I text my mom to make sure there haven’t been any changes in Farmor’s vitals, but Mom doesn’t respond.
Maybe she’s asleep, I tell myself, refusing to let the memory of a different morning when I woke to no calls from the hospital rise. Still half delirious, I stumble through the motions of getting ready to go back, peeling off my T-shirt, using a baby wipe to do a quick “bath” before I remember to take my morning pills. When I swallow them, ithurts.
A pit opens in my stomach.
I whisper a Swedish curse under my breath. A headache, I can write off and blame on sleep and stress. But a sore throat? That one I can’t ignore.
No, no,no. Thiscan’tbe happening. Not now. Not when we could lose Farmor any minute. I pull out the thermometer I have in my top drawer and put it to my forehead, my heart in my throat as I wait for the beep.
99.6.
Because of my transplant, any virus or infection I get is potentially life-threatening. Every. Freaking. Time. I blink back the stinging in my eyes. The last thing I want to do is text my mom about this, but I have no choice. Even though telling her I’m sick is the equivalent of pulling the fire alarm at a middle school.
Hey ... I woke up with a headache and sore throat.
I look at the words I’ve typed out, then, with a sigh of resignation, hit Send.
It doesn’t even take thirty seconds before my phone rings. I guess she is awake after all, just ignoring my texts about Farmor.
“Hey, Mom.”
“How sick are you? Do you have a fever?”
I hate the worry, thetightness, in my mom’s voice, especially when Farmor is already in the hospital. But I can’t lie to her. “It’s only 99.6; nothing to get too worried about,” I downplay it.
Shecusses under her breath this time. “I can’tbelieveI forgot to get you a mask when we were in the ER.”
“It’s not your fault, Mom. I forgot too. And that was last week; it might not even be from that.” I sink down on my bed.
“I don’t know what to do. Farmor is ...”
“What?” I ask, my stomach filling with acid. “What’s going on?”
There’s a long pause. “Nothing really.”
“Mom, don’t youdarelie to me. Not right now. Not about this.” My free hand fists in my sheets.
“The doctors finally admitted they aren’t happy with her numbers. They thought the craniectomy would relieve more pressure by now. But she’s fine, Liv. She’s not getting worse, I promise.” I can hear the pleading in her voice. “Right now, we have to focus on you. There’s nothing we can do for Farmor except wait.”
The pain in my head sharpens, but I’m unsure if it’s from whatever illness I have or because Mom ignored my text this morning and didn’t tell me the whole truth about Farmor from the start.
“Do you have Tylenol there to keep you from spiking a real fever? Or guaifenesin to keep your lungs clear? Lavender or peppermint oil to put on a cool compress for your headache?”
“I ... I’m not sure. I’ll have to go check.”
“Go check right now and then call me back. If you don’t, I’ll hurry to the store and bring you what you need.”
“You can’t leave Farmor!” I protest.
“Olivia, you are mydaughter! I love your farmor, but there is nothing I can do for her. Icanhelp you—and I’m not going to let you get any sicker if we can help it.”
“Okay,” I agree with a sigh but also no small amount of relief. Even though I’m frustrated with her, I also need her to keep me steady—and healthy. “Thanks, Mom.”
We hang up, and I grab my heart-covered robe, slipping it on over my tank top and shorts before heading downstairs.
Unfortunately, I can find only Lou’s ibuprofen, which I can’t take. Resigned, I text my mom, and she responds that she is already in her car on her way to check on me, and she’ll stop and get what I need.
I feel equal parts relief that she’s coming and guilt that she had to leave Farmor all alone.
