Eye of Newt

My ninety year old mother fell. Again. This time she broke her leg. Or should I say her other leg; this is the second leg she has broken this year. My mother is tough as nails and she’ll recover. But it’s not just the recuperation weeks, it’s the time spent in the ER with her that I find grueling. “You know this is all bullshit,” she will inevitably say while we sit in a cold, sterile room waiting for someone to see us. “I have a broken leg. I can feel it. I just need to lie in bed for a month and it will heal.”

“Okay Mom,” I will say, exasperated, “but you need to see a doctor first.”

“Why?” she will snap. “So he can tell me what I already know? That I need to stay here,” she will say, waving her arm dramatically and dismissively around the small ER holding room where they deposited us after the ambulance ride “so this circus can make more money off of me before I die?”

“Yes,” I will respond as I always do. “That's why we’re here. To see the circus. I hope they have elephants.”

As we were bantering, a nurse bustled into our room. “And how are you feeling?” she asked my mother, leaning down close to her and speaking in an exceedingly loud voice, as most are wont to do with the elderly.

“I'd feel much better if you would stop screaming at me. I have a broken leg. I'm not deaf!” she growled at the nurse (Gloria according to her name tag) who retreated from my mother quickly, as if stung by a wasp. “For God's sake at least try to be civil,” I wanted to scream. “The poor girl is just trying to do her job!” But I didn’t make a peep. Instead I did what I always do with my mother in the hospital. I walked behind her wheelchair, held my hands up in exasperation and rolled my eyes heavenwards as if to signal “I'm so sorry” to whatever poor employee has been sent in to deal with us. 

“We've got a live one in six,” I imagine them gossiping at the nurses station, “who's gonna take it?”

Inevitably it will be some kind young nurse who will be sacrificed for the cause, and into our room she or he will march.

Gloria looked a bit stunned but recovered quickly. “Well good! You're not deaf. That will make my job a lot easier.” She asked my mother a bunch of questions (which I answered, since Mother was now sulking) and then she left. 

The next nurse who came in was a no-nonsense young man named Patrick. With the help of a huge burly aide he lifted my mother out of her wheelchair (on a sheet turned into a hammock) and placed her onto the hospital bed. Understandably she screamed in agony throughout the transfer. Then her body just sort of went limp, and, to my great relief, she either passed out from pain or fell asleep.

Patrick and the aide walked out and I was left alone once again with my sleeping mother. I regarded her regal profile as she rested and thought “if I can look like that when I’m ninety, sign me up.” After about ten minutes she came to, still in considerable pain. “I have to get out of here,” she moaned. “you have to get me out of here.”

“Don't you want some painkillers first?” I asked her. At that she perked up. “Like what?” she groaned. She was glaring at me but underneath the anger and frustration I saw a clear glimmer of interest. My mother and I have always been big fans of anything that will numb any sort of pain - physical, emotional or psychological.

“I’ll get you the good stuff,” I promised her as I left the room to find someone to help us. I found Patrick almost running down the hallway on his way to another patient in need and told him what was going on. “I'll be right in,” he assured me and disappeared. Half an hour later he charged into our room, all eagerness and a desire to please.

“So Iris.” He, just like Gloria, bent down close to my mother and spoke loudly.

“Her hearing is fine,” I almost shouted as my mother shot daggers at him with her eyes. “Okay,” he said in a soft and appeasing tone, “what can I do for you fine young ladies?”

At this my mother rolled her eyes at both of us as if to say “why is everyone so stupid?” and then closed them. “My mother is in a lot of pain. I know we are waiting for a doctor but the x-ray says she has a broken leg and she...we...would like something for that.”

“Not a problem,” Patrick said as he walked over to a computer that was on a stand in the corner. “Let's get to it. Who is your mom's primary physician?” Patrick asked, fingers poised delicately over the keyboard. My mother, familiar with this routine by now, cracked her eyes open like a lizard and gave a little smirk, seemingly interested in what would happen next.

“Umm...ah..my mom doesn't have a doctor right now,” I said apologetically. 

“Okay, then who was her last primary care physician?” Patrick asked patiently.

