The Teeth of the Matter

Mom - a year ago today

A year ago today, my mom lay in intensive care at Duke.To say she was near death would be a grave understandment. After  a morning ride in to the ED with Durham's finest Emergency Medical Technicians, and then holding court in a ER bed all day, she was moved to a room. She was alert and talkative and then she wasn't.

A GI bleed  had been hiding coyly behind low blood pressure symptoms. As evening approached it erupted with the speed and horror of volcanic eruption. Staff scrambled to manage her body which became something horribly beyond  her control. Her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered closed. I held her head, helped  clean her up again and again and snagged her dentures, tucking them in a styrofoam cup - thinking she would either need them again to eat or to look nice in her casket. Soon  an "all call" went out and her snug room became overpopulated with doctors and nurses. They were the holy men and women of medical experience, who spared no patience for Mom's befuddled resident. At their directive, she was quickly she  moved to the ICU.  I trailed along-  numbstruck yet somehow impossibly rational.

Once there, she was placed on a ventilator. And she bleed, and bleed some more. She was given blood,  again and again and I offered a prayer for thanks for each donor.  GI staff was called in on their weekend off and she moved to a procedure room and back. Night turned into day. My family appeared to wait with me- their presence  an enveloping balm. They brought with them a big bag of survival gear - a throw, water, snacks, books.We settled in and waited.

We were told there were two major bleeds and with Mom's age, her prognosis was not good. Interventional Radiology was called in and the team's lead spoke with me honestly explaining that cauterizing the bleeds gave her a chance, but to be prepared - it was a long shot.

We bore witness to her time in limbo- nurses moving in careful choreography and flocks of doctors making rounds. More blood.   Evening approached. Mom had survived the procedure, she had a chance, she was stable, though still on the vent. My family took me home. I'd been at the hospital 36 hours.

I slept fitfully and arose early to arrive before rounds. I found my bag, determined to give Mom's teeth a good scrub before I returned to Duke. I reached into the bag where I remembered tucking the styrofoam cup and it simply wasn't there! I panicked. I pulled everything out and put it back in. No cup! No teeth!

Some calm inner voice spoke to me - telling me to call the ICU waiting room attendant. Perhaps a family member had thrown it away thinking to help tidy up my bag.  It was still dark outside and I imagined the janitorial staff already silently sweeping  and tidying the expansive area. The attendant on duty was the one I had met the night before. I asked her if the trash had been collected. No, not yet. And then I asked her, would you check the trash for a styrofoam cup with a lid on it - and look for a set of false teeth?

I remembered her clearly as a tiny bird of a woman, compassionate and professional, and I imagined her  fetching rubber gloves and inventorying each trash can, pulling out the cast off coffee cups and snack wraps. After what seemed like an eon, she returned to the phone, breathless. "I have them!" she exclaimed.

Relief coursed  through me and praise and such gratitude for this small mercy. My mom's teeth found safe and sound! And found, within minutes of the arrival of the cleaning crew!

The attendant put the cup in her work area.  When I arrived, I found that shift change had sent her home to bed and put a new worker in her place. When I asked if there was a cup for me, she turned with a puzzled look, plucked it off her desk, and placed it in my hand. I peeked inside, humbled and assured.

Assured because I felt at that moment very close to God. I had no idea or expectation on how things would turn out, but I knew t that God was with my mother. That He would lift and protect her, that He would wrap His loving arms around her and whether He took her home or healed her fragile body He would not let her go.

And He anointed her with His presence - through every painful step of healing, through her time of confusion ("ICU psychosis"),through every moment  of rehabilitation, through her return to my home. She has basked in His presence. And not a day goes by that she doesn't express appreciation for the life she's continued to live and thanked God for it.

It's not been easy - for her - for me - for my family. The GI bleed, ultimately attributed to a prescription she was taking, turned out lives sideways. But the richness of each "bonus day" that Mom has been given has been deep and precious and good.

And the styrofoam cup? It still sits on her sink, holding her denture brush and denture paste. A constant reminder of how God lifts us and holds us and cares so much for us that He reunited my mom and her teeth.

Mom - today - a year later

The styrofoam cup - God's miracle vessel 

The Viral Cafe

Henri, the Maitre D' of the Viral Cafe: Ah, Madame MacHardy! It has been long, long time since we've seen you at the Viral Cafe! You have been well, no? 

Jackie: Yes, Henri. I've been very well. This is all very, unexpected. 

Henri: Well, yes, that is how it is with the virus, no? You get cocky because you are well and then, BAM, you find yourself here. Now we do have several specials today. 

Jackie: I'm listening. 

Henri: Well, as you know, women of your age, you have different versions of le virus and we have two unique options for you!  First, we have the Caregiver Package. This special is for la personne who has care of an aged relative. This one comes complete with facemask and nitrile gloves. It has a special little puzzle of making you come up with ways to work around sharing le virus.Very challenging , the Caregiver. It includes at no extra charge, worry for your loved one. Is this the one, Madame?

Jackie: Well, it sounds like the right one for me, but what else do you have, Henri?

Henri: We also feature the Middle Aged Female Package. This one includes, well,  worry that when you cough, well... (Henri mumbles, somewhat embarrassed.) 

Jackie: Oh, I get it. Sounds miserable, but about right. What else does it include? 

