I got that call on Saturday evening that no child wants. It was my mom, who is 84, on the other end of the phone telling me that she had stomach pains all day that had worsened as night came. My mom is a tiny little lady with an incredibly high tolerance to pain. I knew this pain was serious.
It was 8:00 pm. I put in a call to her physician’s emergency line, but already knew that an over-the-phone diagnosis was not only impractical and improbable… but impossible. My mom lives about 10 minutes from me, so I made the decision to pick her up and bring her to the ER of our local hospital. My mom was not happy about this, but there was no other recourse.
We arrived at the ER at around 9:00 pm.
We left at 8:30 the next morning.
The in-between consisted of waiting. Blood pressure testing. Oxygen level testing. Temperature readings. Blood work. Chest x-ray. Electrocardiogram. CAT scan. IV’s. Sample varieties. More waiting. My mom has a hernia that she absolutely hates, and I certainly understand why. It is irritating and annoying and it interferes with the fit of her clothing. My mom is a fashionista, even at 84… and she is very self-conscious of what she perceives to be something huge. In truth, it is not visible to the observer, but she still finds the hernia very “visible.” I get it. But it has not, until now, given her pain. Pain is what her physician is concerned about. Pain is what brought us to the ER.
The 12 hours of waiting and tests seemed endless… but the worry trumped it all. I held my mom’s hand each time a new procedure came along. I helped her get undressed. I folded her clothing neatly, as she asked me to. I watched her sleep as I kept vigil. I am my mom’s ears and eyes in situations like this, and I took note of everything everyone said. The receptionists and technicians and nurses and doctors and the surgeon who was called in to consult were all kind and caring and patient and wonderful. I kept myself awake and together throughout the long night.
But it was my mom’s little shoes that got to me. One of the nurses had taken them off and placed them in a basket under her bed. Each time I caught a glimpse of them, I felt like crying. I was with my mom when she bought them. They are little brown leather Naturalizers… and she loves them for their comfort. They slip on and off easily, and she can wear them year ’round. But what my mom really loves is high heels. My mom has a collection of high heels in every color. They are lined up so neatly in her closet, but she cannot wear them anymore. She doesn’t have the stability or balance. I got my love of high heels from my mom. My childhood memories start at my mom’s feet. She loved to dance. I loved to watch her shoes as she danced. I still hear the sounds of her click-click-click high heels clicking along the sidewalk as she held my hand. I remember putting on her shoes and click-clicking around my house to her laughter. My mom loved to color coordinate everything, especially down to the shoes.
It’s the little brown shoes that tell me that everything is different now.
With the sunrise on Sunday morning, we were sent home with instructions to see my mom’s physician, consult a surgeon, stay on a liquid diet for a couple of days and take medication for pain. Oh, and an infection that needed antibiotics.
I helped my mom get dressed. I combed her hair. I gathered her purse and instructions. I thanked the nurses who had been so very kind. Then I got my mom’s shoes from that basket under her bed. I choked back tears as I helped her slip them on. But at the same time, my mom looked at those little brown shoes and said, “Thank God for these shoes. At least I can walk out of here.”
Touche, Mom. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Except for the click-click-clicking.
