2 Jeannie - The Past or the Present?

There was Mom. She laid back in the hospital bed, asleep. Her slightly tanned skin stood out against the white sheets and pillow. Grey hair stuck up in different directions from her being in bed for an extended period of time. There were no glasses on her face. So strange, though sleeping was the only time she ever took them off. She looked...off when she removed them. Not herself.

Eighty-three years old. Five foot two inches tall. The woman was something to be reckoned with. She might be small, but forces boiled within her and came out quite often. She had quite the reputation for that sharp tongue.

I stepped closer to the bed until my leg brushed against the sheet. The wrinkles around her eyes were deeper than the last time I had seen her. They had always been there, at least in my lifetime. Around her mouth, lines also stretched out and blended into her cheeks. Her skin had a slight leathery appearance as a result of all the sun she had worked in over the years. A slight smile pulled at her lips.

She wore her pajamas, a light blue that was nearly threadbare. That was typical. She wore her clothes out and got more than her money’s worth in wearing them. That was where I got it from.

Her arms laid outside the sheet. They were spotted and appeared like parchment. While still tan, at least compared to me, they were dark against the sheets. Her position was unnatural. Not even in sleep did she ever lay so straight. She preferred to curl up on her side. She looked...

I peered hard at her chest. A wave of relief washed over me as I noticed the slight movement of the sheet as she breathed in and out. It was subtle, but it was there.

“She’s been asleep for the last hour,” Mary whispered. Her hand rested on my arm as though knowing how hard it was for me.

I nodded and sat down gently on the bed, hoping to not disturb her. My purse and carry-on bag from the plane slipped to the floor with a soft thud. The smell of old age, like that of a dusty attic, enveloped me.

Mary said a few low words to Leslie on how Mom had been while Leslie and her husband had picked me up. They moved to take seats. Mary took the chair on the other side of the bed. Leslie and her other half settled down on the couch. Leslie had barely sat down when she jumped up and walked over to the bed. She began to fuss with the bedding and commenting on peaceful Mom looked.

I picked up Mom’s hand that lay next to me. It was soft and strong in a way that only a woman who worked hard with her hands had when she kept lotion on it. Every night, she would rub lotion into her hands, arms, and legs before she went to bed. During the day, she had used them planting tobacco, gardening, cleaning house, and sewing.

Spots. They were splattered across her hands and up her arms. For my entire life, I had looked at her hands and seen age spots. A small smile pulled at my lips. I used to tease her about them. Now all I wanted to do was kiss them.

Her hand tightened a bit around my fingers. I looked up to see her eyes open and close slightly. Her mouth pulled at the sides.

“Mama,” I called softly, leaning in to her.

Her eyes opened though they still squinted in the light. Ann jumped up to dim the overhead light. Only the soft light above her bed was left on.

“Mama,” I repeated. “It’s me, Jeannie.”

Mom frowned and squinted as she looked toward me. Her glazed eyes moved over me, searching for recognition. Her mouth formed an O.

Mary quickly stood up and grabbed Mom’s glasses off the small set of drawers next to the bed. “Here your glasses, Mom.” Mary slid them on Mom’s nose.

Mom scrunched up her nose and raised a hand to adjust them to where they were comfortable. She licked her lips and moistened her mouth. “Who?” Her voice came out cracked and old.

“It’s Jeannie, Mom.” Mary leaned down and adjusted Mom’s hearing aid. “Jeannie came to see you.”

“Jeannie?” Her voice cracked again as her eyes zeroed on me.

“Hey, Mama. Yep, I’m here.” I leaned closer to her.

Her eyes moved over my face. “You don’t look like yourself.” Her words were weak.

Tears threatened to overflow. “It’s me.” I realized then that my hair was longer than she had seen it in years and had been dyed a dark brown. That was very different than my natural blonde that had darkened and slightly greyed over the years.

Reaching up, I pulled my hair back from my face. “Now, is that better?”

Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, Jeannie. You’re here.” Her hand tightened around mine.

“How ya doin’?” It was amazing how easily it was to sleep back into talking like everyone else there. It was as though the years apart had not existed. I was back home.

“Oh, I’m causing trouble.” She licked her lips again and looked to the side toward the drawers.

“She wants her mouth moistened.” Mary picked up a small paper cup that had a stick poking out of its top. As she removed the stick, I noticed that it had a sponge on the end. I was familiar with them with my own stays in hospitals. Mary placed it in Mom’s mouth. Mom sucked on it and then ran it with her tongue over her lips.

“Did you drive all the way here?” Mom looked at me and took my hand. Her voice sounded a little stronger, but it was still much weaker than the voice remembered.

I shook my head. “I flew.”

