Nonfiction by Gail Purdy
“Mom, it’s me!” I call out as I enter the apartment. Silence hangs in the air. “Mom?” I call out again before moving towards the bedroom and adjoining bathroom. I see the blood-stained towel first, then my 94-year-old mother lying motionless on the bathroom floor. One of the sliding glass shower doors is off its track and rests at an angle up against the shiny white tiles. Only the metal frame keeps it from falling further and landing on her. Is she dead? I hesitate for a second, which feels more like an eternity, before reaching for her wrist. Her eyes blink open at my touch.
An avalanche of emotion surges through my body, threatening to crush me. I want to scream and cry. Instead, I shove fear and anxiety into the shadows at the back of my mind.
“Do you feel any pain?” I ask.
“My back hurts . . . and my head.” She struggles to get the words out. Dried blood has formed a crust around the gash at her temple. A large purple and blue bruise is making its way down her cheek.
“What happened?” Should I try to move her or call the paramedics? I can’t decide.
This is the fourth fall in less than two months. I push the rising dread to the back of my mind, up against the fear and anxiety already exiled there. I reach for my phone and press three digits before sitting on the floor next to my mother. No words pass between us.
When the paramedics arrive, she complains of neck and back pain. Concerned about a possible fracture, they place a rigid collar around her neck, and strap her to an orange plastic stretcher, immobilizing the rest of her body. They move fast, wheeling her down the hallway and out the door to the waiting ambulance. “I’m going to the hospital too . . . I’ll be right behind you,” I shout after her. “You’ll be okay, Mom.” Are the assuring words for her or for me?
At this early hour there is plenty of space in the parking lot near the emergency entrance. Two streetlights cast a thin pattern of light across the gravel, but not enough to illuminate anything that might be hidden in the shadows. I turn off the car engine and sit motionless, except for my shaking hands, and watch the paramedics take my mother into the ER. I take a deep breath. My lungs resist the expansion, fearful the air supply will be cut off before they grasp what they need. I release several breaths before getting out of the car.
Antiseptic smells mingled with urine and fear assault me when the glass doors slide open. The familiar odours hang in the air threatening to suffocate like they always do when the doors close behind me. “Why isn’t anyone helping me?” My mother’s cries join the chorus of voices in the room.
“There are many people who need help. The doctor is very busy. You’re his next patient.” The lie falls easily from my lips. Heaviness sits in my stomach and the weight of it anchors me to the chair next to my mother.
“My neck hurts . . . and my back hurts,” she cries out. Her body is still immobilized.
A nurse moves between us and slips a little blue pill under my mother’s tongue before she turns and settles her gaze on me. Her eyes are soft with kindness as she places her hands on my shoulders. “Your mother has lived her life . . . you need to live yours.” Her touch is gentle, but her words split my heart open with an unexpected force. The weight of being a caregiver is slowly crushing me. I want to leave but I can’t move.
“Where’s the doctor? Why don’t they help me?” Mom’s voice now shrill.
My voice breaks through her mounting fear. “The doctor is busy. An ambulance just brought a man into the hospital. He’s been shot, and he might die if the doctor doesn’t help him first.”
I continue to evolve the fictional tale until I see the blue pill take effect. Mom’s eyes close, and I see her face soften. My eyes close too, releasing the tears I can no longer hold back.
Gail Purdy lives life on the west coast of British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in Four Tulips, rhizomag, Witcraft, Missing Pieces (a grief anthology from Quillkeepers Press), Last Syllable, The Bluebird Word, and the 2021 Amy Award Anthology. Long walks in the forest accompanied by her inner child nurture her creative soul.
