My September?
I started a new life, and a part of my old one ended.
I had been in and out of the hospital all summer, visiting my grandmother. I was never more grateful for my job's flexibility - there was so much going on - Driving to Uxbridge to get the engagement rings, packing for the move, wrapping up things at my job before I left - and visiting my Mummo.
She wasn't supposed to be doing badly. She'd been admitted because her back was giving her so much pain - it was osteoporosis. Nothing that would kill her, though she was having problems eating. I'd bring her food that she might like, spent time talking to her... I felt terrible, that it had taken this to make me go to see her more often, especially considering how she'd bailed me out so many times, made pancakes on demand, and took care of mice for me.
And she'd tell me, every time, 'I know you're busy, so you don't have to come all the time' - in that Scandinavian guilt sort of way.
But I did. I told her that once I'd quit working, and once I'd sold the car, and started school, It'd be harder for me to come by. Gary came too, though he hates hospitals. She was happy to see him - she'd been asking after him.
I helped her straighten up her bedside tables. I wheeled her outside once, so she wouldn't miss the whole summer. She wore my blue-tinted sunglasses, and we laughed at how silly they looked on her.
September began, and what wasn't I doing?
I packed, I worked the film festival, and got screamed at by Hollywood types.
My best friend's boyfriend came up for a week, and ended up staying for two - he was supposed to go home on the 11th.
My parents' anniversary was on the 11th too, and they decided that they'd still go on their cruise.
The festival closed for the day, and reopened the next, with scheduling confusion, and a somber air.
I started school, she'd paid my tuition. I told her; 'You were right. Japanese is a lot like Finnish.' And she said, 'I told you that.'
She was still in the hospital. One visit, I cried in her lap because I felt so overwhelmed with obligation. I felt terrible - I wasn't supposed to dump my problems on her. She had enough of her own, with her home being sold, my parents finding a nursing home for her, having to stay in the hospital, day after day.
She was incredibly independent, it had been hard enough for her to sell her car.
My parents came back from thier cruise, preparations for the move went into full swing.
I found a job - thank god.
I tried to do my readings and failed, mostly.
We packed.
My best friend looked for a condo to buy.
And on and on.
I went to see her just before the move, and she was sitting by the elevators, waiting for me. She'd been eating more, and walking more. She felt stronger. She told me she hadn't felt so good since she'd been in there.
We walked back to her room, and had a nice visit, then I hugged her, and said good night.
A day later, I got a call from my parents, and they told me that she'd broken her hip on the way to the bathroom - which was two feet away from her bed - and that they'd be operating that day.
I, being fairly naive about medical things, said, 'Well, that happenes all the time, right?'
My dad, who had been building himself up for something like this for awhile, said 'I don't know, Nicole...'
I got a call later in the evening. All was well, she'd come through it fine. I relaxed. My friend and I watched television. I smoked a little, got a bit fuzzy, stayed up late. I went to bed before Gary came home from playing D&D.
I was awoken less than an hour and a half later by Gary. 'Your dad's on the phone.'
What? What time is it? Huh?
I stumbled out to the phone.
'Hello?'
'Nicole. I think you'd better come to the hospital.'
The tone in my father's voice was probably one of the worst things I'll ever hear. It was dead and cold, and nothing like my generally amused dad. It was like a punch in the solar plexus, and all I could think was that I had the worst timing.
I don't remember much else. I do remember, on hanging up the phone, hyperventilating, and telling Gary that I didn't think I could drive, but I had to drive.
So, early morning of my Mummo's birthday, and the day before Gary and I were to move into our first place that we'd rented on our own, I drove the empty Toronto streets to the ICU with the man who hates ICUs more than just about anyone I know, hyperventilating along the way.
We stayed til six-thirty, and I tried to talk to her. I told her I loved her, and she managed to say 'I love you too'.
Then, we had to go pack. We couldn't stay in the apartment.
Mummo died on her 83rd birthday while I was stuck in mid-day traffic on the way over. My mother had called while I was at home, packing. I knew when she died, I think. I was in the car, and just suddenly realized that she'd be dead before I got there.
And it was - well, as okay as it was going to be - I'd said anything that needed to be said.
I was secure that she loved me, and she knew I loved her.
My dad helped move Gary and I the next day. Had to be done.
I went to the first day at my new student job. That had to be done.
My brother stayed in Colombia. He couldn't get the time off.
I tried to help my mother and father.
They sent me to find a slip for her to be buried in, and Gary and I ended up in the women's lingerie section at the Bay, while I cried over how ridiculous the situation was.
At the funeral, I read my brother's words. I read what I'd written. I got through it. I tried to make my father feel better.
We unpacked. I went back to classes. I rescheduled my parents' 30th anniversary surprise party.
It was October.
nic {nicole@noizangel.com} 19 Jan 2002
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