“Flew?” Her forehead wrinkled. Flying was something she found very unsettling. She had only flown once in her life and then had sat in her seat with the barf bag held in her hand and ready to use. Though she never actually used it, she had clutched it as though it would save her life if the plane crashed. She never flew again.

“Yep. Decided to come see you earlier than planned.”

We had planned to come down in four weeks for a week long vacation. When Mom had taken a turn for the worse, Mary had called that waiting four weeks might not be a good idea. I had boarded a plane the very next day.

“Good to see you.” Her lips pulled into a slight smile. She was still very tired. Her eyes drifted closed again.

I leaned forward and kissed her soft forehead. Breathing in deeply, I felt comforted. She smelled like...Mama. How do you describe someone’s scent? Yes, I have read in many books that someone can smell like cinnamon, cookies, or a rose. I never quite accepted that. Everyone had a smell that was uniquely them. It could never been narrowed down to one particular item. Their scent was all their own. Mom’s was the same as I remembered as a child.

Oh, why can’t our lives remain as they are when we are innocent children?

“How long did I sleep?” Her words slurred.

I moved to the side and picked up my discarded bags as my sisters moved forward to address her questions and help get her settled finally for the night. Both sisters were trained nurses with four decades of experience under each of their belts. They were more than capable of taking care of our mother. I was glad she had them around to watch over her and ensure that she received the care she deserved.

Having nurses in the family always is a big plus. Every family member had consulted with them more than once. Their advice had been a blessing to all. It was a tremendous relief when Dad had battled cancer. They explained the medical terminology and was there to help our parents make decisions.

I understood some medical things, but they were the experts. I gladly deferred to them.

Moving over to the picture window that lined the far wall, I put my bags behind the recliner chair that occupied one corner and sat across from the small couch in the room. Slipping past my sisters around the bed and Leslie’s husband on the couch looking down at a newspaper, I disappeared into the bathroom.

It was a large room as it was designed to service anyone in a wheelchair though there was no shower in this one. There was just a toilet with rails beside for assistance and a large sink and mirror above that. I quickly relieved myself and washed my hands. Taking advantage of a few minutes alone after the flight, I splashed water on my face and took in a deep breath.

Is it ever easy to face the pending death of one’s parents? It had been fourteen years earlier when I faced the loss of my father. That had ripped my heart apart. I guess I thought they would live forever though I was realistic to know that death is inevitable. Maybe it was the way he had died. After years of heart issues, we all assumed we’d get the call in the middle of the night to say he had had a heart attack and had passed away. That was how it was supposed to happen. Instead, he fought the evil disease for nine months before finally taking his last breath. Just giving birth to my third child, I was an emotional wreck. Over the years, that pain had eased but never left. Now I was facing it again.

This time was different though. Mom and I had had a strained relationship ever since Dad had passed. Once extremely close, we had grown distant. Maybe that was why it didn’t hurt quite as bad. Or maybe it was because I had been through it once already, experiencing the pain once again.

Quickly running a paper towel over my face, I returned to the main room to find Leslie’s husband still reading his paper and my sisters talking to Mom. The two by the bed turned to look at me as I exited.

“We’re waiting on her meds,” Leslie stated.

“What are they?” I moved to sit on the foot of the bed, laying my hand on her leg and absently rubbing it.

“Morphine. It will help her sleep.”

I gave a slight nod. They wouldn’t have to give her much. Mom was sensitive to meds and felt their effect quickly.

Mom’s face was twisted in discomfort. Her insides were eaten up. Internal bleeding had continued for several weeks. Doctors had said she was too weak to face surgery. She hardly ate and her blood results had not been good. Add all that with her dementia and the doctors had decided to put her into hospice. Her body was just giving up.

I felt my insides twist. Denial raised its head and whispered to me. I pushed it back down into the dark recesses of my heart and closed the door. Now was not the time for all this. It was late, and I felt the exhaustion of the trip catching up to me.

A quick glance at my watch showed it was nearing eleven o’clock. Yep, I was tired.

The door to the room opened. A nurse walked in and gave us all a sweeping smile. In her hand was a syringe.

“Here ya go,” she said to Leslie in the Southern accent I once had.

“Thank you, Sally.”

The nurse handed the syringe to Leslie. “Let me know if you need anything else.” With that, she left.

I watched as Leslie administered the medicine. Mom winced as the needle broke through her skin. While she was strong against pain, her face always revealed her true feelings on the subject. Her face revealed much of her feelings whether she wanted them expressed or not.

That brought reality crashing forward. Mom was Mom even though she was dying. Her feelings always had to be accounted for. That was one reason for so much pain in the past, but did we have to deal with them in the present?