Every morning I drive past at least two or three signs for the hospital that is around the corner and down the street from both my office and Emily’s daycare. It is the hospital that my sister and I decided my mom should be admitted into; they are affiliated with, and have in-house, a very well rated Oncology program. We thought it was the best place for her so we could get her connected to a good Oncologist right off the bat (she did see one in the ER and he was wonderful). In hindsight, I realize that it didn’t matter what hospital she was admitted into. I think somehow her body knew that it was okay to let go once she was admitted; she could easily have gone into respiratory failure at home. But that would have meant a traumatic (well, more traumatic) experience for my dad which I think she didn’t want. She might have died had it happened at home, especially if it was that night since it snowed and the roads weren’t plowed until the next morning.
Driving past those signs every day used to be routine; occasionally I would wonder what it was like for people who had loved ones there, or had loved ones that passed away there. And now, I know. It’s hard some days, seeing those blue and white signs pointing me to the last place I saw my mom alive and happy. She had a good, although sometimes not so nice, sense of humor and it was good to see her laugh that night before she went into respiratory failure. She was in a good mood, actually ate her dinner and actually wanted to eat dinner which was a first in a long time. I also saw some joy on her face that Saturday, when she was lucid enough to look at pictures of my daughter. Those memories are happy ones and I hope that they pop up along with those hospital signs more often than the other memories I have of our time there.
The memories that pop up when I see that hospital sign tend to be some of the more mundane ones. Standing at the window by the snack machines in the waiting room for ICU, just waiting for someone else to come up or waiting there so my dad could have some time alone with her. Standing at that window, watching the snow or rain fall, talking on the phone to my best friend as he did what he could to make me laugh – we joked a lot about the quality of snacks there in the waiting room. Personally I am a strong believer in high quality beverages and snacks in the ICU waiting room but it would seem that hospitals don’t agree with me. I remember weird stuff like that, along with all of the other stuff that I do my best to not remember. Being the first one at the hospital after she was put on the respirator, being the one there to talk to the doctor about her condition and lack of improvement, watching my dad sit by her bedside day after day hoping for a miracle, all the stuff that you really don’t want to remember but your body forces you to in order to grieve and move on. I know that I’ll always remember those days but I hope they become hazy after a while. They’re pretty bright and clear right now, much like those hospital signs I pass daily, and I’d like them all to fade out so they are a fuzzy blue blob behind me.
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