Unwanted Guest

Unwanted Guest

“I don’t get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don’t get angry when my mom smokes pot, hits the bottle and goes right to da rock… Let the loving, let the loving come back to me. Love is what I got.” - Sublime

2 years before Mom died. I’m 31.

March in Houston is one of its most beautiful times. It can be downright balmy and green in spots. The rose garden down by Herman Hospital is in full bloom.

I’ve about worn out my Allanis Morrissette, Jagged Little Pill CD as it is my constant companion during the hour-long commute back and forth to my English teaching job at the largest high school in Houston, on the south east side. It's feisty and angry like I am. This weekend morning, the other patrons of the hospital parking lot get to share the album with me for a moment as I pull into a space with the volume cranked. Some athletes have a song that "pumps them up," some musicians get inspired by a muse, some soldiers pray before they go into action. This is my way of doing all of these. I let the moment linger briefly, before inhaling deeply then yanking the keys out, throwing open the door, and stepping into the day.

The hospital smells so antiseptic, but like it’s covering something up. It’s a sickly odor that just hangs there, and you have to breathe it. I have to breathe it, walk in it, move through it.

I round the corner of the tan cinderblock and whitish tiled hallway to the hall that Mom is on.

The lights are off in her room but natural light from the window half illuminates her. I sit down beside her on her bed. A cheap, white standard issue blanket covers her legs.

The lice are gone from her hair and I see someone has braided it.

“Your hair looks nice, Momma.”

“Oh, thank you, sweetie. I was waitin’ for Paul to come bring me another robe.”

“Paul, Mom?” Paul. Paul who was also homeless, shifty, constantly drunk and God knows what else, and who had also tried to strangle Mom with a wire coat hanger. That Paul. But I’m not much surprised, even though I'm livid. Mom wasn’t much into making the greatest decisions for herself at that point. That helped me feel self-righteous and shielded me from too much disappointment.

Outside I ask the nurse for an update. By now it seems like the same old story. Mom has severe Cirrhosis of the liver, acute gastric hemorraging, and many other deadly complications. It’s a matter of time if she doesn’t get help, and maybe even if she does. This time, it looks like weeks. It’s a miracle she’s still alive now and that she came through the week she did. It's completely unnerving to absorb and yet I am pretty sure I've heard this all way before now.

She may or may not die from her medical conditions at this point, but I'll be damned if she'll be hurt by this loser again.

“And, has she had a visitor?”

“Oh, yes, and we asked him to leave. We think he’s sleeping her ebecause he doesn’t have anyplace else to go more than he’s really caring for your mom.”

“Well, you would be right about that. Also, he has been very abusive to her and should not be allowed around her.”

“Oh, my! Well, we will be sure and call security if he comes back.”