Hello Nurse

In which our Hero tends to his not particularly sick mama

My mom is street smart, rather than book smart. Not that’s she’s dumb, or ignorant, but somehow she’s always seemed to have a foundational layer of experience that does not make sense even with the array of achievement I’ve seen over her lifetime. And she’s never misplaced her inner child, even when me or my dad are hanging our heads and wishing her inner child could maybe go out and play for a few minutes, and I respect that about her however much it can annoy me at moments.

But where she is just a little bit of an idiot is where she jokes, laughing over a real concern however small, that one of the reasons that I’ve never settled down is that I see my mom and my dad fight and that scares me off the institution of marriage. Which is absurdly dumb, because I know my parents love each other, and even though I’ve seen genuine anger between them, I’ve never actually seen it be aimed at the other person. They get supremely pissed at each other every once in a while, about something the other has done or does do.

What I do notice are the stupid little things, like my mom stealing my dad’s clothes to mend frays or buttons. Or my dad taking an extra moment to wash my mom’s glasses, or standing by the microwave before bed while heating a rice-bag for her. It’s so small a thing, and it’s kind of silly because it’s not like my insomniac mom stays in bed, or she doesn’t need to heat the bag during the day, but… he does that. Every day. A glass of water and a hot bag of rice for her back.

It sounds so trivial, written down like that, but I was standing in front of the microwave, heating up the rice-bag for my mother and thinking about him and them, and how much I love them, and how much they love each other.

Taking care of my mother is a lot like travelling with my mother. Which is a lot like dealing with a small child, however more objective-driven she might be. She’s a little scattered, a little distractable, a little willful, a little hilarious and a little maddening. It’s annoying to take care of her. I can’t close my door because I don’t want to miss it if I hear her calling me. I find it hard to sleep when she’s awake, just because I want to be around in case she needs help or something changes. I have to stop what I’m doing to attend on her when I think she needs something. Not the same as her needing something, because she’ll just go get it, but I’m trying to take care of her, in the way that my father would.

She’s fine, just to catch you up, Gentle Reader. I took her to her doctor on Monday, and they fought with each other till they reached detente. We got her on to an actual plan for the collection of medications that she picked up in her various excursions through the American ER. (He gave her hell for mixing the meds, but she had directions to use her best judgement for relief from THREE different MDs.) Anyway. Coherent plan for the meds. Follow-up appointments booked. And general health back at par. For a batty old lady who likes to tape pictures of flowers to her fridge.

So why am I thinking about my parents. Because of that last element, because I’m trying to take care of her the way my father would. I am aware that some of the things I’m doing are silly, or unnecessary, or just redundant. But I’ve set up a new phone extension in her room and wired up a spare cell phone, just in case she wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t be bothered to call across the hallway. I turn down the TV and tuck her in when I find her napping at the TV. And I ask myself when I decide to be done, if my father would stop there. And then I put a glass of water near her.

He’s a good man, my dad. It’s a little frustrating, to be aware that I’m not as nice as him, not even when I think that I am a nice guy, or that I’m like him in many ways.

It hurts him, to have his wife beyond his help when she’s not feeling well. I can feel that, even across the phone. I call him, and in the early morning over the house he was born in, we talk, and the sound of the wild pulses over the phone line. It’s a living heartbeat to a place, and as strange a sound as it is, it reminds me of the capital-H Home that my parents, that my people come from. I can hear dawn in the literal seat of my family, and in that raucous stillness, my father is asking me if he should come home, if his wife is going to be okay.

I keep telling him no. My mom scolds him and tells him to spend time with his mother. I give him the latest metrics on my mother’s recovered health so he can understand that she’s fine, and I give him the plan so he knows there’s nothing for him to do, and I work from home so that he knows she isn’t alone. And I think that’s what eases him. That I’m here to sit with her, that I was able to go and fetch her home. But he asked me, plain and simple, “What should I do?”

I thought about my father and my mother and how they love each other. I thought about Nocturne and how I would feel. And I told him the truth. It’s silly for him to come home, but if it was me there, I’d be needing to return. He took that to my mother to make his case to come back, and she squabbled with him some more. And then they talked about the three-year-old grandniece who talks to my mother like she’s the lady of the manor (“Let me talk to you a little and *then* I’ll give it to my mother”) and they laugh together.

And I think about how much they love each other, and how simple they somehow manage to make it. And I tuck my mother in, and fuss over her. Because my dad would do these things to take care of her. And because I can’t really find it in me to stop till I’ve done that too.

Maybe there’s hope for me.