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We get to Mom's room
ten minutes before shift change.
This time, the diaper is still fresh,
and no one has slipped her
the bedtime medications
before the dinner tray arrives,
so she can still recognize
we are stroking her hand, greeting her,
and she can still force a grin,
"Ok, ok, ok, OK, OK, OK, OK!"
that ends in a great grimace
showing her lower denture is out.
We have brought back the engagement ring.
Last visit, we saw the band was broken,
and we worked it over her knuckles,
upsetting her. Dad opens the tissue slowly,
holds the new-polished gold-and-diamond
close for Mom to see.
"Look what Dad has for you," I say.
Mom grabs Dad's wrist, pulls his hand
forward, aiming the ring for her mouth.
"Oh, oh," we say. "It's not for eating.
It's your ring. You remember, don't you?
Let him put it on your finger again."
We work the ring back over her knuckle.
Mom grins to grimace stage once again.
This she seems to understand.
We persuade her to seat her lower dentures.
We give her water in her new thermos.
It will be harder to chew apart than the old cup.
Our themes in the room counterpoint
the Reverend Jason at the end of the hall.
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
Dad borrows a marking pen from the nurses' station.
He writes Mom's name on the thermos cap,
the thermos bottom, the thermos cup.
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
An aide heads for the end of the hall.
The aide tells the reverend,
"You can't go out, now. It's raining today."
It is time for shift change. The aide wheels
the reverend into his room and closes the door.
"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO...."
Usually, he sings "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles."
I go to the water fountain to refill Mom's thermos.
Swing shift is signing in, taking report.
The Reverend Jason is wheeling back to the locked exit.
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
The charge nurse wheels him back to his room.
Through her straw, Mom sips the little thermos dry
in two minutes. I stroke her hand. I tell her
about the old photos we have found -- Mom in Duluth,
Mom in San Francisco, me -- at three months --
barebottomed, on a blanket. We laugh together.
We seem, almost, to connect.
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
The Reverend Jason is back at the locked exit.
Sister Cora Blaine, who usually paces the halls
in curious peace, has had her fill.
"Oh, Shut up! Open the door, my rear end!"
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
"OH DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE
TO OPEN THIS DOOR FOR ME!"
The charge nurse wheels him to the nurses' station.
"Now just relax. You'll be very sleepy soon."
The freeway traffic will be thickening.
Dad will feed Mom when the tray comes.
Mom grins goodbye, straining against our lips
as we kiss her forehead. This time,
she does not pinch or bite.
Dad hugs us goodbye.
Two aides wheel the Reverend Jason to his room.
"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO...."
They hoist him from chair to bed.
"GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL FOREVER FOR THIS!"
"GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL FOREVER FOR THIS!"
"GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL FOREVER FOR THIS!"
"Goodbye, Mom." "Goodbye, Dad."
"Lots of love. We'll be down again, soon."
The Reverend Jason, behind closed doors, still mourns:
"GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL FOREVER FOR THIS!"
Sister Cora Blaine steps past us in curious peace.
We head for the car. For us, some doors still open.
by R. S. Carlson
Professor, English
Azusa Pacific University
for my mother, Nell Widener Carlson (1913-1992)
First published in The Panhandler #30 (1994):14-17. [from the University of West Florida]
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Last updated: October 5, 1998
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