I’m up late, way too late. I have to go to work early tomorrow…make that later this morning. But my mom is in the hospital 700 miles away with a blood clot in her lung, and I don’t know if she’s going to be okay.
Nearly 30 years ago my stepdad died after heart surgery when a blood clot traveled from his leg to his heart and stopped his heart in the middle of the night. I remember getting that call, making the call to his ex-wife so she could tell his children, my mom in shock, unable to talk to anybody. I remember Jerry’s niece Rita calling. She couldn’t talk, she could only cry. Rita lost her husband on their honeymoon later that summer, and she herself died only a few years after that.
Funny the thoughts that go through your head when you’re feeling helpless.
Will I be making the long drive to see my mom again, or will she be able to take care of herself? She should have been taking aspirin after her surgery. Aspirin is a blood thinner. I don’t know if she was.
She called the doctor’s office because of what she described as a “knot” in her back, and they told her to go to the emergency room. She called me and said, “well, I don’t have a ride.” I told her to call 911. She said “okay, but I have to get to the bank first. I have a ride to the bank.” I told her to promise me she’d call 911. She promised.
Fifteen minutes later she called me and said the ambulance was on the way.
I called my brother. He’s taking over the phone calls in the morning. I’m grateful. I called him right after I talked to my mom, and we didn’t hear from her again for four hours.
He lives on yet another side of the country, so he can’t get there quickly either, plus he has a family.
I called him after my mom called me, and my niece, who’s 16, answered. I told her, “Grandma’s in the hospital,” and she gasped. I forgot, she’s just a kid. I quickly reassured her it was just for observation, downplayed any seriousness. My brother said she was okay. The kids lost their other grandma a few years ago and it was really hard for them. They don’t want to lose my mom, too.
Neither do I.