I QUIT!
She grabs her coat, and her keys, leaves the house, gets into her car and drives off.
31
‘I’M JUST A BABY!’
Becca
I’d never have thought I could fall asleep, but I must have done because Conal has just woken me with a very gentle nudge and a ‘the doctor’s here’.
It takes a moment for me to remember where I am, and why I am here. The realisation that we are all still in the Room of Doom and that there is a doctor now here about to give us possibly life-altering news is terrifying.
I might be forty-seven years old but I have never wanted to run away more. I abdicate all adult responsibility, thank you very much. I am done. I am not the person to have serious conversations with any more. The viral TikTok that has circulated of a toddler saying ‘I’m just a baby’ comes to mind. I want to scream at the doctor that I am just a baby and he needs to tell someone more responsible than me or must at the very least sugar-coat whatever it is he is about to say.
Although, if my mother happens to be dead, I’m not sure there is a way to sugar-coat that. Perhaps he’ll start with ‘Hey,guess who has one less Christmas present to buy this year!’ maybe, or ‘So, ch-ching! It’s inheritance time!’
No. Even though I’m a great advocate of dark humour, neither of those statements would be a comfort. There would be no comfort.
I had been leaning against Conal, probably drooling but I don’t care. I sit up and blink hoping that when I open my eyes again I will actually be home, in my own bed and this will all be just a dream.
Of course, that doesn’t happen and no amount of wishing for a different outcome is going to change what this exhausted-looking doctor is about to say to us.
Ruairi, using his best solicitor voice, introduces us all to the doctor, informing him of all our relationships to each other and most importantly, of course, to my mother. He adds that he has power of attorney over our mother’s affairs if any decisions are to be made and that she has made a living will requesting that in the event of catastrophic brain injury she would prefer no extraordinary measures be taken to preserve life.
I baulk at how he can just talk about her like she is a legal argument rather than our mammy. Then again, this is Ruairi – he will always shift to problem-solving, practical mode in any crisis whereas I tend to feel things, deeply and loudly. That’s probably why my mother trusted him with power of attorney over me. My heart is too soft.
Conal holds my hand tightly while the doctor confirms my mother has indeed had a stroke. They’ve done imaging and are confident it is an ischemic stroke. Ruairi nods like he knows what that means while I have no idea. I didn’t know there were different kinds of strokes. I’d no need to think about it until now.
I ask what that means and the very tired, very patient doctortakes a seat on one of the plastic chairs, which Adam has kindly offered him.
‘In layman’s terms, if your mother was going to have a stroke, this is the kind you’d want her to have,’ he says. ‘I’m not saying it’s not serious. It very much is and we will be very closely monitoring your mother in case of a second stroke. But for now, she is stable. We have administered what you might have heard called “clot-busting” drugs and because your son was on the phone with your mother when she took unwell, we can be confident those drugs were delivered within the window that will give her the best chance of recovery.’
I try to take it all in – try to focus on the positive words and not the scary ones. I like words such as ‘confident’ and ‘recovery’ and ‘this is the kind of stroke I’d want her to have’. I try not to think about how it is still serious. Very much so, in fact. That there’s the chance of a second stroke. And the fact is, she is a woman in her late seventies. This will take a toll. Even with recovery, there are likely to be some long-term side effects and deficits. But it doesn’t sound like we’re in catastrophic brain injury territory, and she’s alive. That’s enough. I can hear her tell me one of her favourite sayings – that where there is life, there is hope, and I am all in for hope right now.
‘Can we see her?’ I hear Ruairi ask. ‘Is she awake?’
‘She is very, very tired and was sleeping when I left her,’ the doctor says. ‘But she has been awake, which is a good sign. She was able to communicate with the nurses, although her speech is impaired at the moment. We are just waiting to move her to the stroke ward, where she can get the best ongoing care, but I’ll see if we can arrange for you to see her. Please understand she has been through a huge ordeal – we still don’t know the full extent of the impact of the stroke and it will likely be a few days before we really get a clear picture of how she is. So, don’t getupset if she isn’t particularly responsive. Her brain has just been in the fight of its life. It’s more important at this time that she rests.’
Ruairi is asking more questions. Adam too. It’s not that I don’t have questions or worries – of course I do – but right now all I can think is that she’s alive.
And where there is life, there is hope. Everything else we can deal with. Everything else we can overcome.
32
BAG FOR LIFE
Laura
Laura carries her bag for life and what remains of her dignity towards a hotel. She has no idea what availability will be like at this time on a weeknight in October. She has no idea if they even allow randomers to check in in the middle of the night. She has vague memories of hotels locking their doors except to residents.
Will they think she has been chucked out in the middle of the night? Will they think she is the world’s least sexy escort, arriving with her Tesco carrier bag and a packet of chocolate biscuits peeking out of her coat pocket?
Or have they seen this a million times before? A woman who has most certainly had enough and has stormed out in need of some space before she becomes a headline on the news. Laura can see it now:MOTHER OF ONE LOSES HER SHIT AND BURNS HER HOUSE TO THE GROUND.
Her other option is to go to Niamh’s house. But she’s aware that Niamh’s house is crowded and chaotic and she is not sureshe has the emotional strength to deal with two teenage boys, a tween girl, a new mother and an infant, and that’s without even considering Niamh and her husband Paul. There are no spare rooms at Chez Cassidy. There is a sofa though and right now even a sofa would be welcome.
But no, she doesn’t want to be an imposition. Niamh has enough to do without taking in a waif and stray in the form of a disillusioned menopausal feminist who has simply had enough.
