Chapter 2 - THE HOSPITAL QUESTION
I went directly to the hospital.
Not the house.
Daniel was in the emergency waiting room wearing yesterday’s shirt.
When he saw me, relief flooded his face.
“Thank God.”
He stepped toward me.
I held up a hand.
“How is Lorraine?”
“They’re running tests.”
“What happened?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“She got dizzy.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“What had she eaten?”
His eyes flickered.
“I don’t know.”
“What medication did she take?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Did she take the morning compartment from the organizer?”
“I gave her what was in the box.”
“Which box?”
He became defensive.
“There are too many pills, Audrey.”
There were not “too many.”
There were simply medications he had never bothered to learn.
A nurse eventually came out and asked:
“Family for Lorraine Lawson?”
Daniel and I stood.
The nurse led us to a consultation room.
Lorraine was stable.
She had become lightheaded and fallen near the kitchen.
Fortunately, no fracture.
Her doctors were concerned about dehydration and possible medication duplication.
Not poisoning.
Not some dramatic medical conspiracy.
Simple mismanagement.
The hospital pharmacist was reconciling what she had taken against her prescriptions.
The nurse asked:
“Who normally manages her medications?”
Daniel pointed at me.
I looked at him.
The nurse noticed.
“She doesn’t live with us,” I said.
Daniel interrupted.
“She helps Mom.”
“How often?”
I answered:
“I used to organize the pill box when Lorraine requested help. She lived independently until three nights ago.”
The nurse frowned.
“You moved her into your home three nights ago?”
Daniel nodded.
“Was there a discharge plan from somewhere?”
“No.”
“A home-care assessment?”
“No.”
“Did her physician recommend she stop living independently?”
“No.”
The room went quiet.
I turned toward Daniel.
“Why did she move in?”
He looked irritated that the question was being asked publicly.
“She’s getting older.”
Lorraine had arthritis.
Some balance problems.
Hearing loss.
Several chronic medical conditions.
But until three days earlier she had lived in her own condo, driven locally during daylight, prepared simple meals, and managed most daily activities.
She sometimes needed help.
That was not the same as needing a full-time caregiver.
The nurse asked:
“Mrs. Lawson agreed to this move?”
Daniel hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Later Lorraine herself admitted what happened.
Her condo building had announced a three-week elevator repair.
Lorraine lived on the third floor.
Daniel decided she should stay with us.
Reasonable idea.
What was not reasonable?
He did not ask either woman.
He told Lorraine:
“Audrey will handle everything.”
He told me:
“Mom’s staying a few months.”
A three-week logistical problem had somehow become my indefinite assignment.
Lorraine looked smaller in the hospital bed than she had in my robe.
She avoided my eyes.
“I suppose I made a mess.”
I sat down.
“You fell.”
“I mean everything.”
Daniel stood near the window.
Lorraine continued:
“I took pills from the wrong section.”
“Why?”
“I thought Daniel had filled it.”
I looked at him.
He stared outside.
“He hadn’t?”
“No.”
Apparently he had moved several tablets between compartments after Lorraine told him one was “the evening pill.”
He guessed.
Then became angry when she questioned him.
No catastrophic overdose occurred.
But enough uncertainty existed that doctors wanted observation and proper reconciliation.
Lorraine whispered:
“You always knew which was which.”
I answered:
“Yes.”
Then something surprising happened.
She said:
“I should have learned too.”
For years Lorraine had performed helplessness whenever it benefited her.
Not complete helplessness.
Selective dependence.
She knew how to order shoes online.
Manage church donations.
Book hair appointments.
Argue with insurance companies.
But medication organization?
Audrey.
Transportation?
Audrey.
Holiday cooking?
Audrey.
Technology?
Audrey.
She had participated in the same arrangement Daniel had.
I was the family infrastructure.
Reliable infrastructure receives very little gratitude because people notice it mostly when it fails.
Except I had not failed.
May you like
I had walked away.
There was a difference.
