Vancouver August 2009
Two days after AK and I had fêted our mutual Leo
birthday, I noticed that my mother didn't seem well.
Against her
nearly breathless objections, I called a taxi to take her to her doctor. She’d been
suffering from COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) for several years
and I was concerned.
I saw the
taxi pull up in front of the house. No one except guests use the front door; we didn't even have a key to lock it from outside!
I walked down
the stairs and along the path to the sidewalk from where I asked the taxi driver
to wait a few minutes.
Meanwhile, my mother was just finishing
applying her lipstick, having already changed into a nice dress, matching jacket
and appropriate pumps. (Nylons? I don’t remember)
I called her
impatiently from the sidewalk, turned to smile at the driver, hoping for more
patience.
I turned back
just in time to see my mother walking towards me. Front door ajar: she was walking straight towards me. But the path curves left, goes down 2 stairs,
turns right then down 4 stairs, before arriving at the sidewalk. She was
headed for a 4 foot drop. I ran.
In his best “don’t
make the family panic” voice, her doctor sent us straight to the ER (flagged:
deal with this patient immediately).
It took 4
skill-levels of ER personal to get her intubated.
I sat quietly
in the corner, not praying, (as I have no one to pray to) but sending as much
positive energy as I could.
She would never forgive me if she died there, at
the hospital, instead of at her home of 50 years.
She was
admitted into to ICU with bi-lateral pneumonia and an uncertain prognosis.
AK arrived
and, before going home, we went to Earl’s where I ate a greater-than-half-a-day’s calorie intake Grilled Chicken
Caesar Salad.
In the lane
from the bus stop to the house, an equally well dressed and lip-sticked
neighbour I’d never met was accompanying her 5 or 6 year old blond granddaughter. Bucket in hand, she was picking our blackberries where they protruded through
the fence into the lane.
I
don’t recall my Self Righteous Speech about Private Property.
But
I do recall the look on the little girl’s face as I plunged my hand into her
bucket of our blackberries declaring:
“I’m collecting taxes on the berries”.
I then walked straight into the
house by the backdoor.
(Personally,
and upon reflection, it is possible
that my blackberry-taxing might have
been provoked by fear and shock at what had just happened to my mother, rather
than PD-induced Impulse Control deficiency.
2009 – those were early days: I was still waiting for my official, conclusive diagnosis
which would come soon enough in the worst
of weeks…)
