Atheist. Antagonist. Apathetic.
It is also the language of the medical field.
Anoxic. Avascular. Anemia.
I'd like to introduce a new "a-" word. A-mirror. It is a condition in which your mother loses the rearview mirror on her car. A-mirror is a causative factor of pneumonia and dead goldfish, and if you follow along, you'll see why.
A-mirror started with an innocent phone call. We needed a folding table for the family reunion, what we call The Crabfest - thanks to the bushels of crabs consumed. Cousin M was hosting The Crabfest and needed a folding table. I knew where to find one.
My parents.
I mean, I literally drive right past Target on the way to Cousin M's house. If I had just bought a folding table there, none of this would have happened. The goldfish would still be alive. I'd own a folding table instead of making ill-fated phone calls to borrow a folding table.
But I'm getting ahead of the story.
I called my parents to tell them to bring their folding table for Cousin M. That was when my asthmatic mom told me she had been suffering an exacerbation for two days. She hadn't called the doctor because, really, what would he do (not being sexist here - we have the same doctor. He is, in fact, a guy), and she fully intended to go to The Crabfest despite the oppressive heat, high heat index, and poor air quality - all known exacerbators of her asthma.
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| Hey, lady. You're not supposed to be out in the hot OR the cold. |
Where does one begin to untangle that web of bad ideas?
I started with the doctor. My mom nearly died 10 months ago, thanks to her lungs. Mandate number one was for her to call the doctor. Now.
Next, I tackled The Crabfest, which my spellcheck keeps trying to correct to The Crabbiest and I have to say I'm starting to agree.
No Crabfest, I said. Under no circumstance except household fire was she to step outside while the heat and air quality were so bad.
Unfortunately, my edict created a problem. My parents were supposed to chauffeur my three nieces to The Crabfest. With my mom out of commission, there was no driver because my dad is recovering from eye surgery. No highway driving allowed.
No problem, I said. If I could borrow my mom's minivan, I could tote my dad, my two kids and my brother's three, the folding table, and all the supplies that were my job to get to The Crabfest.
My mom hesitated. That couldn't happen, she said. Her minivan had been sideswiped by a truck that had taken, as a souvenir, her rearview mirror. With her minvan so damaged, my mom made the only logical choice that existed.
She took that minivan out on the turnpike.
Turnpike driving requires merging. Without a rearview mirror, my mom was unable to see that she was not, in fact, merging with traffic but merging with a semi tractor trailer.
The minivan is out of commission.
My mom suggested that we have my 78 year old dad stand out in the 108 degree heat and pull the HVAC supplies that he always carries in place of the rear seats in his minivan. That way he could install the rear seats and I would be capable of hauling all my cargo.
While I loved that idea, I felt like my day was looking pretty easy and I didn't feel I deserved to have it made easier by sticking my notoriously and chronically dehydrated dad in the desert sun for some manual labor.
Instead, I arranged alternate travel for my nieces. I picked up my dad. I put four people, three coolers, one case of brew, four cases of soda, a box of kiddie pool toys, three beach towels, a beach blanket, two pairs of goggles, two bottles of sunscreen, two changes of kids' clothes, the folding table, and an inflatable pool game - already inflated - in my Camry. I was the party version of a clown car.
Don't worry. Ximena the clown made her own special appearance at The Crabfest. But we'll save that story for another day.
As my father and I drove, he divulged that he and my mom had been to the Phillies game two nights before. Despite my mom suffering from the asthma exacerbation. Despite the heat. Despite the air quality.
She felt so awful, they'd had to leave at the third inning. She barely completed the walk to the subway station that would take them home.
So yes, even though she felt ill all day Friday, she walked - walked - from the Phillies game to the subway in 100-plus degree heat and Philadelphia's air, already infamously bad, that evening made worse by the heat index.
At that moment, I wanted to merge with a semi tractor trailer.
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| You all are ageing me before my time. |
As my family and I sat at The Crabfest, drinking our Cokes and eating our crabs, my mom sat home, her temperature climbing. It wasn't asthma that had ahold of her. It was pneumonia. The same pneumonia that nearly killed her last year.
