If you read last week’s post, you’ll know that I’ve been having to spend some time at the hospital where Mario spent his last few days. Shortly after posting that, I had gone to visit and the nurses in the ICU told me they were moving my mom to a room in the PCU (progressive care unit). I seriously held my breath waiting for them to say the room number … PCU 15. I let out a sign of relief. I told them I’d walk over there and just wait for them to wheel my mom’s bed to the room.
I now had the perfect excuse to go by PCU 13. The closer I got, my brain was firing off memories of walking down that hallway that fateful night. I walked out of that room that night a widowed person, leaving Mario’s physical form behind as his spirit left his body and hopefully into a fantastic realm far away from the earthly trauma of that hospital. I did give him specific instructions not to, “hang around in this place” after all. Mario, much like Elvis, had (hopefully) left the building.
PCU 13 had a new occupant that night and the door was closed (often, if there’s a closed door in the hospital, it’s not always a good thing). I stared at the plaque with the room number on it for a few moments, passed 14 and turned into 15 to wait. When they wheeled my mom in and got her settled, I waited a bit, then said to her that Mario had been in the room one down from hers. She gave me a solemn, “oh”.
Neither her or my dad came to visit Mario in the hospital. My dad had actually gave me the reason that he didn’t want to see him like that and wanted to remember the happier version. My mom and him had often butted heads … two Taurus bulls who were both stubborn as hell and hated to be told what to do. A few months earlier, they had an argument over email and didn’t really say much to each other after that.
A couple days later and there was another room change up to the 3rd floor, which has all the regular hospital rooms. This time I was holding my breath that it wouldn’t be 309, where my dad spent his final hours. Lucked out again and it was 325. My mom did of course visit my dad during his 9 day, final hospital stay, but not that last night. She stayed at home, kind of in denial that this was the end for him. I don’t really judge anyone for not visiting someone in the hospital, especially the dying. It’s tough. But there are almost always regrets too. A couple years after Mario department, my mom said to me one day, “I should have gone down there to see him one last time and support you”. I did appreciate that.
Monday when I visited my mom, I’d noticed the room across the hall was vacated. I hope it was a discharge and not a departure. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people who have passed in such a liminal place as a hospital. No matter what room you’re in, you can almost bet that someone took their last breath there. The first night my mom was in the ICU, in the room next door there was a women crying. Not normal crying, but that, my god, this is the end kind of crying. When walking out I could see her sitting on the hospital bed, completely enveloped in a hug by someone who obviously loved her. It’s just heart wrenching. I don’t know how the doctors and nurses do their jobs without taking an emotional hit every time someone doesn’t pull through.
My mom will probably never make a full recovery from this, but she has made some progress this week. I’m just hoping that she can gain a little independence back and live out her remaining days without pain and exhaustion.
