I almost killed my mom the other day. On the bottle of cough syrup in little tiny letters it says don't put patient in the sun when using this medicine.
I had gone to Target with Emma. We were doing nothing. She was home in the shade but I knew she had been out too long in general, she usually gets a few hours outdoors a day but hot days you know you have to pump the juice in. I had given her one before I left but she'd only had a sip and I left it in her hand and I knew she would just squeeze it and then throw it. But she'd been drinking stuff all day, it was only an hour. I texted Barry and he said she's good. He was alternately sitting with her and doing stuff nearby.
So I didn't worry. Got home after an hour or so, went out to check on her. She was bent over her knees like she was tying her shoe. Spit was hanging from her mouth. I tipped her up. She looked at me but then she was all grey. Her face was grey. Her lips were grey. MOM! MOM! I quick tipped her around in the chair and up the ramp and I yelled HELP! and Emma B and Lilly were there at the screen door. SOMETHING'S WRONG! I'm yelling. WATER! Call Hospice! Emma grabs water. She's leaning back weirdly in her chair like a scarecrow. I pour it down her mouth, most of it comes out onto her chest and pink dress. I keep pouring. Her eyes are tipped all the way up to the right like she's looking for her ride from God. MOM!! I'm yelling. DON'T DO THIS!
It's Lilly's birthday tomorrow I'm thinking. Not today I'm thinking. Also damn I'm thinking, if she takes that lift to the sky I'M the one left with this memory. She gets the fast pass.
We keep pouring water. Hospice says keep going. Doc will call. I think it's dehydration, I say. She was in the deep shade. But it was too long. It was only an extra hour.
Her lips start to turn pink. It took one whole minute. Maybe. One minute to life. Life pours back.
A few minutes later I'm changing her wet dress, her face is regular color, she isn't talking but she isn't dead. The doctor said it wasn't the medication. I don't see the label til the next day. It was the medication. Doctors are stupid.
Also I have to be there to squeeze liquids in. She needs a squeezer with hands that don't throw stuff, that have thought and patience behind them.
I'm putting her to bed that night, obviously destroyed. She's sitting in her rolly chair by the bed, and I'm putting off the last heft into bed because hefting is hard. But she's sitting there so sweet, and I say I love you mom.
I love you too, she says. I feel so lucky because she's here, and saying she loves me, just like any other day of my life with her. I lean my face near her shoulder.
I'm sorry today was so bad, I say, knowing she doesn't know she had one eye on god. I didn't do the best job, I say. In that quiet room
She looks at me and says you're doing wonderfully.