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| Enjoy those crabs while you can, boys. |
Now, you're asking yourself if I felt bad. Did I regret any of my directives, once I knew it was pneumonia and not asthma? Did it matter to me that the air quality made no difference, that she could have partied like Eddie Murphy's girl at The Crabfest, gone to a dozen Phillies games, driven into a fleet of semis?
Nope. Not one bit. My mom did so much wrong this week. I've lectured her a dozen times since I made that phone call to borrow the table. Oh, I love telling people what to do. This has been great.
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| I'm losing my mind. |
Husband took my mom to the hospital that day. There is nothing in any marital relations repertoire that provides an exchange rate for that.
When my mom gets admitted to the hospital, my household goes into high gear. As a nurse and my mom's power of attorney, I get immersed in all aspects of her care. My kids, understandably, grow quite anxious listening to me on the phone, saying scary words like sputum and hyperthermia. When my mom is in the hospital, the kids are always on a hair trigger.
Also, sputum is gross, in both elocution and concept.
With emotions in my house as feverish as my mom, it would make sense that Son's goldfish decided to up and die.
Both goldfish.
Son loves them. Loves them. He has explained to me, frequently and unsolicited, that while he hates to offend me, he must tell me that he loves his fish more than he loves me. Fortunately, I had found the deceased goldfish before Son found them. If he knew Slicky and Silvey were dead, there would be tears. Lots and lots of tears.
I don't have too much going on in my emotional reserve for that. Although I should work on that. Developing the reserve, I mean. The last time my mom was hospitalized, the guinea pig died.
Now, you may recall that Silvey already died once. It was the same night we found out our dog was dying. I secretly replaced Dead Silvey with New And Alive Silvey. Son never discovered I did it that time, and I was convinced he wouldn't discover my subterfuge this time either.
I enlisted Daughter. Our plan of action? We would go to the pet store. Daughter would distract Son. I would secretly procure new goldfish. Son would never know Slicky and Silvey died.
At the pet store, Daughter steered Son toward the aquarium decor - castles and sunken treasures and whatnot. While Son explored, Daughter signaled to me that Son was distracted and she would keep him that way. "Go, go, go!" she hissed.
I went, went, went. Daughter likes telling people what to do, too.
Once we were home, I set Son in front of the ultimate distraction: Teen Titans Go! on Cartoon Network. I reluctantly gave Dead Slicky and Silvey a trash can burial. They deserved better and they would have gotten it, if they'd just had the decency to die on a better day.
I put New And Alive Slicky and More New And Alive Silvey in the tank, with strict instructions not to die. I prayed, very hard, for God to keep them alive.
I had yet to pray for my mom. But that's what happens with a-mirror.
And it's a good thing I didn't pray for my mom. It seems God was not attuned to my frequency this week. The following day I heard the scream of a banshee come from Son's room.
I found Son, standing in front of his fish tank, gaping at More New And Alive Silvey, who was now Incredibly And Unbelievably Dead Silvey.
I guess it's better More New And Alive Silvey died and not my mom, right? It's way easier to explain a dead goldfish than it is a dead Mom-Mom, and there's no way to hit Petco to secretly replace Dead Mom-Mom with New And Alive Mom-Mom.
Today, Slicky has a new tank mate. Bubbles, who is not a stripper but an orange and white goldfish. I check on them every 15 minutes, to assure myself that they are alive and that I don't have to break a little boy's heart again. I'm sublimating, really, because if I could, I'd check on my mom every 15 minutes for the very same reason.
If I had, she never would have driven without that mirror. She wouldn't have the pneumonia that killed three of my goldfish.* We wouldn't be suffering from a-mirror.
But I would still know the whole story of Ximena, my grandfather, and the shot gun wedding.
Someday, you will too.
*I am sure there is a good reason why my goldfish died, and I am sure there is some well-intentioned advice to be gleaned. I'm at peace with our loss. It's a cosmic equation. You can lose goldfish or you can lose a parent. I pick goldfish.
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