We are hoping that my mom will be allowed to come home today. Much depends on her blood pressure remaining stable and their deciding whether or not to even attempt treating her jaundice at this point.
Last night we went to see her at the hospital — Eamonn was thrilled at the possibility of pressing elevator buttons and being bribed to hold still with jelly beans. My mom laughed from her hospital bed while she doled the beans out by requested color. “There’s nothing like a good bribe sometimes,” she said.
I hate how I act at the hospital. I talk like everything is still the same, even though it’s different. I worry about rules like, “is it all right if I use the bathroom in mom’s room?” to the point of real anxiety when really, I think once I leave, it’s of so little consequence as to be laughable. I leave feeling like I have all these things I want to say but instead I now know that the green, broad-leafed weeds that are overgrowing my garden plot are not the kind that are hard to pull out. According to my mom, in fact, if you are going to be overgrown with weeds, the kind my plot has is the best kind to have.
I guess this really gets to the heart of the matter. My mom told me years ago when I was 8 and my grandmother died, “You just realize that no matter how old you are, your mommy is always your mommy and you still need her.” I remember this vividly because in my mind at the time I didn’t understand how someone who was clearly an all-knowing mommy herself could possibly NEED a mommy.
But I don’t know about weeds and I don’t know about soil and I don’t know about teenagers and I don’t know about grade schoolers and I don’t know about menopause and there are just so many things I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not quite done having a mommy.