For About and By Caregivers

Subscribe to our bi-monthly publication Today's Caregiver magazine
  + Larger Font | - Smaller Font

Caregiver Stories

Share This Article

By Sarah M. Glover
(Page 2 of 3)

At the end of the week, Virginia is allowed to return to the Pete Gross House. Fiercely independent, she bristles against my help, but her body demands it. She cannot stand on her own; her legs are useless. I reach around her, hoisting her up from her bed to the bathroom, laughing with her that she makes a crummy dance partner. She snorts and sings a tune. I remember years ago, while waiting for a subway late one night, she jumped up and began tap dancing. She swirled along the tiles, chuckling at her improvised soft shoe. I joined her, singing something from Cole Porter. We finally collapsed on a bench in gales of laughter after receiving rousing applause from several men disembarking a car.

The following days are spent in near catastrophes as we drive back and forth from the Cancer Casa to the Hutch. Looking like circus clowns, myself a mere 5’3”, I strain to extricate this 5’9” grandmother from a Ford Focus. I can feel the rebellion in Virginia’s flesh as I try to lift her, try to hold on to her as she fights to hold on to her vitality, her control. I need to help her, and I take heart in the fact that I can help; but I swallow down fear every time my arms fold about her. My love for this woman is so strong; I cannot falter, I cannot slip. I cannot let my mind envision a life without her. If I stop fighting, if I stop laughing, I will give into this—this dark pull that lurks in the corners of these antiseptic corridors and on the lips of people on cell phones wiping tears from their eyes.

Another day passes. I return from the hospital, having left my mother-in-law behind for transfusions. The fourth floor is empty. I reach our apartment and glance behind me. The photo of a small girl with a blue crocheted cap is taped to the door opposite ours. I stare at her. Her large kindergarten head rests upon an unknown shoulder; the owner has been cut away by the popsicle frame. A photo of a Papillion with an elaborate name is hung below what appears to be family members sitting at a kitchen table. They smile for the camera. It is an old photo. I feel both voyeur and mourner at that moment. Is the young girl the patient? Is one of these others the patient? I cannot tell. I think of my son and daughter back in San Francisco. I could not do this if they lived behind that door.
I turn back into our room and bolt the lock tight behind me, realizing for the first time that there are no photos on our door.

On the last day of my stay, my mother-in-law is readmitted to the hospital to receive her six million stem cells, cells housed in plastic, salmon-colored baggies that look like frozen food and smell like rancid garlic. Surrounded by balloons and cards, we sing and laugh as they sloop their way through her Hickman. In a few hours, they will find their way to her bone marrow and begin their journey.

1 2 3

Printable Version Printable Version

Follow Us on Facebook Follow Us on Twitter Follow Us on Youtube Follow us on Pinterest Google Plus