Dancing Hours (38 page)

David called three times that day and left messages for me.  I didn’t return them.  I didn’t know what to say.  What could I say?  Then he kept calling.  At first the messages were hopeful and then confused.  I imagined what it would be like if I got involved with him.  I’d move back home and get a little house and raise a little family, all within a handful of square miles of where my parents lived.  The idea that Holly might take custody of Jessica and he would be free to go wherever didn’t mean he would want to.  We hadn’t even talked much about what he wanted, if he wanted a different life after he was no longer a
full-time
father. 

I wore the necklace he gave me every day and found myself playing with it mindlessly in class, trying to concentrate but completely unable to make sense of the droning lectures I was sitting through.  Even as I danced in the small studio, my mind wouldn’t break free of him.  I couldn’t daydream about Paris or
Macchu
Picchu.  I wondered if we’d made a mistake.  Had I been confused by the drama with X?  How was it even possible that after following me so fervently, Ed’s accountants had managed to convince him not to try to see me again?  I realized quickly that I didn’t care as long as I never did see him again.  Not being able to talk to David about it was so much harder than I thought it would be.  I was confused.  He felt like a package deal that would lead me back to Palmetto
, a place
that had felt like a prison for so long.  But I loved him, like I loved so many people who might never go anywhere any more exotic than the State Capital. 

Finally, after a month of not speaking to him, he left a last message saying that he loved me.  He understood that I was confused or maybe angry at him.  If I needed some time to think about things, just call to let him know I was okay; but he would stop calling for a while.

Another month went by before I got the terrible news from my mother.  Nan was in the hospital, I needed to come home.

2

The hospital was cold, not like a refrigerator but it definitely contrasted with the weather outside.  The ladies sitting behind the admitting desk were unhurried, studious.  It, too, was a contrast to the urgency I felt at getting to Nan’s room.

Behind me somewhere a woman with unnaturally red hair and a thick accent was talking about her daughter from New Jersey.  It wasn’t pertinent to what I needed.  With glazed and probably crazed eyes I approached and inquired about
Nan’s
room.  One of the volunteers chatted with me while we walked at the speed of molasses in January through the hospital.  She was elderly and friendly… and she had only one speed.  At some point I offered for her to just point me in the right direction, but she clicked her tongue at the rudeness of leaving me to my own devices in the hospital.  I would have to be patient, something I hadn’t had much problem with before.

I’
d
never seen a room filled with so many machines.  I didn’t know what they were all for – breathing, fluids,
blood
pressure.  Some of them were
pulled out from their hiding places
behin
d placid pictures on the wall.  
The only honest machine in the room was a television.  At least it had the decency to look like what it was.

My mother was asleep in a loung
e
chair that folded almost flat.  There was a window bench with a 2 inch pad on it that I guessed many people slept in.  The room had that funny smell – antiseptic and something else. 
Putrefication
came to mind.  Nan looked as old as I’d ever seen her – worried and t
ired.  The light blue hospital g
own with asymmetrical triangles was something she’d never wear.  I felt instantly
and
overwhelmingly sad.  I sat down qui
e
tly, not knowing what to do with myself.  Waiting is something I’ve never been good at.  I like to get things done.  But here I was –
useless,
here I could
not
do anything.  Nan may be dying and I was like a feather, blowing in the wind.  No anchor.

I had nothing to do while they slept but stare at the disingenuous machines, wires everywhere, tubes in and out of my grandmother.   And everything had wheels on it to roll around the room.  An emergency call button stared at me mockingly.  I could press it.  This was an emergency, wasn’t it?  Feeling
lost and helpless felt like an
emergency.  But it would only bring a nurse who’d be angry I wasted her time or, worse yet, she might pity me.  I hated pity, but I pitied myself.

I left to find coffee at the courtesy station they had set up.  No creamer, just my luck.  When I returned, my mother was waking up.  The side of her face was imprinted with pillow marks. 
Must have been a long night
.
  I felt suddenly bad that I hadn’t brought her a change of clothes or some toiletries
from home, but I hadn’t stopped there on my way from the airport
.

We talked quietly and my mother filled me in on the details.  Most of them swirled around in my head nonsensically
, but the gist was clear.  Nan had breast cancer.  It had metastasized to her lungs and lymph nodes by the time it was discovered.  She didn’t want to scare me. 
She had decided not to try treatment. 
She was going to die.

I excused myself to the restroom, which was equipped with a shower and another emergency call method – this one with a string to pull.  I looked at my skin in the mirror looking too pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.  I was upset at my grandmother for not fighting, for not trying, no matter how dire the odds; but this wasn’t about me. I took a deep breath, told myself not to cry and made up my mind to take charge however I could.

