Typical Tuesday Lament

I see the dozens of cable from the EKG, hooked to my mom like a science experiment, and it seems like I have been in this position dozens of times before. Maybe it is because I have.

And I hate these walls. Dingy and yellow littered with posters advertising emergency response queues and vital call signs, I feel trapped. I want to take a sledge hammer and pound away against these walls until nothing is left but the ruble of the ER and us: my mom and her regularly paced beating heart, my dad in the getaway car and me with callused hands and a battered soul but with the knowledge that we would never have to go back because everything would be okay. Alas we are trapped.

Instead the florescent lights flicker above and the mixed scent of bleach, hospital beds and medicine fill my lungs. We make our way out of triage to the back where the beds are. Needles, vials of blood, wires surround my mom. My head spins. I touch nothing, germs abound in this place, and try to keep from passing out by starting at the floor. White.

My mom looks up towards me from the hospital hopeful but apologetic as she knows in 10 hours I will be boarding a plane for a very important work meeting if everything turns out okay. I could care less. I just want someone to tell me everything will be okay. My dad stands next to me in silence as I grill the surprisingly young doctor on his skill set and what exactly does he mean by “momentarily stopping mothers heart to start it again.” I silently panic.

Numbers, something I have loved my entire life, I have now grown to hate. 172, 169, 155, 170, 175. I stare at the heart rate monitor praying for solid double digits as the medical team tries to shock my mom’s heart into submission. It doesn’t work. They try again. 170, 169, 150, 88, 122, 88, 80, 80, 80, 80. It works.

I stand there fighting back tears, that I can latter shed in privacy, because I must be strong. I am no longer the youngest child in a family of four but the head of the family, responsible for dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s so that my parents medical treatment runs smoothly.

Quiet ensues. The yelling of the medical orders and decisions to make are confined to the other 30 beds in ER. The only ones left are my mom, my dad, the beating machines and me. We have small talk, I tell them about my day and how we all need to work out more. They agree, if only for tonight. The nurse comes back in to give me a strip of paper. My mom’s heart rhythm, she thinks I might find it cool. We go home.

Phew, we were able to make it out again and I look back to the hospital as we drive away and hope that I never have to go back. Deep down I know better. We make the very familiar drive home and I worry. I really hope everything is okay. Although blessed with young looking skin and pretty good curly hair, I curse my genes for making most of the women in my family susceptible to this nonsense...especially my mom. I wonder if and when it will be Xtian standing over my bed in silence as I stare at the monitor wishing for double digits. Sigh.

We go back home and my mom sits on my bed as she helps me pick out my outfit for my big presentation the next day as my dad tells me of the latest Netflix movie I ordered for him. I love these moments and want to relish in it forever. But it is late and I need to be on a plane. We go to bed.

I am in my room and everything overwhelms me. I grab my laptop and start to write.