Alicia moved to stand behind the chair and patted the backrest. “Come on.”
I forced my feet forward and took a seat. Whatever happened next, at least I’d have the facts. Then I could ask questions, sort my thoughts, and make a plan.
“Your mom developed type 2 diabetes several years back and was put on a diet to mitigate the associated risks,” the doctor began.
I nodded. “She told me.”
“She was given medication to combat the symptoms and progression, as well as counseled to exercise more and stop drinking entirely.”
“I wasn’t aware of any of that,” I said, wanting to slip my hand over my mother’s fingers and stroke her pale skin. But I couldn’t take the rejection if she instinctively pulled away, so I folded my hands in my lap.
“Wait,” I said. Something in Dr. Bartlet’s statement gave me pause, and I mentally circled back. Mom first mentioned her diabetes a year or two ago, but the doctor said several. “How long ago?”
“Eleven years.”
My jaw sank open.
Alicia muttered something behind me. I didn’t understand her words, but the shock in her tone conveyed the sentiment.
“I had no idea,” I whispered.
“I see.” The doctor cleared her throat and waited for me to meet her gaze. When I did, she continued. “Trina developed high blood pressure and heart disease within a few years of the initial diagnosis. When her lifestyle didn’t change, she fell into liver failure.”
I grimaced, unable to properly process this news. “That can’t be right,” I said. “I see her a couple of times a month, and she’s never mentioned any of this.”
“Probably because she’s chosen denial over action,” Dr. Bartlet said. “Sometimes it’s easier to put your head in the sand than to deal withmajor health issues and massive lifestyle overhauls. It’s definitely not uncommon.”
“And she’s in liver failure,” I said, repeating the nonsensical words.
She nodded.
“What can I do to help? What’s the next step for her care?”
Dr. Bartlet inhaled slowly before she spoke again. “Trina is in end-stage liver failure now. We’ve discussed this at great length, and she understands that the only way to survive is via a transplant, for which her alcoholism makes her ineligible.”
I winced at the word I’d thought a thousand times but never dared speak aloud.Alcoholism.My mom drank too much. But I’d never let myself think about it too long or hard. It was easier to think of her relationship with liquor as a personality flaw. Just one of many.
Alicia set her hand on my shoulder. “What if she gets sober?”
The doctor shook her head. “I don’t think she has that kind of time.”
My mouth opened and a small, strangled sound emerged.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Truly. I wish I had better news.”
“Will she be admitted today?” Alicia asked.
“Yes, for observation,” Dr. Bartlet answered. “We’ll give her fluids, regulate her blood sugar, then send her home with the usual instructions. Your mother’s been in and out of this hospital a dozen times since her initial diagnosis, always under my care and treatment. She’s tough, but she’s not invincible, and I’m afraid her negligence has caught up with her.”
My ears rang, and my mouth dried. “There has to be something I can do.”
“It’s Trina’s choice,” she said. “Her life to live or—” She broke eye contact for the first time, and in that instant, I saw past the thinly veiled facade. This woman cared for my mother. I supposed everyone in this profession cared for their patients on some level, but after more than a decade of appointments and medical interventions, I guessed she’d built a bond with my mom.
Yet my mother had never said a word to me. Not about Dr. Bartlet. Nor her terminal illness. Another reminder of where I stood on the scale of important things in her life.
“My best suggestion,” Dr. Bartlet said, “is to get her some in-home care.”
“Hospice?” I asked, but the voice didn’t sound like my own. The room tilted slightly, and I wished that this was just another one of my nightmares.
