When you're slightly scrambled, talking helps

I was scrambling some hamburger on the stove. Scrambling. That’s a word my Nana, my dad’s mom, would use to describe the act of breaking up a brick of ground beef and frying it until it was almost black. I was just about to add in some spinach and diced onions when the phone rang. 

It was my mom. Disconcerting. She rarely calls. Last few years, she hardly calls anyone anymore. She used to be a huge phoniac. I like that. Nana gets scrambling and today I get phoniac. Works for me. 

She, my mom, would sit at the kitchen table, light up one butt, then another and so on, and chat on our harvest gold phone for hours with one of her sisters, or her friend Meg, or one of the Marys, or God knows who else. Then one by one the sisters died, then Meg, and now there’s just one Mary. 

My mom avoids phone talk with her and everyone else because it brings forth her craving for nicotine. Smoking and talking on the phone went hand in hand way back when my mom’s lungs were clear. Then came her cancer diagnosis. She quit smoking, and pretty much gave up anything remotely connected to cigarettes, particularly reading and extended phone talk.   

When I heard my mother’s voice, I went into high alert mode. Also, there was the shaking.  

“Hey, mom. How are things?” 

“Well.” Pause. “I don’t know.” Wow. That shaking in her voice came through loud and clear.  

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know whether to call 911 or not.” She started to explain.

I interrupted. “Call now. Hang up.” 

She continued.  It was my dad. As she described what happened, I heard him yelling at her in the background, telling her he was fine and to get off the phone.  

I stopped her. “If you don’t call, I’m calling.”

“Would you?” 

“Yup. I’m calling and I’ll be right over.” 

I dialed 911 and got a busy signal. I looked at the phone and said, “What the fuck?”  I dialed again. Busy again. “Shit. What the fuck?”

My daughter took the phone from my hand, which wouldn’t stop shaking.  “You didn’t hang up first,” she said. She hit the off button.

I punched 911 again. She hit 911 on her cell phone too. We both got through right away. 

I grabbed my coat, keys, phone charger (always bring the phone charger because you don’t know how long you’ll be gone) and sped off. I got to their house just as a group of our city's finest was loading my dad into the ambulance. They said his vitals were good and to take our time getting to the hospital. 

While my mom changed her clothes, I called my kids and put away the dinner fixings. Like me, my parents had been getting supper ready too.  

We went to the hospital and all was fine. Maybe I should say all was typical. Nobody died. There were some IVs, some med changes, a few overnights for him, then home, then follow-up tests and appointments. 

That’s the way it was most of 2013. That’s the way it will be for awhile, I’m guessing.  Things aren’t likely to get better. Hopefully, things will level out for a few weeks or maybe months. Fingers crossed. 

I’m not writing this for pity. Not writing this for praise either. I’m writing this because I want to put it out there. I think both praise and pity could diminish or falsify the situation or make people think I’m something that I’m not. All I’m trying to do here is record things as honestly and respectfully as I can.

I adore my mother and father and respect them more than I could ever put into words. Maybe that’s why this is how I interpreted my mother’s call. It took me just two seconds to figure out that my mom was calling me out of love and respect for my dad. She knew he didn’t want her to call 911. She wanted to honor his wishes. She knew I would take the burden off her. She knew I’d call 911. 

The phone call to me cost us just a matter of seconds which, luckily this time, didn’t make a difference. This time. 

The three of us had a frank discussion later on about calling 911 even in doubt.  I was harsh. I stayed respectful, but my tone was hard. I told both of them about a friend’s relative who died in circumstances just slightly different from the one we’d just gotten through. I spared no detail. I hope my dad heard me. I’m not sure he did. 

I know my mom. I think she wanted me to say what I said, wanted me to say it in front of my dad, and wanted me to be as angry – softly angry? – as I was.  

“Dial 911 first. Always. I get the second phone call. Right?” 

She nodded.

  

There’s a creep factor here I guess, because I’m making this public to a certain extent, and some folks might think this is too much information to be sharing. I can see that. I sort of feel that way too.  

But I see this too: There’s a void out there for those of us dealing with this stuff. For lots of reasons, including privacy and respect, people are reluctant to share when they’re dealing with ill elders.  I notice many are quite willing to share well after they’ve gone through this process, which I deeply appreciate. It makes me feel less alone.

There are so many members of my generation, the baby boomers, coping in private with terribly painful things. Due to concerns about protecting and respecting our loved ones, we mostly don’t come right out and talk about them. Some people have supportive family members who are going through this with them. They can all chat together and share stories.

As for the rest of us. Well, we keep it to ourselves or type online, or talk quietly in passing at the gym or sometimes over coffee or wine. There’s a lot we feel compelled to keep hush hush.

  

Why I’m writing this today is because I don’t think we always need to, and sometimes, I have to tell. I don’t think it’s a sign of disrespect to put out there that we’re struggling or that we feel weak, or that we forgot to turn off the phone before we dialed for help. 

I think it IS a tough line to walk, showing respect and staying private for our loved ones while at the same time sharing what we need to share. I think it can be done though. I hope I have today at least. I know I left a ton of details out. Yet I want to be frank about the challenges I face. 

I’m not complaining. I’m not looking for a pat on the back. I’m sharing. It helps me to write things out. It helps when I "talk" like this. The way I see it, when we help ourselves we’re ultimately helping everyone who depends on us.  

Well, will you lookee here. I started off scrambled and got to exactly where I needed to be.