Hanging on

During my trip to New York, after losing a pint of blood, but before having my uterine lining scraped, I went to see Annajane. Her social worker Dorothy had called my cellphone just after I'd gotten off the plane, when I was sitting on the Q33 on the way to the subway. Apparently what little she managed to say had changed in tone: "It seemed like she might be trying to say goodbye." And Dorothy reiterated what Tim had said about her physical difficulties, how she was spending her days propped up in a geriatric chair with her head slumped over. They'd taken her over to the (regular) hospital again to see if they could find anything wrong with her neck (no), and they were worried that she might have a urinary tract infection.

The unit she's on now is not a geriatric unit. Hospital three has such a unit, but for now they think it's important to have her surrounded by familiar staff. When I got there, her geri chair was pulled up by the nurses' station; the nurse who had just changed her diapers was joking with her. They pushed the chair over to her room so that we could have some privacy. She hadn't eaten much lunch, so they asked me to help get her to drink some Ensure, which was in two styrofoam cups, each only half full. Despite her hand tremors, despite her neck pain, she could get the cup to her mouth and raise her head enough to drink—but she couldn't concentrate enough to keep doing it. They're worried she's lost weight since being admitted; I can't see how she could eat a substantial amount without being fed, and I don't know if she's being fed every meal.

It's hard to say how her condition now compares with last winter. Physically much worse, of course: the injuries, the fraility. They're making her get up to walk every two hours, to avoid pressure sores, and it's awfully scary when she is walking, even with an aide on either side. Mentally? She can enunciate more; she managed to finish sentences most of the time I was there. But she can't think about anything, anything but herself right now. Last February I could tell her stories and she would listen, even if she couldn't respond. Now her attention drifts off, and she goes straight back to her basic themes: "Only you can save me, Emmy. I'm so weak now, but you're so strong." There was a tangled set of memes around money, about various members of the hospital staff controlling the world, sort of standard paranoia. And then there was the need.

She could not let go of my hands, the entire time I was there. It was difficult to go ask the nurses questions, because I had to disentangle myself each time. I could only get her to let me leave by reiterating how I'd be back at Thanksgiving, how soon that was. "You've given me something to hope for."

When I left, it was just starting to get dark. I walked to the train station. The hospital sits in a landscaped park (for which I'm sure its suburban neighbors are grateful). The main drive, no longer open to cars, is lined with mature Japanese maples, perhaps 20 feet tall, and big dark pine trees. I'd noticed the maples last summer and been impressed only by their size; the foliage was, for the most part, plain green. But the climate there is gentler than in Ohindinois, so their fall colors were still there: tapestries of red and yellow, thrown bright against the green of the pines by the remaining light.

She's only 61. Sitting crushed on a pile of pillows in a geri chair, she looks ancient. One of her grandmothers lived to 95; the other, to 84. Her mother is 89 and going strong. I think the staff are worried that she's trying to starve herself. I can't believe she's suicidal; she never has been before. But she's also never been in protracted pain before. I don't know how much they can do for her shoulder, and I worry that it might heal crookedly, in a way that only accentuates her scoliosis. Her tiny, tiny bones, and the medication-induced tremors, are trapping her, way before her time, perhaps even way before her tired, tired mind.

While I was there, she said her shoulder hurts less when she's lying down. Nanna and Ricky went to see her this weekend and said she was in bed when they got there. I hope that's a good thing. I was worried that she'd blow my cover (my family doesn't know about the trips to Cornell), but, of course, she's not that articulate. It sounded like she was having more trouble finishing sentences when they were there. Nanna is extremely sad.

Comments

[bitchphd]

I'm so sorry. This sounds just awful. That picture of her hands, she looks so frail...

[selzach]

I'm so sorry, too.