“Well...I think she had a doctor in the 1970s. Or the 60s? I don't know. Maybe? I mean I never saw her go to the doctor or talk about one. She…ah...she doesn't really…umm…has never really…ah…believed in doctors,” I croaked, aware that I was talking to a professional who had made medicine his life. 

Patrick raised one eyebrow sharply “Well. That's interesting. Iris?” He turned to my mother who was now staring at the ceiling, obviously bored with our conversation. “It says here that you are ninety years old, don't have a doctor, have never really had a doctor as an adult, and don't take any meds except something for high blood pressure which you just started this year. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Then, rising enough to prop herself up on one elbow she turned slightly towards Patrick, gave him a scathing, sweeping once-over,

and hissed “I don't go in for that sort of stuff.” As if modern medicine was not modern medicine at all but some sort of weird and disgusting Eyes Wide Shut orgy.

“What kind of ‘stuff’? he asked her, obviously amused now.

“Don't give me a hard time. You know what I mean,” she said with finality, and with that she lay back down.

Patrick turned to me. “How does someone get to be ninety years old without seeing doctors or taking medication?” he asked with real interest. 

“I stayed away from places like this and people like you for my whole life, thats how!” my mother almost shouted from the bed. 

Patrick burst out laughing but my mother and I were quiet. “It's true,” I told Patrick. “My mother told me a long time ago ‘if it can't be fixed with scotch it can't be fixed at all.’ That's sort of her motto.

“Oh. I see,” Patrick said with an attempt at professionalism - but I could tell he was still trying not to laugh. 

“Well then, Iris,” he turned to her once more. “What do you ‘go in for’?” But Iris was done with Patrick so I stepped in.

“Oh. She…umm...she was a fan of alternative remedies. You know, things like healers. Gurus. Homeopathy. Reiki for aches and pains and garlic sandwiches for a cold. Apple cider vinegar for immunity. A lot of sprouts and black bread, herb tinctures...you know...things like that. Hippie stuff.”

“Is scotch on that list too?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes. Of course it is,” I said, knowing that scotch had indeed been all the medicine my mother needed for years to keep her demons an arms length away from consuming her alive. 

“Well then,” he said, typing some information into the computer while glancing occasionally at me or my mother. Finally he was done and I imagined my mother's chart now reading “Stubborn old lady. Great bone structure. Strong like ox. Will live forever.”

“All right then,” Patrick addressed my mother directly. “The doctor says that I can give you something for the pain but as you don't ‘go in for’ modern medicine why don’t we skip the morphine and I'll hook you up to an eye of newt drip to make you more comfortable.”

At this I burst out laughing but stopped cold as my mother shot me a look with her “shut up” eyes that I know so well.

“That would be great,” I mumbled as I followed him out into the hall. “She would love some morphine,” I told Patrick. “She’s in agony.”

“Don't worry. I'm on it.” And he was. Patrick was back in ten minutes and hooked my mother up to a morphine drip.

“Where’s mine?” I asked Patrick. He laughed dismissively, oblivious to the fact that I was only half kidding.

After my mother’s IV was started and the drugs started to work their magic I followed Patrick into the hall to thank him. I also needed an excuse to run across the street for another cup of coffee. I knew I would be in that ER with my mother for hours and hours to come. I would need all the caffeine I could ingest.

“She'll rest now,” Patrick told me “and she'll be fine. She’ll have to stay in bed for several weeks and once the bone is stable she will start PT.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed. “That is exactly what she said would happen. Mother knows best!”

Patrick stopped walking and turned to face me. “Are you okay?” he asked, but I couldn't answer. I suddenly felt so overwhelmed I just wanted to cry. “She's funny, your mom. Has she always been like that?” And I knew exactly what he meant by “like that.”

“Yes.” I whispered. Afraid to say more.

“Well, that can't have been easy on you growing up, but she’s quite a character. I hope you know that.”

“Yes. I do know that. And who doesn't love a character?” I asked Patrick as I walked out of the emergency room and into the glaring sunlight of the bustling everyday world outside.