Dearest
Anne, Saturday, January 30, 2010
I received
your warm greeting of a Christmas card and your generous gift of Freedom
Writers, the movie and the book. This Christmas was a lonely one for
me. My mom was sick, and two of my brothers got into a nasty fight via
emails for every member of the family to see. It was not pleasant, given
the fact that my mom was sick. She woke up one morning bleeding in her
reproductive area. My brother panicked, consulted my other brother (the
two of them live with my mom) and decided to call 911. An ambulance
showed up and took her to the Emergency Room at Arcadia Methodist Hospital.
The ER doctor took an X-Ray of her lungs, drew blood, and ordered a room made
available for her that afternoon. My mom has always hated doctors and
hospitals, so submitting to such treatment crushed her spirit. My older
brother made the decision to get her to the hospital, I am sure against her
wishes. I’m sure, too, that he was hoping to see some numbers on white
blood cell count and analyze them, figure out what is the best treatment, get
her well, and get her home. Instead, the doctors began a regime of
antibiotics, one called Zosyn. A nurse friend of mine explained to me
that that is one of the more mild antibiotics. I stayed with my mom the
first night. She was anxious. I talked with her about the past,
about my father who died in ’88, reminding her how much he adored her. It
was a real privilege for me to sit with my mother. Though she was sick,
she was still able to remember her days in the orphanage and how she and her
sister and brother used to vie for a seat on one of her mother’s legs while she
sat and visited with her children on Sundays. We remembered, we talked,
we shared stories, and we laughed. I held her hand, gently interlocking
my fingers through hers, caressing each digit, and then holding her fine hand
in mine. It was good that I stayed with my mother that first night
because the staff would have treated an 89-year-old woman as senile. She
wasn’t; she was exhausted from being sick for so long. On the first night
in the hospital, a nurse came in and asked her for a urine sample. Mom
said, “I already gave one in the ER. Mike, tell her.” I did.
The nurse couldn't argue with a witness and withdrew. But if I wasn’t
there, I am sure that she would not have believed her and would have badgered
another urine sample from her. Over the next couple of days, the doctor
ordered test after test. And why not? Here was an 89-year-old woman
with complete medical coverage. So the monitored machinery rolled in by
indifferent technicians, senseless except for their technical knowledge, oblivious
to bedside manners. All the tests came back normal we were told. We
never saw a report; never saw the numbers so that we could ask what this means
or what this tells us. The IV dripped antibiotics relentlessly in her
system. Her breathing became labored. A respiratory therapist came
in and gave her a treatment. He put a mask on her and filled a tiny cup
of the mask with an anti-asthmatic drug through which steam pumped and dilated
her air passages. It helped but only a little. Mom was disappointed.
But it was the best thing available, and because it was the best thing
available, it was all they gave her for her breathing problems. I wonder
if it made things worse. After examining her breathing with a
stethoscope, the respiratory therapist claimed that her lungs were functioning
pretty well. I said, “Wait a minute. Wasn’t she admitted for
pneumonia?” Yeah, but she may have had only a mild case of it, was the
reply. So now I am gyrating between relief and confusion. Why was
she still in the hospital then? The answer was that she had to wait until
a gynecologist saw her and tried to fix things. The gynecologist saw her,
tried to reposition things. My mother resisted. She kicked and
screamed. I knew she would. She doesn’t like doctors and their
monkey-like orderlies or any stranger pawing her in areas of which only she and
God, and occasionally my father, had knowledge. So now the doctor was at
an impasse. He would have to leave her in the same condition that she
came to receive care. They transferred her to Transitional Care.
She grew weaker by the hour. The several days of antibiotics killed the
infectious bacteria, but more importantly they killed all of her good,
vitalizing gut flora, her good bacteria, decimating her 89-year-old immune
system and leaving her vulnerable to poisonous by-products that further
constricted her breathing, made her so weak that she couldn’t use her hand to
bend a straw to sip water from a cup; now, she couldn’t eat and now her eyes
were fixed open from days of sleep deprivation in the hospital. By the
time she reached home, she couldn't relax her eyes long enough to rest them and
get sleep. With her nerves shot, her muscles were not working. Most
of her utterances were moans. On the night she arrived home, she did find
the strength to utter, “Mike, what did they do to me?” The antibiotics
and the uncomfortable hospital beds made it impossible for her to sleep.
(By the way, garlic is the best natural antibiotic; it is remarkable in what it
can do. The antibiotics the hospital gives destroys people and their good
gut flora. This is why I think that most elderly people die in the
hospital. It is deliberate, but not before the hospital milks the patient
of paid services.) She was awake in the hospital for four to five
days. Guess what the nurses did? They gave her sleeping medication,
as if her poor system wasn’t already in shock from the antibiotics. As
she grew worse in the hospital I insisted that she be released. I wanted
to take her home the first night. I confronted the nurse, telling her
that my mom was too anxious and that she would be better off at home. My
mom knew she was dying. She said as much; she said she wanted to die, but
that she preferred to die at home. My family fought me, saying that she
was getting the best care at the hospital. I was appalled because their
words contradicted what I saw and what they saw. They could see with
their very own eyes my mother’s demise. After a week, we finally got her
home. Hospice care provided a bed and an oxygen machine, both of which
were positioned in the front living room. My mom died two days
later. The hospital, her assigned doctor, and the antibiotics killed
her. Anne, I lost my joy, the only person in the world who was always
happy to see me. Always I could count on a warm smile, an enthusiastic
clap, and victorious raising of her fists as her expectant eyes met my tall
figure entering her door. She was my one true love. Mothers always
love seeing their babies. She was much better than I to forgive. My
life is changed hereafter. Thank you, Anne, for the affectionate
Christmas wish. I love hearing from you.
With love,
Michael
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