Shortly after I woke up last Friday morning, I learned that a friend from high school had died from a brain hemorrhage the day before. I knew him the way that I knew almost everyone from Moultrie: through school, yes, but also through church and his family. His older sisters had been some of my babysitters, and his father handled my mother’s divorce. During the time of that messy disengagement, he began driving a new BMW, whose provenance my mother strongly suspected. The last time I saw him was in 2005, at our 20th high school reunion. When he found out that Chris and I had booked a hotel room, he said that that was nonsense: We were always welcome at his parents’ house. This seemed preposterous at first. Then I thought what would have happened if I had actually shown up at their home, suitcase in hand, hungry, and in need of lodging. He, of course, was right. His parents would have welcomed me with open arms and open refrigerator, even if they had drowsily murmured, as they drifted off to sleep, about the oddity of my appearance. But this is how it is with parents and children, your family and their friends.
I have thought about his death a lot over the last week. He was 49, three months shy of 50, and his passing was a little too close to home age-wise. It seems an almost personal affront (how could someone die without warning?) and an all-too-sad fact of life (people die without warning all the time). I am heartbroken for his parents; he was their baby, and their only boy, and I think that any parent will tell you that surviving a child is her worst nightmare, hands down. And 31 years after high school, and 11 years after the class reunion, I had an unbelievable urge to drive to Moultrie, attend his funeral, and hug his parents’ necks. Tightly. For they (at least according to the obituary) were welcoming friends at their home, instead of a formal visitation.
But I could not attend the funeral, and as it was being held, I was sitting in the Atlanta airport, which was its own sort of purgatory. As CNN blared in the speaker over my left ear, I said a prayer for his family, and I checked a little too frequently the weather in Moultrie, where it was 91 and sunny, a typical August day. Knowing the weather was an odd comfort, and somehow mentally took me where I needed to be. At that moment, though, I was coming home from where I needed to be over the last few days, which was visiting my own parents, my brother, and my sister. My mother turned 71 on Tuesday, which prompted the trip.
Notes are fine. Cards are great. Packages in the mail are bit of serendipity. Flowers are an expensive way to say that you forgot to get anything in the mail on time. But there is nothing like being there. A few years ago, I thought about what to get my mother for her birthday, and it occurred to me that she is a woman with too much, possession-wise: Her cup overfloweth and runs out the door until it floods the street. So like Dick Cheney, who headed a vice-presidential search campaign only to determine that he would make the best vice-president, I looked all around and after extensive study, I determined that the best gift was me. And if my own selection committee erred, well, my mother keeps her mouth shut, and together we perpetrate that fiction. While she pretends to be surprised that I am flying up for her birthday these days, I don’t think she feigns the delight.
I am happy to see her for her birthday, for that means that she is celebrating another year alive. She almost died a decade ago. By “almost died,” I do not mean that she was simply very sick. No, I mean that her cardiologist told me, while we toweled off after a hard swim, “I thought that your mother was going to die.” Perhaps this was not the pool-side manner that they taught her in medical school, but I appreciated her candor.
The pool is one of a few things that I remember well from that week-long stay with my mother during a very cold January. I had flown up to take care of her after her hospitalization. I was in my late 30s, tired and impatient, and damn near perfect — all of which compelled hard workouts to make me tolerable. So every afternoon, when my mom was secure and could spare me, I headed to the pool to swim. I had access to one pool: an outdoor one, with an inflatable white bubble covering it. True to its appearance, it was like swimming in an igloo. The water temperature can be charitably described as polar. Even better, the fresh water feed came on intermittently, and as I would flip turn off the wall, its arctic blast would make me scream underwater. (This detracted from the crying.)
The pain of getting out of the pool nearly equaled the pain of jumping in the pool in the first place, and I drove back to her house shivering uncontrollably every single day. One day, with hair still slightly wet and reeking of chlorine, I took my mother to the cardiologist, who extended an invitation to train with her in an indoor pool in a heated, permanent space; I leaped at the opportunity. Which is where I learned about the true gravity of the situation.
While I remember well the swimming, I remember most something that I would rather not: I spent a lot of the week glowering at my mother, barely feigning kindness, for I was angry. I love her so much, yet she had been so very careless with her health. If I could change anything about that time — anything — I would not ask for a gold-plated pool with an ambient air temperature of 80 degrees and towel warmers. I would ask myself to show some compassion. I would ask myself simply to accept.
It is hard sometimes to do. Especially — and unfortunately — with the people you love the most.
I sat in a CPR class for three hours yesterday. I teach spin classes at a hospital gym in town, and while the Code Blue button and an AED are steps away, quick action during cardiac arrest is crucial. So I certify for basic life saving every two years, and every two years, these classes scare the crap out of me. I will tell you now that if I ever have to deliver CPR, I will do so well and competently as a massive amount of adrenaline courses through my body and I yell OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! There is even money that I will require CPR when I finish delivering CPR. My mother was on my mind, as she often is, and pushing aside my fears, I asked question after question about how to adapt care for someone in her circumstances.
Since the class was held at the hospital where I teach, the instruction was geared to a hospital setting. Part of it centered on team dynamics. That portion of the video showed an emergency room awaiting the arrival of a patient in cardiac arrest. A physician told people what to expect and what to do: (Pointing) you will do compressions for two minutes, (pointing) you will do rescue breathing, and (pointing) you will do the AED. He continued: Know your limits, and if at any time, you tire, let everyone know so that we can help. And he finished: If you see anyone who is not performing correctly to save a life, tell them calmly and kindly. This scene was staged, not real, but the hospital employees, my CPR classmates, told me that it was accurate.
So here is basic life saving for you: Be prepared. Assess the situation, work with it, and apprise what you simply cannot change. Know your limitations. Ask for help if you need it. Remain calm and kind. For someone who struggles to accept — a friend’s death, a mother’s carelessness with her health — it was a much-needed shot to the heart.
ALC