Unwanted Guests Revised

Unwanted Guests

“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 it’s 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.

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?” I’m more than mad. 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. Mom wasn’t too 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. 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.

“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.”

Continued –

The doctor comes back in to Mom’s room. “Ma’am, you have acute cirrhosis of the liver, your stomach is basically eating itself, and you have jaundice.”

Mom wants to know what causes cirrhosis.
The doctor explains that almost always it is caused by alcohol abuse, and that very rarely it can be caused by coming in contact with a chemical like a cleaner one may be allergic to.
I think, this is it. This is the moment of truth. Someone else besides me, someone with a degree in this is officially putting it out there. She will get it.

She pipes up, “Well, I wonder what on earth I was cleaning with.”

And so it is the moment of truth. Not for Mom, but for me. I get it, finally. I get it that she will not. I will have to love her just like this, just as she is, or wish something in vain for the rest of what little time we have left.

I return home for some rest and to take care of my son. Once I get back to the hospital, I see and smell that Paul has been there. I am livid. I track down the hospital staff including an officer and complain. They say they can do nothing especially if the patient allows the guest.

I am stunned. Hightailing it back to Mom’s room, I figure she must not be capable of saying no to him. Maybe she’s afraid. I demand of her, “Mom, don’t let Paul in here!”

“Honey,” she drawls non-chalantly, “he keeps me company. He’s been helping me.”

Again, put in my place. “Fine, but I will not allow him to be here when I am.”

Outside the room, I ask the doctor about a liver transplant. He is impatient. He looks at me like I am completely gone. “Look,” he deigns, “we don’t even really try to find a liver with cases like hers.”

And there you have it. So many truths I have to accept and none of them wanted. I allow them to take up residence in my psyche.