[morning snapshot]
they take her in just after 9am. the nurse with the horse face and green scarf squeaks off on the polished floor. "she'll be a couple of hours." the waiting room television is set to banal morning talkshows. i stare at my shoulders-down reflection in the double glazing on the eleventh floor. 11E: endoscopy.
i have a vague idea of what will happen to her, from the very first indignity of the cold, backless gown, to the agony of a bowel inflated with air and explored.
a nurse brings an old woman out to watch the television. she applies bright pink lipstick with the aid of a small mirror.
i know my mother is afraid: of the pain, of the shame, of what the kind doctor will discover: the new way in which her body is betraying her. they won't let me in with her and so i can only hope that her knowing i am here helps in some way.
{the last time we were in this hospital we came through casualty and i stayed by her side. vomiting, injections, bedpans, and the horror of the insertion of the drainage tube. i will *never* let them do that to her again while she is conscious. she spent the night in casualty and i stayed on the floor by her bed. no one asked me to leave. i think they knew i couldn't.
the man on the ventilator, wheezing in the darkness; the woman who screamed when they reset her broken ankle; the pale faces of the couple who'd had a miscarriage and the hushed voice of the nurse explaining the evacuation procedure--these were my companions.
my mother is a strong woman and more than her illness, i was frightened of her weakness and helplessness. i was frightened of having to be the strong one.}
it is 9:30 and i go down to the coffee shop at the main entrance. i drink orange juice and eat a hotdog as if i am a normal person, as if doing so will not disrupt my brain chemistry and create havoc in my intestines. the tables are filled singly or in pairs. the man behind my left shoulder chews sloppily and shuffles what sounds like a deck of cards but probably isn't. he slurps his milkshake through a straw. i stare into the windows of the giftshop--an assortment of stuffed animals stares back at me and rows of boxes of chocolates present their nutritional information. i'm tempted to flip through "backstreet boys, the illustrated story", nestled behind "bambi: it's naptime". my tongue is still scalded by the hot chocolate i drank an hour ago. i read some more of "in translation" and know that in my distracted state i am not doing it justice. i wish i'd brought my camera.
the heat and filtered sunlight mingle with the murmur of voices and work on me like a soporific. i've now been awake for five hours and i'd like to lay my head on my arms and sleep.
they take her in just after 9am. the nurse with the horse face and green scarf squeaks off on the polished floor. "she'll be a couple of hours." the waiting room television is set to banal morning talkshows. i stare at my shoulders-down reflection in the double glazing on the eleventh floor. 11E: endoscopy.
i have a vague idea of what will happen to her, from the very first indignity of the cold, backless gown, to the agony of a bowel inflated with air and explored.
a nurse brings an old woman out to watch the television. she applies bright pink lipstick with the aid of a small mirror.
i know my mother is afraid: of the pain, of the shame, of what the kind doctor will discover: the new way in which her body is betraying her. they won't let me in with her and so i can only hope that her knowing i am here helps in some way.
{the last time we were in this hospital we came through casualty and i stayed by her side. vomiting, injections, bedpans, and the horror of the insertion of the drainage tube. i will *never* let them do that to her again while she is conscious. she spent the night in casualty and i stayed on the floor by her bed. no one asked me to leave. i think they knew i couldn't.
the man on the ventilator, wheezing in the darkness; the woman who screamed when they reset her broken ankle; the pale faces of the couple who'd had a miscarriage and the hushed voice of the nurse explaining the evacuation procedure--these were my companions.
my mother is a strong woman and more than her illness, i was frightened of her weakness and helplessness. i was frightened of having to be the strong one.}
it is 9:30 and i go down to the coffee shop at the main entrance. i drink orange juice and eat a hotdog as if i am a normal person, as if doing so will not disrupt my brain chemistry and create havoc in my intestines. the tables are filled singly or in pairs. the man behind my left shoulder chews sloppily and shuffles what sounds like a deck of cards but probably isn't. he slurps his milkshake through a straw. i stare into the windows of the giftshop--an assortment of stuffed animals stares back at me and rows of boxes of chocolates present their nutritional information. i'm tempted to flip through "backstreet boys, the illustrated story", nestled behind "bambi: it's naptime". my tongue is still scalded by the hot chocolate i drank an hour ago. i read some more of "in translation" and know that in my distracted state i am not doing it justice. i wish i'd brought my camera.
the heat and filtered sunlight mingle with the murmur of voices and work on me like a soporific. i've now been awake for five hours and i'd like to lay my head on my arms and sleep.