Henri: Well it is very complex this package. It includes le couronne, in English, the Crown. A new crown so no eating ice chips! And for the eczema, we include a set of unna boots; bandages from foot to knee, to allow your dermatitis to heal. so we promise that will be really itchy. But this is a really nice option because you will need much of le Benadryl for BOTH your your ailments. See how good! Fresh for you today! Oh - and this one is very interesting, it includes an incontinent pug! So you cannot go barefoot because you might step in a warm puddle! Yes, this package is very well thought out! You will assuredly be miserable! Both of these packages include cough, fatigue, sinus involvement, erratic temperatures. We have a full suite of le Kleenex for your use! 

Jackie: Well, I know this sounds terribly greedy, Henri, but I think both packages for me today! 

Henri: Very good Madame! We have a little something extra we know you will love! We will populate your kindle with a library copy of A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles! You've been wanting to read this! 

Jackie: But Henri, I don't feel well enough to read? My brain is fuzzy. 

Henri: That is too bad; you have my sympathy. that is the only good thing about having a virus. But have no fear, we have America's Got Talent Champions on your DVR to watch with your loved one! 

Jackie: Perfect! 

Henri: But so sorry. You loved one can't hear it very well, so it will be cranked up to a loudness of 53. So sorry.

Jackie: Figures. And you promise to  arrange for me to step barefoot into warm dog pee?

Henri: But, of course! Perhaps more than once! And Madame, I personally encourage you to have your husband, who shared this virus with you, bring home the perfect pairing. Le hot et sour soup and le eggroll  from the joint on the corner! Shall we phone ahead?

Jackie: Thank you Henri.  That sounds great. I've only had a Slim Jim, left over from the hurricane, and 3 chocolate oreos today. 

Henri: Perfect, Madame! We hope you enjoy your virus! Keep drinking fluids! And we certainly look forward to serving you again! Please share with your friends! 

Late Bloomer

Mom's Camellia 

The Camellia was as old as I was. It grew and thrived next to the side porch at my parent's brick house in Seaboard  for more than 50 years. My dad and his friend, Bill Davis, finished building the house in 1959 and I was born in 1960 so we grew in parallel. Mom recalls putting in a few boxwood, azaleas, and the Camellia soon after the house was built and I was born. Details are cloudy in her 93 year old mind and she thinks perhaps she may have planted it as  a shoot from the shrub next door, where her parents, and her young family lived before I was born.

The Camellia was a vital part of our lives. We thrilled to see it's fuschia blooms in the otherwise grey landscape  of  winter. Time and time again, we plucked  blooms surrounded by glossy green leaves, which were invariably sturdier than the delicate pink blossoms and brought them inside to add a touch of color. Beginning in my UNC years and extending for decades, my mom adopted a ritual  that she practiced each blooming season. Before I pulled out of the driveway to head to the Triangle, she would pick the choicest flowers, wrap their stems  in wet  paper towels and then secure that with aluminum foil and they would ride shotgun on my trips back to first UNC and then my Durham home. We continued this practice when she began living with me and we visited Seaboard for a few days each month. But then, she became too infirm for the trip - and the Camellia's roots had begun to infiltrate the foundation of the home, so both the visits - and the Camellia became, regrettably, things of the past.

As a young homeowner, I dug up a root from  my grandparents' house and it grew like wildfire beside our snug starter home in Durham. Every winter it was laden with blooms and one glance  made me feel closer to Seaboard. The shoot was from a variegated variety, but when blossoms first appeared we were astonished to see that they were pure white.

Seventeen years and two teenage boys later, we needed more room and bought a new house across town. I was sad to leave the Camellia behind and lamented often my lack of foresight. Why didn't I start a few shoots  to take with us? Just last week, mom and I drove by the old house to see it if was there and still blooming. It was - tall sturdy- and full of blooms.

After my family moved into the new house, and Mom's  Camellia was still thriving in Seaboard I did dig up a shoot and plant in my new yard. It was tiny  but the leaves were glossy and healthy so my hopes were high.

It was painfully slow growing - we seemed to gain about 2 leaves a year. I was terrified it would be the victim of a lawnmower and checked on it time after time to see if it was still there. But blooms? None. Nada. Zilch. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as a male camelia and if I had unfortunately selected one of those. (No, Google tells me they are actually bisexual.)

I admit, I simply forgot about the non-bloomer. My hopes had been set on a shrub of glorious blooms like the one that shaded our side porch for decades in Seaboard.

But...

This morning when I walked out to get the newspapers I was despairing of the deep mud ruts at the edge of the road. Our driveway can't hold many additional cars, so guests are forced to park at the street. I was looking about to see if there was a way to fit an additional concrete slab and eyeing the yard.

To my utter disbelief, the Camellia had a bloom!After at least ten years of nothing! It was perched at a jaunty angle on a new branch, an explosion of color amidst the colorless winter landscape. And tucked underneath was a new bud! I photographed and showed mom, not daring to pick it's first bloom. We were elated! Despite the odds, when I had long ago given up hope, that little Camellia produced a glorious blossom.

What an astonishing message for the New Year. No matter how inadequate we may feel as we ring in 2019, there is always room for growth, always room for success. We can keep striving, keep growing - even when others have counted us out - or worse - we have counted ourselves out. Sometimes change is slow to appear. Sometimes we need life experience to help us grow. But we can grow - we can open ourselves to it - to be kinder, to be more patient, more generous, more compassionate. We can eat healthier, exercise more. We can volunteer to help others. We can try our hand at something new, or resurrect something old. And we can bloom!  Right where we are planted!

So this year, be patient with yourselves. Be patient with the people, known  and unknown in your lives. We are all growing, just not at the same speed. And we won't stop, can't stop, until our final blooms fall gently to the rich soil beneath us.

The NEW Camellia!