Art thieves and Insulin: Inside the World of a Post-op Mom

Where’d Anne go?” My 84 year old mother mumbles from her hospital bed, asking for my older sister. Mom went into the clinic last Thursday for a procedure which quickly escalated into triple bypass surgery. She got through the surgery fine but woke up the next day in considerable pain and a bit cranky. With several of her children and my niece (an OR nurse) standing by her bedside she tried to communicate through her oxygen mask. “What are you doing here? Am I dying?” “No Mom you’re fine.” My sister Anne said, “We’re just here to be supportive.” “Go away.” Mom followed up that statement with a look my brother-in-law calls “the stink-eye.” 

Please don’t think this is in any way normal behavior for Mom. She’s the most affable, loving person you’d ever meet. Since she moved in with Anne and hubby Richard a year ago (my dad passed in 2012) she has become the life of the party. 

The next day—even though Mom told us not to visit—Richard, niece Amy and I decided to go check on her progress. Anne strongly advised that we stay hidden while we talked to the nurses in charge of her care. “She’ll get pissed off and give you the stink-eye.” Call me crazy but I’m not really intimidated by this so-called “stink-eye.” Even so we decided it was best to leave her alone so as not to stress her out. 

After turning down the hall to her CCU room the “Leave her alone plan.” was quickly replaced with the “What the hell is up now?” plan. Mom was sitting in a chair glaring at the nurse. Her stink eye had morphed into a full-blown evil eye. Looking indignant she pointed at the nurse. “She’s an imposter! Look in her pockets.” Mom reached out to poke at the nurse’s pocket while emphatically urging us to “Call 911!” 

Apparently paranoid thoughts are typical reactions after anesthesia. In older folks the condition can be more pronounced. Patients think the nursing staff is out to get them and doctors are trying to kill them. They see plots everywhere.

As Mom repeated her plea to “Call 911 NOW!” she recounted her experience from the previous night. “There were two men in my room and they injected me with something to make my insulin go kerplewy.” This assertion was buoyed up by the fact that because of the stress from surgery, her sugar level was higher than normal. When asked to describe the two men she stated. “One’s name was Tom and he was tall and good looking.” Of course he was. “I didn’t get the other one’s name but he wasn’t in charge." Her voice turned ominous. "Tom was.” We tried to get her to drink something but she’d decided that the nurses had poisoned all her drinks. I had to test all of them before she’d take a sip. 

After attempts to reason with Mom failed we realized it was better just to go along to get along. Soon it was time for her medication. Amy whispered to Mom. “Grandma I have a secret stash of your pills that the nurses don’t know about.” Amy proceeded to sneak out of the room, down the hall, and on round-about route made her way to the nurses station to retrieve the “stash”. “She’d better watch out.” Mom declared. “I think they’re following her.” While we were waiting for Amy to return Mom called Richard over to her side. “Did you get the police to come yet? They should have been here by now.” “The police are really busy right now.” Richard said in a soothing voice. Mom proceeded to tell Richard that she was working with the FBI to break up an art theft ring. Because of that—most likely Tom and his nameless assistant—people were after her. “That’s why we need the police here NOW!”

It’s difficult to watch a loving parent in pain and helpless. Pills can help the pain and being there to provide support helps boost their spirit. Psychosis is tough to take because you worry they could hurt themselves or others. At the same time it's hard not to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation but I kept thinking that Mom was probably pretty scared. In her mind, it was all real. With Mom the worst thing that happened was she threw her juice at the nurse. Fortunately she missed.  

Thankfully by late afternoon Mom had calmed down a bit and was getting back to normal. She even let the nurse she called an impostor give her a sponge bath. Mom didn’t want to be alone so Richard stopped by to drop bed linens off for Anne so she could stay overnight. I grabbed the quilt and started to walk back to the CCU. Richard shouted. “I almost forgot. Important news!” he called across the lobby. “Tell Grandma they caught the thieves.” Thieves? I must have looked perplexed because he came right over. You know the art thieves she and the FBI were trying to catch.” Richard laughed. “They reported it on CNN. Make sure Grandma knows her work is done.” 

