She thinks of me more than I do myself. She gives and gives. I wonder why, then I think, because she's my mother.
Were you ever zonked out of your mind? Have you ever been so out of it that you're a danger to yourself and others? I get that way without the medication. The day came, again, for me to be hospitalized and I fought it tooth and nail. I was in the Emergency Room of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I should know the routine by now, but the thoughts don't let you accept it. Mommy, Daddy and I were there again, but this time I wasn't sitting still. Too much energy? Too much balls? Maybe just too afraid. I bolted out of the Emergency Room. No guards could hold me. Even when my father grabbed me, I shook him off the way a horse shakes off flies. I was out of there.
But you know, even though it was six or so in the morning, and even though I'm an adult, Mommy was following behind me. You wouldn't believe the energy in this sixty-five year old woman. It made me think of the days she took us camping: How she hiked the Appalachian Trail with us. Now in Glen Oaks, she hiked through suburbia to catch up to me. Out of my head I marched on. I didn't have a destination, just a desire to be somewhere else.
She caught up to me on Union Turnpike, way down by Creedmoor Hospital. She didn't swear at me, laugh at me or even ask what I was doing. I remember what she said: "I love you!"
My mother went into the hospital. She went there a few times before, but I wondered how serious this was. Paul, my brother, relayed the information to me over the phone. "They ran a CAT Scan, hundreds of other tests. We should be home in an hour or so if everything checks out."
But everything didn't check out or so it seemed. They kept her overnight. I wondered whether she might not come back. Is that concern or paranoia? But she's seventy five now. Is she still strong enough to tame those mountain peaks? I don't know. I thought back to that summer when my folks partied at their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. Really it was a forty nine and a half celebration. Since they got married in the winter, folks might not come out in the cold weather. Then I wondered whether she'd be here for the real date.
I had to return to "the scene of the crime": Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I wasn't a patient this time. I was a visitor. Hospitals give me a strange feeling. Sick people look terrible. Probably the pain distorts their faces. But I was glad to see Mommy. I didn't judge or ask embarrassing questions. She didn't do that to me. You know just what I said.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tribute
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tribute
She thinks of me more than I do myself. She gives and gives. I wonder why, then I think, because she's my mother.
Were you ever zonked out of your mind? Have you ever been so out of it that you're a danger to yourself and others? I get that way without the medication. The day came, again, for me to be hospitalized and I fought it tooth and nail. I was in the Emergency Room of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I should know the routine by now, but the thoughts don't let you accept it. Mommy, Daddy and I were there again, but this time I wasn't sitting still. Too much energy? Too much balls? Maybe just too afraid. I bolted out of the Emergency Room. No guards could hold me. Even when my father grabbed me, I shook him off the way a horse shakes off flies. I was out of there.
But you know, even though it was six or so in the morning, and even though I'm an adult, Mommy was following behind me. You wouldn't believe the energy in this sixty-five year old woman. It made me think of the days she took us camping: How she hiked the Appalachian Trail with us. Now in Glen Oaks, she hiked through suburbia to catch up to me. Out of my head I marched on. I didn't have a destination, just a desire to be somewhere else.
She caught up to me on Union Turnpike, way down by Creedmoor Hospital. She didn't swear at me, laugh at me or even ask what I was doing. I remember what she said: "I love you!"
My mother went into the hospital. She went there a few times before, but I wondered how serious this was. Paul, my brother, relayed the information to me over the phone. "They ran a CAT Scan, hundreds of other tests. We should be home in an hour or so if everything checks out."
But everything didn't check out or so it seemed. They kept her overnight. I wondered whether she might not come back. Is that concern or paranoia? But she's seventy five now. Is she still strong enough to tame those mountain peaks? I don't know. I thought back to that summer when my folks partied at their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. Really it was a forty nine and a half celebration. Since they got married in the winter, folks might not come out in the cold weather. Then I wondered whether she'd be here for the real date.
I had to return to "the scene of the crime": Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I wasn't a patient this time. I was a visitor. Hospitals give me a strange feeling. Sick people look terrible. Probably the pain distorts their faces. But I was glad to see Mommy. I didn't judge or ask embarrassing questions. She didn't do that to me. You know just what I said.
Were you ever zonked out of your mind? Have you ever been so out of it that you're a danger to yourself and others? I get that way without the medication. The day came, again, for me to be hospitalized and I fought it tooth and nail. I was in the Emergency Room of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I should know the routine by now, but the thoughts don't let you accept it. Mommy, Daddy and I were there again, but this time I wasn't sitting still. Too much energy? Too much balls? Maybe just too afraid. I bolted out of the Emergency Room. No guards could hold me. Even when my father grabbed me, I shook him off the way a horse shakes off flies. I was out of there.
But you know, even though it was six or so in the morning, and even though I'm an adult, Mommy was following behind me. You wouldn't believe the energy in this sixty-five year old woman. It made me think of the days she took us camping: How she hiked the Appalachian Trail with us. Now in Glen Oaks, she hiked through suburbia to catch up to me. Out of my head I marched on. I didn't have a destination, just a desire to be somewhere else.
She caught up to me on Union Turnpike, way down by Creedmoor Hospital. She didn't swear at me, laugh at me or even ask what I was doing. I remember what she said: "I love you!"
My mother went into the hospital. She went there a few times before, but I wondered how serious this was. Paul, my brother, relayed the information to me over the phone. "They ran a CAT Scan, hundreds of other tests. We should be home in an hour or so if everything checks out."
But everything didn't check out or so it seemed. They kept her overnight. I wondered whether she might not come back. Is that concern or paranoia? But she's seventy five now. Is she still strong enough to tame those mountain peaks? I don't know. I thought back to that summer when my folks partied at their Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary. Really it was a forty nine and a half celebration. Since they got married in the winter, folks might not come out in the cold weather. Then I wondered whether she'd be here for the real date.
I had to return to "the scene of the crime": Long Island Jewish Medical Center. I wasn't a patient this time. I was a visitor. Hospitals give me a strange feeling. Sick people look terrible. Probably the pain distorts their faces. But I was glad to see Mommy. I didn't judge or ask embarrassing questions. She didn't do that to me. You know just what I said.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment