Writer in the Forest

Chapter 22

Mom was in a coma, induced into it by her own carbon dioxide, and helped along a little deeper by drugs. A ventilator breathed for Mom. Dad was weak, couldn’t walk. If Mom lived, I’d have to move their things out of Assisted Living and into a nursing home again. My friend thought I called it Insisted Living, and after that it was our joke.

I looked at Dad and wondered if he was remembering the same things I was. Their dates, their wedding, fixing up their little house, trips to Reno.

I could see the circle of life spinning out of control, a sickening, dizzying vortex that made me lose my balance.

I waited at Mom’s bedside. As I gazed at the monitors and tubes, I saw thankfully that the machines were in control, not me. What could I do but wait? I touched, I sang, but Mom didn’t know I was there. I remember thinking, once my parents are gone, I’d move up a notch to the oldest generation. Was I ready for that?

The nursing home van brought Dad. His head was barely strong enough to lift up and look at Mom. “I miss her already.”

I slept for a week on a sofa in the fourth floor waiting room. A nurse on the 4th floor showed up one day with towels, shampoo, soap, and a toothbrush. “Come with me,” my conspirator whispered. I followed her into a huge former shower room, now a storage area, and I realized she’d snuck me in so I could clean up. Being clean feels so good.

That’s the way it was in the cancer ward, where they put Mom though cancer was the one thing she didn’t have. Her doctor had set her up in the best place possible, and I knew it was as much for me as my mom.

I shut the lights off in the waiting room and curled up with my one blanket on the sofa. I conjured up the Olympic Mountains, knowing I wouldn’t hit the trail now for a long time. Go to your happy place.

Funny how you can look at the mountains and only see a one-dimensional snapshot. You wouldn’t know there are trails, rivers, fungi and the stunning texture of tree bark. You can’t see the people – people like me swigging down their water, sitting on a rock. Or people climbing The Brothers – way up high, hanging their food, shifting their big packs. All the beautiful details, things you can’t see when you only look at the big picture.

Maybe God hadn’t abandoned me. Maybe God was in the details and it’s up to me to see it for what it is.

The next morning I woke up and there was a note from my brother in my shoe. He had been here while I slept. He’d sought me out and left me a note of encouragement. The fourth floor was full of miracles.

And I was refreshed and ready to see what was around the next bend on my journey.