Chapter Four #2
“I wasn’t aware of any of that,” I said, wanting to slip my hand over my mother’s fingers and stroke her pale skin. But I couldn’t take the rejection if she instinctively pulled away, so I folded my hands in my lap.
“Wait,” I said. Something in Dr. Bartlet’s statement gave me pause, and I mentally circled back. Mom first mentioned her diabetes a year or two ago, but the doctor said several. “How long ago?”
“Eleven years.”
My jaw sank open.
Alicia muttered something behind me. I didn’t understand her words, but the shock in her tone conveyed the sentiment.
“I had no idea,” I whispered.
“I see.” The doctor cleared her throat and waited for me to meet her gaze. When I did, she continued. “Trina developed high blood pressure and heart disease within a few years of the initial diagnosis. When her lifestyle didn’t change, she fell into liver failure.”
I grimaced, unable to properly process this news. “That can’t be right,” I said. “I see her a couple of times a month, and she’s never mentioned any of this.”
“Probably because she’s chosen denial over action,” Dr. Bartlet said. “Sometimes it’s easier to put your head in the sand than to deal with major health issues and massive lifestyle overhauls. It’s definitely not uncommon.”
“And she’s in liver failure,” I said, repeating the nonsensical words.
She nodded.
“What can I do to help? What’s the next step for her care?”
Dr. Bartlet inhaled slowly before she spoke again. “Trina is in end-stage liver failure now. We’ve discussed this at great length, and she understands that the only way to survive is via a transplant, for which her alcoholism makes her ineligible.”
I winced at the word I’d thought a thousand times but never dared speak aloud. Alcoholism. My mom drank too much. But I’d never let myself think about it too long or hard. It was easier to think of her relationship with liquor as a personality flaw. Just one of many.
Alicia set her hand on my shoulder. “What if she gets sober?”
The doctor shook her head. “I don’t think she has that kind of time.”
My mouth opened and a small, strangled sound emerged.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Truly. I wish I had better news.”
“Will she be admitted today?” Alicia asked.
“Yes, for observation,” Dr. Bartlet answered.
“We’ll give her fluids, regulate her blood sugar, then send her home with the usual instructions.
Your mother’s been in and out of this hospital a dozen times since her initial diagnosis, always under my care and treatment.
She’s tough, but she’s not invincible, and I’m afraid her negligence has caught up with her. ”
My ears rang, and my mouth dried. “There has to be something I can do.”
“It’s Trina’s choice,” she said. “Her life to live or—” She broke eye contact for the first time, and in that instant, I saw past the thinly veiled facade.
This woman cared for my mother. I supposed everyone in this profession cared for their patients on some level, but after more than a decade of appointments and medical interventions, I guessed she’d built a bond with my mom.
Yet my mother had never said a word to me. Not about Dr. Bartlet. Nor her terminal illness. Another reminder of where I stood on the scale of important things in her life.
“My best suggestion,” Dr. Bartlet said, “is to get her some in-home care.”
“Hospice?” I asked, but the voice didn’t sound like my own. The room tilted slightly, and I wished that this was just another one of my nightmares.
“Hospice is one option,” she said. “Any trained, attentive nurse would also be fine. Someone who can perform a quick daily check-in to chart her vitals and make sure she’s eating. The amount of care and attention can be increased as needed. Do you have any other questions?”
I shook my head as my mind filled with words I couldn’t speak. There wasn’t enough time in the day to get half the answers I wanted, and the waiting room was full of other people in need of a doctor.
My mom was comfortable and stable. Too many others were not.
Dr. Bartlet took her leave.
“Shit,” I whispered.
Alicia rounded the chair to crouch in front of me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, still searching for my voice.
“I’m going to call Camilla,” she said. “I’ll give her the update and let her know you’re . . . working through the blow.”
The room was eerily quiet without Alicia in it. I stared at Mom and examined the machines standing along her headboard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. About your health. About my real dad.
I supposed she didn’t trust me with her secrets. And these were big ones, not easy to say aloud.
I hovered a hand over hers, longing to share my strength, to let her know I was here and she wasn’t alone. But she wouldn’t want my touch, so I held my own hand on my lap. If Mom was awake, she’d tell me to leave. The ache in my desperate heart grew.
“Why won’t you let me know you?” I asked. Why don’t you want to know me?
I pulled the photo of my biological father from my pocket and examined it closely.
“How did you meet?” I asked. I wasn’t sure whom I was asking, Mom or the photo.
Both were equally unlikely to answer. “What did you have in common?” I continued.
“Did you communicate in English?” Or was Mom also secretly fluent in French?
“How long were you together?” Were you in love?
I had so many questions, and our time was limited now. I didn’t have twenty more years to convince her I was worth her time. I had to make the days count.
My breath quickened, and my stomach churned. Heat licked across my chest and up my neck to my cheeks.
I could fix this. I couldn’t stop it, but I could help. I could slow the process. I could clean Mom’s house and fill her fridge with healthy foods. I could find her hidden flasks and bottles and dump them down the drain.
I’d hire a home health aide immediately and get them on standby.
Dad left her with excellent insurance coverage. I just had to take control.
My mother would not die drunk and alone. She deserved so much better than that. Even if she didn’t think so.