Complete loss of balance.
Fell in airport bathroom.
Slurred speech.
Left side paralysis. Face. Arm. Leg.
Agitated.
I told them she’s eighty-eight! No woman, regardless of condition, wants to be aged beyond her years. I know Mrs. Eisenberg would not be pleased with how she’s been described. I would have thrown in classy, sassy, and definitely not happy if this is her send-off to meet up with her beloved Eddie.
“I’m coming with her.” My right lower leg is still not cooperating as I try to get up off the floor.
“Are you two family?” the young female paramedic asks while trying to maneuver as quickly as possible out of the bathroom.
“Do I look like I’m family?” I respond, my worry coming out as snark while hobbling after the gurney.
“Sure,” she guesses, like I’m the bigot to her woke Gen Zness that doesn’t see color. Before I defend myself to someone I will never see again once we reach the ER, I realize she’s not wrong. Mrs. Eisenberg’s Black grandson is probably already at the hospital, barking out orders, awaiting our arrival. “As long as it’s okay with her.” We both look to Mrs. Eisenberg, allowing her one small piece of control over her unknown fate.
After a purposeful blink of her watery eyes, I say, “It is,” because that’s enough of ayesfor me.
I abandon my cart at the bathroom entrance, and I shuffle alongside the rolling bed as the swath of travelers parts so we can make our way through the terminal and down the lengthy United walkway that leads out the arrivals doors to what I suspect is a waiting ambulance. As inappropriate as I know it is, I choke back a teary laugh. If Mrs. Eisenberg were lucid enough to know what is going on, I’m sure she would be quick with a joke about how she, like Moses, can part a sea. I pray I can tell her about it once she’s resting comfortably in her hospital room.
Locked in the back of the ambulance, I point to my phone, asking the paramedic sitting with us if it is okay if I make a call. She nods, possibly sensing this is my first ride with emergency services, and assures me it’s fine if I talk. She tells me that, in fact, my voice may prove comforting to Mrs. Eisenberg.
“Hello, Toni.” Simon answers like he’s not at all surprised to be hearing from me. I should have called Zwena first. Or my mother. But Zwena alluded to a booty call she has going on later this evening, Saturdays Gloria is shaking hers at the Senior Connection, and as I just found out, Frances Antonelli and her family are in Big Sur for the weekend. And Krish does many things, but babysitting is not one of them. I want to call anyone else, but Simon is all I have left.
“Hello? Toni? Are you there?” Turns out his voice grates on me even more over the phone than it did in person a few hours ago.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need you to go back over tomyhouse.” Again I make sure to emphasize themy.
“Do you want me to join you and the girls for dinner?”
“Uh, no,” I assure. “There’s been an emergency at the airport, and I’m on the way to the hospital.”
“Do you need me to meet you there?” Simon panics, doing a stand-up job in the role of recently reappeared and reengaged husband.
“I’m going with one of my customers.” Mrs. Eisenberg is so much more than a customer, but at this point I only have time to get out what I need, and what I need is not one superfluous word exchanged with Simon. “I don’t know when I will be home, but I imagine it’ll be very late. I need you to get the girls dinner and make them do their homework. And if you could help Lou with algebra and her attitude, that’d be great.” Lou’s simultaneously struggling with math and refusing my tutoring. “Consider it a life coaching session with your kid.”Oh, I didn’t just say that, I didn’t just say that! I DID NOT JUST SAY THAT!I pound my fist against my forehead.
You okay?The paramedic mouths when she sees me cringing in pain. I hit mute on my phone.
“I’m wincing from embarrassment,” I convince her, pointing at my cell.
“Oh, I’ll take bodily harm over humiliation any day.”
“Me too,” I agree, and take Simon off mute.
“How do you know I’m a life coach?” I hear Simon ask with a touch of amusement.
“Can you go back to the house or not?” I skip right over an admission I am not copping to now, or ever.
“Sure. I’ll see you at home.”
“Are you with the patient?” We both answer yes from opposite sides of Mrs. Eisenberg’s bed. “And you two are ...” The doctor trails off, her voice hinting at a question.
“Not together,” Ash clarifies. “And this is not a patient, this is my grandmother, Sylvia Eisenberg. I expect her private room will be ready shortly so you can get her moved in immediately,” Ash says tightly, assuming his wish will be the doctor’s command.
“You can expect all you want, but unfortunately, this is not the Four Seasons.”