Riiiggght....this day is just getting weirder and weirder.

Contemplating the Meaning of Trees

Woke up early this morning, 5:00 am. With the tenants gone (two students from a renowned Boston craftsmen school) my son and I have the house to ourselves. When they were here I forced myself to stay in bed until 7:00 am. By that time they’d be off to classes in piano tuning and book binding and I’d have the house to myself. My tenant Molly, a young lady from Colorado, was the perfect boarder. Quiet, always polite and mature well beyond her 21 years. On the other hand, Bob, a mid-30s fellow from California, was more difficult to deal with. My son characterized him as, “The most annoying nice person ever.” From Bob’s perspective everything was “Cool.” His time with us featured cooking really smelly food, requests to drive him here and there (hints that there were plenty of taxies in town were ignored) and seemingly endless descriptions of the sandwiches he ate for lunch (“Cool!”) or some minuscule aspect of piano tuning that no one was really interested in. Getting along with Bob was a challenge and most of the time both Molly and I would hide in our rooms rather than interact with him. For my infrequent encounters I set a 10 minute rule in which I’d make pleasant chit chat before escaping to my bedroom. Thankfully Bob left a week before Molly. The result was akin to the Munchkins emerging from their homes after the wicked witch was killed. Our “ding dong the witch is dead” moment was accompanied by sighs of relief and spontaneous dancing around the kitchen.

So finally they are gone and I can get up whenever I want. I can indulge in my pleasant morning ritual, making coffee and watching the news while sitting by the backyard window. The dogs are still in bed. It’s just me and the time slowly flows by. Each luscious second slipping past with me not really noticing. 

Trees. I realized this morning as a stream of random thoughts, ”I should start a website. What will I call my art studio? I need boxes.”—passed through my consciousness. Most woman love jewelry to mark special occasions. I love trees. 

I’ll be leaving this house in several weeks. It’s weird how you have to fix up a house to sell it. To leave it for someone else to enjoy. We lived with weeks of chaos. You don’t get a pretty house without contending with lots of noise, dust, and sketchy people (drunk painters, convicts posing as handimen) invading every nook and cranny of your life. At one point I counted 15 people in and around the house all at once. I crumbled under the combined pressure of the work, all the money I was spending, and bouts of deep sadness. Happy memories of raising the family here and the regrets of a marriage gone bad overwhelmed me. I cried. A lot. I felt like a recovering alcoholic, “Just get through the next minute.” Who would’ve thought the 12 steps would apply to home renovation. 

Vera and Dinghy enjoy the newly painted stairway.

Then there’s my trees. They surround the house like sentinels, protecting me. Enveloping me in their comforting presence. The lovely, lace-like red japanese maple nestled in the front yard. A gift from the ex-spouse to mark our first Mother’s Day in the house. The dogwood in the back. It’s velvet-like ivory flowers coming and going so quickly. Also a Mother’s Day gift. And my favorite pea green Japanese maple growing out the backyard window. So many mornings I've enjoyed watching that maple while sipping coffee and waiting to hear the seven-day forecast.  My trees are constant. Stately, Graceful. Some trees look stiff, They creak and groan in the wind. My trees are elastic—they rustle like taffeta and flow like velvet in the breeze. I’ve learned from my trees. Bend. Don’t break. Strength comes when you least expect it. When the wind is blowing hard and it’s so cold outside. Just preserver. 

I worry about my trees. Will the new owners love them as I do. Will they gaze out the kitchen window in the morning, contemplating the day as they enjoy the pleasant waving of my pea-green maple? Will their children grow up romping in the backyard under the dogwood as my son did? I hope so. 

Maybe the diamond ring would have been nice but I don’t miss it. When the marriage is over, that ring which seems so important, a symbol of never ending love and commitment, so often becomes a symbol of a failed relationship. Rings don't grow anything - except maybe resentment. I never looked at my trees that way. When my marriage failed I looked to them for comfort, not blame and like my son I see them as the precious gifts given with love.