linda may

February 19: I continue to long for clothes I actually love, instead of continuing to buy the same old soccer mom sweaters and jeans. (I’m sure it has nothing to do with the interaction I just had while trying to make a few dollars selling clothing at a higher-end consignment store, “In the future, we don’t actually take Banana Republic.”) Nate and I are watching Ted Lasso again and Rebecca Welton (Hannah Waddingham’s character on the show), a badass sports team owner who couldn’t be more glamourous, is inspiring me with her flouncy tie-neck blouses tucked into pencil skirts. The timing of this longing couldn’t be more inconvenient, as I will have to sew, rather than buy, my way into this look. I am so far away from emulating this style, working in a building where our leadership team wears hoodies and outdoor gear – I dress more like a 90s social worker, or maybe like Phoebe on Friends. But, I happen to have an overdue library book of skirt patterns and find one for a pencil skirt that isn’t too intimidating.

February 21: My dad calls me at work – my mom is in the hospital again. She was admitted to the ER at 3am and then admitted to the hospital in Medford. They put me on speaker with a cardiac surgeon. He thinks that she needs a valve replacement surgery urgently, and can have it completed in the next few days. Here, finally, someone feeling some urgency! Mom is on board.

I cancel the rest of my week at work, and an already twice-rescheduled happy hour with a friend, and head home, pack my bags to potentially be away a week or more, kiss Nate & the kids goodbye and hop in the car to drive to Southern Oregon. I spend $10 at Popeye’s on the way and vow never to eat there again. (But the biscuits! That’s how they get me.) I later stop for a latte ($6) with an hour to go because I’m feeling sleepy and need to be alert for the final leg of the journey over Sexton Pass.

February 22: My dad and I spend most of the day with my mom at the hospital. We buy snacks, set up a folding chair in the 80 square feet of the room she is sharing, and talk and laugh. I buy a late lunch for me and my dad and a salad for my mom (her hospital meal is not appealing) $21. I make tea, and my mom and I squeeze into her hospital bed, share a bar of dark chocolate and watch an old British mystery together on my laptop while my dad is in the cafeteria. It’s the best.

Before we drive home my dad wants to stop and buy a new water bottle at TJ Maxx. I buy some underwear for my daughter, since the last ones I ordered ended up being too big. I also add a new journal at the last minute, since I just used up the last pages of my old one, and I feel good that this item qualifies as “Stuff you need to create stuff,” or whatever that pre-approved category was. Altogether $28.01. We drive home and I am asleep by 9:30.

February 23: In the morning we get up and go for a brisk walk/jog at the high school track. While my dad runs a few errands I go looking for coffee. The espresso machine is broken at the first coffeehouse, but undeterred I move on to the next. I have a delicious latte ($6) in an extremely bougie coffee shop where they are unapologetically playing Christian rock ballads.

And here is the part where I go into the clothing store. It is a store for middle aged women, I’m not going to lie. There are linen tunics. Rebecca Welton would never in a million years wear a linen tunic. There are a lot of expensive scarves that I totally would have bought because they were 60% off if I wasn’t not buying stuff. But I spy a black t-shirt, which I do need, and which is allowed, and I try it on. I am so relieved when it doesn’t fit I practically skip out of the store.

My dad finishes his errands and picks me up to drive to the hospital to see Mom. She is exhausted and does not look well. Her arm is bruised from the angiogram and in a sort of splint. I offer to get her a salad from the cafeteria since she hasn’t eaten lunch.

I try to decide whether the 70s easy listening soundtrack that is all over the hospital is comforting or depressing. Jackson Browne, Seeger, the Eagles – it’s more classic rock than K-Tel. I’m longing for some magical ELO, Ambrosia or Fleetwood Mac.

We still haven’t heard when Mom is scheduled for surgery. I go outside for some fresh air and take a couple of work calls. (I was in the middle of hiring a supervisor when I left and wanted to know the outcome of the interviews.) We get the news that we are changing rooms and are happy to see a hide-a-bed and a reclining chair by the window, and learn Mom is scheduled first thing in the morning at 8am. We spend the most uncomfortable night ever, probably getting 2-3 hours of sleep each.

February 24: A pleasant person named Chad comes to draw my mom’s blood at 6:30, after trying at 3am, when she smartly refused. Why in the name of all that’s holy would you try to wake a 77 year old woman about to have heart surgery at 8am and disrupt what little sleep she is able to get with everyone’s least favorite procedure, a blood draw? (I know there are actual medical reasons but still, I feel so indignant!) We give up trying to sleep and get dressed and start packing up my mom’s things. I groggily wander down the hall to make my morning tea and sit in view of my mom’s room so I don’t miss the apparently unpredictable transport (could be anytime between 6:30 and 7:55!?) to the OR. From my chair by the window I can see the hospital staff at their shift change. The nurse’s station is packed with people in scrubs energetically exchanging patient updates – somehow the buzz is confidence-inspiring.

Back in the room we chat nervously. My dad and I share encouraging quotes and affirmations with my mom from our phones – one is, “I am a diamond. A little pressure only brings me more clarity,” and this reminds us of a song we used to love when I was about 6 – we argue happily about who sang it. When transport comes my mom and I are singing “I’m Just an Old Chunk of Coal,” and she is laughing and joking with the aide when they wheel her away through the double doors. Only then do I burst into tears.