After the Storm
It's a scene Norman Rockwell might have painted for the cover of the “New England Journal of Medicine.” Norma is lying in her bed, eyes closed, wearing a pale blue Black Dog T-shirt, her arms crossed beneath her estimable bosom. (Ah, the memories.) I, the crusty codger, sit beside the bed in her wheel chair, my chin resting on my right fist, my left arm reaching for the comfort of a gin and tonic. In the background, Willie Nelson is singing “Moonlight in Vermont.” If we could just be freeze-framed in this moment, it would be a good way to die.
The afternoon has been turbulent. Each Monday, Wednesday and Friday, our daughter-in-law Jewel comes out from Nashville from 2 to 6 p.m. to care for Norma and allow me to nap or do chores. Throughout Norma's decline, Jewel has been a life saver. Anyway, I was so deep in sleep that my dreams were echoing when Jewel knocked on the door to tell me that Norma had collapsed in the hallway and was too unresponsive to get up, even with her help. Norma is a 110-pound wraith, but Jewel and I despaired of getting her back on her feet without her putting some weight on her legs.
If there was a good side to this calamity it was that Norma never lost consciousness. She complained that she was cold, particularly her hands. So while Jewel ran for a pillow to put under her head, I covered her with a blanket and rubbed her hands. We called all three kids—Erin, Jason and Rachel—all of whom live within a 45-minute drive, described Norma's symptoms and debated if we should summon an ambulance. Since Norma had no chest pains and all her limbs were moving, we decided a trip to the hospital was unnecessary—that we'd just leave her lying in the hallway until she felt better and keep her as comfortable as we could.
A half hour or so later, she said she wanted to get up. We helped her to the dining room table where Jewel, among her other magic tricks, had laid out a nice supper. Norma rejected it all, save for a peanut butter cookie, which she devoured with a rapturous look. Jewel left for home, and Norma and I settled down for an evening of unremarkable TV. As I followed the contrived intricacies of a “Dateline” episode, Norma shifted about restlessly on the sofa and hissed my name every time I nodded off. Finally, she asked to go to bed. I could hardly conceal my delight at being left alone, but she awakened a few minutes after retiring and called out to me. I placated her by putting in a FaceTime call to Erin. .
After the call, she now seemed in good spirits/ Color had returned to her face, and she smiled broadly when I put on a pair of her sunglasses and pretended I was trying to sell her a used car. “Your hair looks good,” she told me. Then she closed her eyes, and I summoned Norman Rockwell to capture the calm.