DAY 1: part 1
The last 12 hours have been a blur, a numb yet painful blur. Following a delayed flight, early closure of the tube and an arduous trek home I entered the apartment that I share with my mother. I am not greeted at the door by an excited sheep-like dog or a cat capable of Pavarotti-esque Arias. It’s eerily quiet. It suddenly dawns on me that I don’t even hear my mother’s usual nasal symphony of snores. Turning the light on, I peer down the hallway towards my room. Before my eyes can make it all the way to end they stop suddenly, trying to translate what they see. There, where they should not be, are my mother’s legs poking out of her bedroom door. Panic sets in immediately as I run to her. She is laid there motionless, in a puddle of her own urine, foaming at the mouth. On the bed is a note which reads “I can’t take it any more…” along with an impressive collection of empty prescription pill packets. I can’t believe she’s done THIS again. She has tried to commit suicide again. Selfish bitch. AGAIN.
I turn her over to find she is conscious. Screaming and crying I ask her what she has done. She does not answer me. She stares at me vacantly whilst I try to lift her into my arms and fail epically. Her dead weight coupled with my panic; were getting nowhere. What’s the fucking number for the emergency services? I’m in France. I have no clue. I call the operator frantically trying to explain what I need. He is useless. I repeat over and over again “Ambulance, the number for the ambulance, to take her to the hospital.” He gives me an erroneous number. I try the operator again, this time armed with the number I need. They are on their way.
Mom is grabbing the door with her left hand trying to pull herself up without any luck. She grabs my arm, pulling me down to the ground and slaps her right arm with it. I don’t know how long she has been laid on it. I assume it has fallen asleep. Sitting on the floor, I pull her into my lap and caress her hair. I’m seething with anger, overwhelmed by her betrayal and scared. The ten minutes it takes the ambulance to get here pass in slow motion, feeling like days. The medics come in, getting right to it. Minutes later a police officer pops his curious head round the corner. He and his partner have let themselves into my home. Who fucking called them? What are they doing here? They treat me like a criminal, following me in the ambulance to the hospital then taking the letter I found, leaving me with a photocopy. They only leave once they have my statement. Confusion has now set in along with the shock.
The waiting room is empty yet claustrophobic. A nurse tells me to wait; I will be summoned to see my mother once everything has calmed down. She returns an hour later with little information. They are running test as they do not believe she has overdosed. I am told that she is unresponsive despite the measures they have taken. I wait some more. Finally, the doctor invites me in. He sits me down in front of a monitor and explains the image. This is my mother’s brain. The left hemisphere appears dark, meaning there is no activity. It suddenly becomes clear to me; she has suffered a stroke.
The doctor states that they cannot treat her here so we will be transferred to another hospital better equipped to deal with this. It is 12 miles out of town, there will be an ambulance to take us shortly. The medics are nice but I have nothing to say. I remember arriving at the hospital but not the journey. They tell me to wait in the hallway whilst they escort my mother into ‘Reanimation’. Someone should be out soon to update me on her condition. Numerous doctors, interns and nurses pass me without saying a word, avoiding any eye contact. Not one person is fazed by my hysterical crying. The time passes so slowing, especially as I’m productively using my time to lay blame on myself. How could I think she was going to commit suicide? How did I not know it was a stroke? If only I hadn’t gone away for the weekend to enjoy myself I would have been here for her. Now I’m the selfish bitch.
Two and a half hours later a timid nurse finally asks me what I am doing here. I tell her I came in with my mother, the medics told me to wait here and that I would be updated. Her face drops. She was under the impression that my mother had been taken in on her own. She is frantically apologetic as she drags me into the unit. I barely recognise my own mother. Her face is swollen like a balloon. I only get enough time to squeeze her hand before she is carted away to have a part of her skull removed. They tell me to go home. Home? I don’t even know where I am. Several interns talk at me, directing me with the accuracy of a child in a forest without a compass. All I gather from the exercise is that I am to get a bus from the bottom of the hill. I somehow manage to find my way home in autopilot, sobbing and drawing attention to myself, wearing a heavy sweater and scrubs in the sweltering Mediterranean summer heat.
So here I am now, an emotional mess, trying to pluck up the courage to inform my family of the recent events.
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