The Receiving End

“I don’t hear the noise. I don’t hear the noise!” This was what I was saying at 5:00 this morning when I woke up to not hearing the oxygen compressor. I flew down the stairs to find that it had been turned off. “Oh my god, oh my god” I thought. Within 5.2 seconds, I turned it back on, grabbed the pulse oximeter, flew back upstairs, and had my hand over Mom’s face feeling for signs of life.

“Whatahyoudoin???” she mumbled, half asleep. “Your oxygen was turned OFF!” I said in a whispered scream “I think Dad turned it off with the Christmas tree!” Mom sighed, knowing this was the most likely scenario. Her immediate O2 reading was 77 then 78, 79, 80, 87, 90… I began to exhale as I watched those numbers climb back to normal. “He’s trying to kill you, Mom.” She groaned and said “I told you.”

I know what you’re thinking, especially if you’ve been a faithful reader for so long. “WHAT happened NOW?” Oh, come on. The combined number of years of all 6 members of this household is 245 and that doesn’t even count Snip. We’re a total shit show here in the best and worst sense. Medical stuff happens all the time, it’s a fact of the days of our lives. She’s fine, it wasn’t Covid, her biggest complaint about her stay was that she only got decaf, and somehow she managed to schedule a haircut for Monday from her hospital bed. “How do you plan on getting there?” I asked. “I can DRIVE!” she said from the passenger seat, oxygen tank between her legs. She’s the reason that my face now permanently looks like David from Schitt’s Creek. She carefully read her discharge instructions on the couch last night and was sure to read this part extra loudly: “RESUME NORMAL ACTIVITY. NOOOOOOO RESTRICTIONS!” EHR.MER.GERD.

I probably shouldn’t divulge so much without Mom’s express permission but she once said “I don’t care. Write what you want. I’m not going to read it.” I took that as a blessing of sorts and have run with it ever since. I’m a misfit writer living in a house where every week has a story that starts with “You’re not gonna believe” and ends with “You can’t make this shit up.” How could I not spill this tea? All this with Covid on the side is pure entertainment and reason why I have totally embraced my grey hair before anyone thought I should have. Smoke and mirrors be damned, this is who I am and who we are.

I sit here and type by the light of the big multicolored bulbs on the Christmas tree. “What do you think of the lights?” I asked Mom last week. “I hate them. I hate anything that reminds me of the 40s.” She’s not joking, those were not good years for her or the world for that matter. The lights have grown on her, though. Perhaps they are now becoming associated less with a painful decade and more with the chaotic joy of living with children. The coffee has been made, it’s Saturday, it’s raining. The O2 compressor groans and pumps along. Now we take the time we need to adjust to this week’s normal. Funny how we humans somehow manage to adapt to and rise above whatever life throws at us. It’s almost as if our species is something special, extraordinary. When the storms come, we pivot and withstand. The lucky ones have what I have, a network that swoops in with homeschool support, advent gifts, laundry folding, roast beefs, chicken parm, pizza, and lesson plans. I don’t go to church, don’t subscribe to any religion. “What we have is magical” my coworker said to me the other day. He was so right. All the evidence of divinity I need is found in the people I know and love. My only hope is that I, someday, will be able to give back a fraction of what I have received. But today I can only do this writing thing I do to combat all the smoke and mirrors that we all put up. Thank you for letting me share with you and thank you for being a part of all that is “magical” about us. You, yes you, have made me fall in love with this crazy, messy life.