Earlier in the day, the children and I stopped at the Army/Navy Store, located next to a shop called 69 Flavors with an ever changing window display showing the latest “fashions.” Our trips to the Army-Navy Store feed my children’s imagination and provide great material for discussion. Topics of conversation in the car range from: “mama, you should have bought us that missile, it wasn’t even ARMED you know” and “wow you could see right through that red bikini in the window, why does it have all those straps across the belly anyway?.” Today we were there to buy my son’s Cub Scout paraphernalia for this year. He’s set with a new cap, belt, handbook and neckerchief. We did not buy the laser flashlight or spent missiles or brass knuckles; maybe next year.The cashier presented our receipt for signature then paused and said: “wow, the time on your receipt is 11:11 and today is 9/11” we looked at each other and shared a small moment of stunned silence.
Later in the afternoon I tried hard to keep a straight face as I chaperoned my daughter's Daisy Troop's field trip to pick apples at a local orchard. The weather was gorgeous and the girls were happy. In the midst of our idyllic moment my cell phone rang to the tune of "Guantanamera" meaning Dad was calling from Miami. The news were not good. "Remember girls; you can only pick 6 apples and you can choose between Red Delicious and Golden Delicious! So Dad, she had some kind of convulsion, has fluid in her lungs and an unknown infection and this is all NORMAL and I shouldn't worry?" Right. The contrasts between emotions, setting and life's turns was so absurd I wondered who the hell had dropped me in the middle of a Fellini movie. By the way, come Oscar time, I deserve an honorable mention. The field trip was a blast and no one was the wiser of the crushing pain in my heart..
Once home for the day I vacillate between numbness and hysterical sobs. So to continue with a Fellini theme I decide to iron clothes. I don't iron, ever. Our daughter received a kitchen set a few years back that for some reason has an ironing board adjacent to the stove. The set came with a play iron along with the usual assortment of pots, pans and plastic food. Our little girl didn't know what to make of the iron, she'd never seen one before. Nevertheless today I remembered many a time when my mom would come to visit and spend days on end going through our closets and lovingly iron all our shirts, blouses, and slacks. I had hoped to feel some sort of closeness to my mom as I engaged in this loathed domestic task. Instead, my mind wandered to the many people we met during her initial hospitalization and felt a bit of comfort knowing these people are in the same building as she is. There is the Filipino nurse in Intensive Care who moved to the U.S. five years ago with his wife after their worker visas to Saudi Arabia expired and they decided it was not the place for them. He is blessed with a gentle soul and lovingly taught me how to take care of my mom. He spoke gently with her in perfect Spanish peppered with Cuban slang and a heavy Cubanaso-off-the-boat accent. His stories of integrating into American society tell more about our country than his resilience or judgement. He regularly patrols his neighborhood on trash day and has amassed a large collection of furniture, electronics, exercise and computer equipment. He sells some of it on Craig's List at a hefty profit and sends the rest home to the Philippines where he is regarded as the rich relative who gives away computers and flat screen televisions. His family back home does not believe that all their treasures were once in the trash pile. He shared with us that he was at work on September 11, 2001 in Saudi Arabia where hospital staff brought champagne to work to celebrate.
Another of my favorites in the ICU is a flamboyant gay male Cuban nurse. He sashayed through the stroke unit in white clogs and lotsa 'tude. We talked about books and travel and our common interest in history. When a new patient was moved to the bed next to Mom's he let out a loud gasp from the other side of the curtain. "Oh. My. God. Patty, darling you HAVE to come over here and look at this. It is HISTORIC." I approached the bed tentatively and saw a thin elderly woman with an oxygen mask and the most beautiful clear eyes I have ever seen. He took her left arm from under the sheet and showed me the inside of her forearm. A tattoo of a series of numbers marked her soft and translucent skin. My heart raced as she looked at us examining her arm. I asked her name as I took her hand in mine but she could not speak. Pola looked into my eyes and I looked back into hers, simply bearing witness. Her son and daughter- in-law arrived later that day and quickly began making arrangements to transfer her to hospice. This dear lady had lived 98 years, the last 5 on her own and in her own terms. Pola survived a concentration camp, the loss of her entire family, built a new family and thrived in our country. All her papers were in order; DNR & DNI were in place per her wishes. That Friday afternoon her family called in an Orthodox Rabbi who did a beautiful bedside service for the family before facing the crazy Miami traffic and the beginning of Shabbat. Dad, Mom and I listened from the other side of the curtain. This Rabbi had never met Pola or her family, but his words were a soothing balm for all of us who listened.
Admittance into a hospital seems like such a dehumanizing process. Your clothes are replaced with flimsy gowns and your undergarments taken away. If you are lucky you get a diaper, if not, a catheter. Personal possessions are stripped away. The diamond ring Dad gave Mom many years after their marriage when he could afford the stone is now stored in a safe. Mom's bracelets, necklace and earrings keep her ring company in the darkened box. This woman who brushed her hair and put lipstick on before cooking dinner started to look like some one else- not even a version of herself. I was instructed to trim her long and beautifully lacquered nails because of the risk of infection. She took it well but I put it off for days not wanting to remove another layer. We painted her fingernails and toenails a muted pink and even touched up her roots on the sly. What is left of my mom is her good heart, her sense of humour, the love she has for so many people and her true essence. In removing the window dressing, we see her brilliance shine. She is no longer dehumanized, but distilled.
The kind Rabbi closed his prayers telling Pola the tattoo on her arm gave him strength and inspiration. He spoke of the strength of the human spirit and brotherhood. As I look back today on that September morning nine years ago and the events of today, I try to remember the words of Mother Teresa: " If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."
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