Most of yesterday was spent in hospital.
My grandmother has been moved out of I C U into Critical Care. She has a roommate now, a woman with dementia who talks to unresponsive, imaginary voices on the phone, to herself and yet also seems uniquely involved in everything we discuss over yonder, behind Curtain Number 1. At times, the interaction is comical. At other times, especially when "Ms Talks to the Voices" manages to get out of bed and travel over to see us for a little "one on one" time, its disconcerting.
Yesterday, was a different version of the day before. The uncertainty hangs heavy over all of us and no one has really slept. The nurses say things like "fragile" and "numerous challenges" when they describe Billie. Its all coded and versed. Read between the lines and find the outlines of what is and isn't happening. No one can be specific because they just don't know. God knows, but he isn't telling.
I think Grandma looks better, and her breathing isn't as frantic but then two units of blood, a Zanex "pick me up" sloshed down with liquid drip morphine chaser, and well, anyone would feel a bit of additional levity and mirror "up with people." At one point in our series of visits, the nurses arrive to rearrange Billie, and after reaching down to untangle an arm, Grandma looks up and with that still present twinkle warns, "Now don't either of you get fresh with me, I'm not that kind of gal."
Stopping dead in their tracks, the nurses pause, looking at each other, unsure if they'd just heard correctly. Did that just come from an 88 year-old woman's mouth?
Yes, it did. She's still here. She's still with us. Always one to lead the assault on edge humor. She's proud of herself, she can still take people's breath away with her targeted, direct hits.
During the afternoon, after we'd talked about everything a hospital room can inspire, I brought in a nearly finished story, printed up in large type so I could read it aloud to Billie. The piece is called the "Serenity of Uncertainty". Only the conclusion of the story remains unfinished, but I don't know how much time Grandma and me have left, so I bring it along to read to her just in case.
Indeed, it's the only work my greatest fan has not yet heard and it's important to Grandma that she hears the final chapter. Especially since the last book in my "road trilogy" series refers to "our" story- "Tremendously Wonderful", featuring a beloved shared journey between her and I. The collected work will stand as the centerpiece for the Ebook and a nod toward Billie Lopeman. "tremendously Wonderful" recalls a trip back to an old forgotten Montana homestead, and a legacy that even now seems larger than the big screen. It represents "before and after". Before the end of idealism, naive lives, and the shattered innocence created by 9/11.
The chapter also represent "after". Who I am today has far more to do with my grandparents than either of them realize. I will always owe them for this gift and now it seems important to me that they know it. If my Grandfather Orin Lopeman isn't aware of it now, I hope my grandmother will convey this on her next journey.
Sitting down on her hospital bed, I get close to her and begin reading. Behind me my family listens quietly, but my focus is on Billie. I narrate the words loudly and with emphasis so she can hear, and occasionally as I look away from the large bold type, making eye contact with her. Grandma's blue eyes, clouded with morphine register something deep and understood. Eventually she closes her eyes, and an easy cadence and rhythm settles over the room. Even the crazy lady next door quiets, as if under the spell of something calming and reassuring.
After a couple minutes I stop reading. "Still with me?"
Billie opens her eyes, smiles, and manages "Yes Timbo I am here. I just want to hear everything."
I continue.
The "Uncertainty of Serenity" is a narrative about horses, one of my grandmother's great loves over the course of her life. The story holds her interest, and even now as she rests beneath my gaze, I know that part of her back pain is the result of an old horseback riding injury. Yet she wouldn't trade those horsie memories for anything. Billie is still 100% cowgirl, a real live Ms Annie Get Your Gun if there ever was one, and a damn good shot thanks to my grandfather's insistence she be able to protect herself.
As I read, the characters develop and the horses I describe become vivid and real. Their images gallop through the room. At one point Billie stops me and asks us to explain which horse this was that I've described because she can't remember that one. My mother steps up, as I pause in the story, explaining when the colt was born, the details of the Stallion's life on our farm, and the nature of his wild character.
Resuming my reading, I became deeply involved in the description of another horse, the words well worn and easy.
"...His complete attention was fixated on me, and very hesitantly he came closer. Breathing softly on my face, he began to muzzle my hair, in a gentle, light motion. I stood perfectly still, looking into the stallion's eye. I realized I was looking into a well of earnest companionship that seemed bottomless. His eye remained on me, dark and wise, relaxed and welcoming..."
At some point in the description a nurse entered the room and stood behind me. Listening intently, she'd missed the reference to the stallion. Troubled the nurse struggled to make sense of such a bizarre moment. It appeared to her as if I'd described an intimate encounter between two men. Even more disturbing, it seemed as if I was eagerly reading gay porn to an 88 year old woman on her death bed. With the complete approval and encouragement of my family, who earnestly listened in, hanging on each word.
The nurse, overwhelmed, recomposed, and rushed over to tend my grandmother's roommate. My family observing the humor of the moment giggled at the woman's confusion and I turned back, looking at them trying to understand what was so funny. Catching a glimpse in the mirror of the crazy woman, standing partially disrobbed next to the curtain, I figure it has something to do with Ms. Talks to the Voices. Unwilling to pause, I keep reading.
The owner of the horse I describe in the story speaks.
"..."Tim, I think you have made a friend for life. I've never seen Jassad so quickly respond to anyone like this before. He doesn't see a lot of men anyway, but this is unique. Even I'm a bit surprised. He's completely focused on you.""
I agreed, shifting my weight. Standing motionless, Jassad seemed to find great comfort in resting his head on my shoulder or gently between my shoulder blades. Occasionally I would feel him muzzling the back of my neck or brushing his muzzle against the hairs on the back of my head..."
Once again, the nurse appeared behind us, stopped and reflexively listened. More troubled expressions appeared as she tried to make sense of this odd scene. What was happening here? Which party in this double-date hospital room was crazier? The woman talking to herself and doing a strip tease or the family on the other side of Curtain Number One, enjoying what appeared to be some sort of open-mic afternoon of gay porn?
Unaware of the nurses presence, I continued reading until I reached the ending point in my progression of the story. As my grandmother opened her eyes, my mother conveyed the humorous scene we'd just missed detailing the expressions of the poor, confused nurse. Here we were in the midst of heart attacks, pneumonia, urinary infections and congestive heart failure and yet humor, the lubricant of life remained still present.
Another nurse appeared and began taking readings of my grandmother. Leaving the room, my sister and I sat out in the hallway and we talked about horses, and our sadness as we watched Billie's decline. I looked at my kid sister and realizing how close we've become, I told her I loved her. As a mother, she continually amazes me with the juggling act of raising a daughter, working, and being one of the more reliable and present family members.
"Well I guess we should get back in there." She rose, sighing.
I stood up, following her back into the hospital room. Reclaiming our respective places, my grandmother initiated a difficult conversation. "What do you want, Tim?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"My stuff, is there anything you want when I am gone?"
I hesitated, completely unprepared for the question. I thought for a minute. A list of things flashed through my mind, and then I remembered the pictures from our trip toward a place called Tremendously Wonderful.
That's what I wanted. Both figuratively and literally. I wanted to return to that place, to continue reading her my story, and to always remain surrounded by those vibrant Montana images.
If only she could give me that wish. If only...
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