Meredith Ehrhard
English I
August 30, 2001
I was used to my mom being in the hospital, but this time was different. As I drove to the hospital, I thought that this was going to be another go-see-mom-at-the-hospital kind of thing and that she would be home by the next day. For the past ten years, my mother had spent a lot of time in a hospital bed. She has had breast cancer and gone through radiation and chemotherapy treatments so many times that this had become a regular occurrence. Her overall health has been nothing less than a roller coaster experience. I drove faster down the three lane highway dodging cars left and right, and constantly eyeing the clock. I had to be at work within the hour and visiting hours were only so long.
I have always been optimistic towards my mother’s health problems because somehow or another by the grace of God alone she had always come out okay. This time she was in the hospital due to an extremely high fever and low blood pressure. I assumed this was nothing because in the past doctors had given her fluids for fevers, which reduced her temperature. But her condition had only gotten worse with reactions to the medication that made her break out into a serious skin problem that was like having third degree burns on over seventy percent of her body. The doctors then informed us that all family members are advised to visit her because the condition could be fatal.
I took the hospital exit and turned into the one-hour free parking lot. I grabbed the parking ticket unconsciously and set it on the dashboard next to yesterday’s ticket, which I snatched up and threw into the backseat with all the others. I walked quickly across the parking lot, unaware what God was about to show me.
Upon entering the building’s sliding doors, I let out a sigh of relief as the cold air-conditioned lobby saved me from the burning wrath of the hot July sun. I approached the gray elevator doors with an outward confidence that not only seemed artificial, but also unrealistic. I tried to feel as I did ten years ago at the life-is-always-happy age of eight: knowing that “Mommy is going to be okay” to cover my fear. The doors parted, and I stepped in with another woman. We both smiled half-heartedly. “Which floor?” she asked me. After I squeaked out a wimpy “four,” she simply nodded, knowing that we were both headed to the ICU. With only three floors to ascend, it seemed like forty. The small, colorless elevator room was swimming with our unspoken thoughts and feelings of doubt, worry, and questions why God would allow a loved one to go through so much. The strong silence was evidence of the loudness of our incoherent thoughts that consumed our minds and blocked out everything around us. Finally, the elevator dinged the arrival of the fourth floor, and as the doors flew open to reveal the reception desk, all silence was broken.
I stepped off, signed myself in at the desk, picked up the pass, and walked through the big white doors leading into the ICU. I walked down the spotlessly clean hallways and up to the glass doors of my mother’s room. Looking in, I saw my father and grandparents dressed in bright green gowns and masks. I put on the required surgical mask and surgical gown and walked in.
My mother lay there helplessly as my father leaned over her. “I love you,” he said before kissing her forehead. She looked horrible; I had never before seen her look so bad. Her eyes were shut because it hurt to open them, and her face was red. Though she’s only in her forties, she breathed a slow, deep, raspy breath that reminded me of an old woman on her deathbed. My dad continued to talk to her calmly even though she didn’t respond. He then turned and looked at me through his worried blue eyes. “Talk to her; she can hear you, but she’s just to weak to respond. She likes to hear your voice and know you are here.” With that, my eyes welled up with tears, and I sneaked up to the edge of the bed and began speaking to her. She forced herself to open her emerald green eyes and get a good look at me while I continued to tell her about all the college things that I had bought that day.
I stepped away from the bed and my dad started whispering to my mother while stroking her soft and disheveled dark brown hair. Although she looked her worst and couldn’t even talk to him, he kept telling her that he loved her. I knew in that instant how much my father really did love my mother. My eyes poured behind that little green surgical mask. I could not imagine what my dad would do without her. She was his best friend, the woman he met in college and fell deeply in love with; the woman he took long walks with, proposed to and with whom he spent life raising their four unruly, yet beautiful children who all had features and characteristics they possessed. His eyes and generosity; her love of music and cheerfulness; everything from their hair color to sense of humor was seen in the lives of the children that they had brought into this world. All this unity and their opportunity to grow old together may all end right here in this room. I wanted this kind of love and longed for it in my future husband. The tears I expressed were that of sadness for my father and how his life would almost have to be incomplete without the woman he loved and married twenty-six years ago and still loves deeply to this day. I also cried tears of thankfulness to God for the parents he had blessed me with. I wondered if I would ever see my mother in good health to where she could at least laugh, smile, and make jokes like she always had.
Upon leaving the hospital, I walked out into the parking lot behind my sixty-something year old grandparents, still in love, walking side-by-side, and holding hands. That’s how I wanted my parents to be in twenty years, but at that point I did not know if that time would come. My father walked on alone towards our white Dodge Caravan as I prayed to God and thanked him for giving me such wonderful parents.
Within the next week and a half, the doctors discovered a way to stop the spread of my mother’s disease. She was moved to the PCU (Progressive Care Unit) because she was improving so well. Only days later, she came home. Just as before, God had brought my mother through a life-threatening situation and in the process, brought the our whole family closer to each other, and strengthened our faith in Him.
Looking back one night, my mother’s life flashed before my eyes, every good moment and every bad moment I had spent with her. I was completely overwhelmed with the strongest feeling of peace that erased all bleakness and confusion. Suddenly it was all but a blur of memories surrounding me in this one quiet melody in time where everything came down to one thing: God is good.
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