doesn't have any answers about your infection or about your back, not having seen it yet, but says she will find out. It's been more than eight days since any of us has heard your voice, made eye contact with you, or felt you return pressure as we hold your fingers. I find a place on your leg or arm and try to send streams of love through my hand into you, hoping it reaches your inner receptors.
For so many days, I was filled only with gratitude for the miracle of your being alive. Now I'm having to accept that we're dependent upon machines and drugs to complete the miracle, and I'm feeling frustrated and impatient. I'm feeling guilty about this new phase of feelings.
Then I remind myself that Angela and Gill and Lizzie and Dr. Esteroff and many others on that amazing team are a caring group of professional people helping you as well as others to heal.
On my way out, I realize I don't like the idea that I'm becoming familiar with these routes and routines.
I'll see you again this evening, Dad. And the doc. I think Asia will be joining us.
We love you.
2 comments:
Yes, Gillian's name is "Gill". (Name spelling isn't always what's most important... this is from someone whose name is often misspelled.) - Dixie, you are a most terrific sister for Mike; you both are obviously from the same source (same writing talent). - Floreen
As you can tell from the time stamp on this entry, I also feel guilty this evening. I had to return to Austin this week and I am not there to hold your loved ones. You should see your kids, Unc. They are amazing. Forrest is a trooper, Asia keeps the sun shining in and GerRee has become the ringmaster of this Cirque du Rolaids.
Upon entry, the hospital has a smell which is not unlike that of a McDonald's playscape. Plastic. Urine. Bleach. Oddly enough, I overheard two hospital staff complaining that the elevator stops on floor 1 every time. They seemed quite irritated to realize that it does so in order to bring more business to the Mickey D's on said floor. American marketing, you can't escape it even if you are unconscious.
Speaking of fast food, thanks for being an excuse to eat french fries right now. I told my trainer that he could not give me any grief about food until my Uncle wakes up. So, hurry up...I am putting on pounds here.
Love you dearly, Colleen
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