I went down to the gift shop, pick
ed
up a couple of travel-sized toiletry kits and a pretty printed shift close to my mother’s size.  Then I spotted a rack of designer hospital gowns, much prettier fabrics than what my Nan had on.  I though
t
the black with whi
te
polka dots and red piping was perfect.  I used some of the cash Nan had given me to pay for it all.  Then I returned to the room, ushered my mother to the shower and visited the café for some breakfast.  I brought it back, whipped out my laptop and researched.  The news was grim.

Once the cancer metastasized, treatment options were limited.  She could have doubled her life expectancy if she’d attempted treatment, but even that might only get her another few years and the side effects sounded miserable.  Add in her age, osteoporosis and weight loss and I could understand her decision.

I watched Nan’s chest slowly rise and fall and listened to the awful machine breathing for her.  It sounded like something out of a space movie- hissing air and an accordion pump.  Nan was sedated to allow the breathing machine to work.  It wasn’t a coma, but it looked like one.  The nurse helped me change her into the new gown and announced how pretty Nan was.  She was kind enough to bring several
more
blankets to keep Nan warm. 
 
Then I had nothing to do but wait and I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for.  Waiting for her to wake up; waiting for her to die.

Nan was so thin, almost unrecognizable as the audacious, outstanding woman she had been just months before. 
How did I not see how tired she was when she came to L.A.?
  
When my mom got out of the bathroom, I left again.  I needed to be out of the room so I walked down to the waiting room outside one of the surgical areas.  It was designed to be open and cheerful.  Live plants were in every corner; stock flowered pastel framed prints lined the walls.  I found myself focusing on these strange little details as a way to clear my head.  The magazines included National Geographic and Sports Illustrated.  There was a wall of pamphlets on various procedures.  Signs posted let me know that this was a “Cell Phone Zone” although I hadn’t seen any signs saying otherwise throughout the hospital.  The walls to the hall were glass windows on the top half, giving the illusion that it was a private room without being closed in.

A small corner of the room held a kids table and chairs, a TV with some kids
’
videos.  And there was also a phone with a sign telling me what extension to call if I needed assistance.  They were mocking me with all the offers of assistance. 

I watched the others sitting there waiting for their loved ones to emerge from surgery.  Each time a doctor approached and the news was good.  Their procedure was done, everything went as expected.  There wasn’t going to be a doct
or coming to tell me good news:
that the cancer had disappeared, that my grandmother would watch me get married and play with my children.

“She’s
been
in a lot of pain, Andy.”  My mother had found me without my noticing. She sat next to me and wrapped her arm
s
around me. 
It was a welcome comfort.  She explained that Nan had been hospitalized when she collapsed while teaching a dance class.  My mom had decided to keep her stable in the hospital until I could come home, but Nan’s wish was to die in the comfort of her own
home
.  Mom had made arrangements for hospice care and Nan would be discharged today, if I was ready.

“Will she be able to breathe on her own?” I asked, thinking of the breathing tube.

“Probably.
  They keep the breathing tube in because of her sedation.  But there’s a possibility that she won’
t
and
..
.”
She started crying.  As hard as this was for me, it must be
harder for her.  She was losing her mother.  She wiped her face and a few hollow sobs came out.  “Your father will be back soon and the hospice nurse will be here.”

“Okay.” I tried to comfort her back.  “Let’s not talk about it anymore.  Let’s just get Nan home and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

We were all relieved when she started breathing on her own, when the fog lifted from her eyes and she was able to smile if not yet talk.  I sat with her while we rode to her home and watched her looking out the window
at the little town that had been home for so long.  People stopped on the street and nodded solemn ‘
hello’s
to our slow-moving car. Nan sat up in her seat a little straighter and I felt like I could read her mind – she didn’t want to be seen as a ghost just yet.

Her hand felt like a silk bag draped loosely over bones.  I looked away so she wouldn’t see me crying.  Her house looked better than I had ever remembered.  She’d obviously had someone doing routine maintenance.  Maybe my dad had found a renewed zest for doing
yardwork
.

It was obvious that the neighbors knew she was coming home today.  The porch was lined with casseroles, flowers and balloons.  I saw a fine looking peach cobbler and recognized Mrs. Merchant’s dish.  I heard Nan grumble and then cough a bit, clear her throat and say “Don’t those fools know I
ain’t
dead yet?”

I smiled, but didn’t know how to respond so I said nothing.  We set up a ramp to get her wheelchair up the steps
.  I looked sadly at the assortment of decorated canes inside her doorway, realizing that she would never be using any of them again.  The hospice nurse got to work setting up equipment, changing sheets, getting Nan comfortable with pillows and the family all stood in the living room – what Nan had always called the parlor – waiting to know what to do.