In Search of Spring

              
       

            Nearly two weeks after Mom agreed to come to live with us, Washington, DC did its best impression of a spring day.  The sun’s strong rays seemed desperate to erase reminders of unwelcome winter frost.  But it was still March, so even by afternoon the air still felt cold and windy.

            With Baby Heather, 22 months and four year old Taylor in tow, as well as the ubiquitous child travel paraphernalia (bottles, diapers, Uneeda biscuits, wipes, snacks), the three of us left home in our green Taurus wagon headed to National airport, about 7 miles south of the city. We'd made our way through a serpentine concourse leading to the US Airways terminal, when the children finally spotted Mom. Clad in a teal blue, patch pocket winter coat we’d given her for Christmas, Mom looked haggard as she stood stiffly on a cement platform in front of the airline doorway.  By then, the children's gleeful shrieks of excitement burst forth as I rolled down the windows halfway.  They couldn’t wait to get to their Grandma, the woman who would soon smother them in hugs and kisses and offer a rainbow of fruit flavored lollipops and Hershey miniatures.

            After their joyous reunion, hugging, laughter, and more shrieking, I headed to the passenger side of the car to help Mom in.  I kissed her on the cheek, and clicked her strap, recognizing that she flinched in discomfort as the safety belt applied pressure to her stomach where the tumor lived. Sitting next to her, part of me I relaxed.  Finally she was here! Now we could get her the medical treatment she needed. But relaxed wasn't all I felt.  Apprehension was there, too.  How would our family adjust to living together as five, instead of four? 

The last time I lived with Mom, I was just a shy teenager, eager to please my parents and feeling torn when they played out their marital friction.  I glanced at my watch.  Less than an hour from now, Mom had a scheduled appointment with my gynecologist.  We were short on time. No time to fret about what might happen.

           As we traveled to the doctor's office, I could already tell that Mom's condition had worsened in the six weeks since we’d last seen her.  She looked exhausted, the stress lines in her face very pronounced.  Even more troubling though, was the way she carried herself.  To ease the discomfort she felt (severe pressure and pain on her abdomen), Mom was bending forward from the waist.  Although the movement itself was quite small, I could tell that each one prompted bouts of deep, agonizing pain.

            This stark change in her physical appearance, especially overt signs of distress, triggered my own unease.  Reminded of the facile reassurances offered by the walk-in clinic doctor, I felt a sudden, intense surge of anger, too.  “Your mother’s tumor is benign.  She has nothing to worry about…”  Benign?  Was there anything benign about persistent, throbbing abdominal pain?

            Bustling early Friday afternoon traffic near the doctor’s office temporarily distracted me and I began an intense search for parking.  Finding no available (legal) spaces on 19^th Street, I opted for a parking lot just two doors down from the doctor’s office.

            After unloading an oversized double stroller from the trunk of the Taurus wagon, I bundled the children into their snug winter gear.  A pale pink, fleecy hooded snowsuit for Baby Heather, and  bright royal blue coat and striped cap for Taylor. My multi-pocketed shoulder strapped diaper bag slid over my left shoulder, while I plunked ziplock bags of the children's snacks into baskets underneath the stroller.  I tossed in Thomas the Tank Engine Stories and The Little Red Hen books for good measure. Once I lifted each child into the front and back seats of the oversized buggy and strapped them in, I pressed my foot to engage the stroller’s break pedals.  That would keep the children stationary while I assisted Mom.

            At the front passenger side of the car, I offered my arm to help her get out of the car.  The abdominal pain added to the rigidity of her already stiff extremities—extremities stiffened by age and infirmity, so it turned out that easing her out of the car was totally out of the question.  In the end, Mom gasped in pain as I hoisted her out in a clumsy, unwieldy fashion.

            Handing the car keys to an impatient garage attendant (our final departure from the car must have taken at least ten minutes—nine minutes longer than he was probably used to waiting), we began our slow, uneven path to our destination.  As we neared the entrance door at the doctor’s office, I began to feel deep relief again.  Today we might get what we all wanted:  reassurances that Mom would be okay.

            Ascending the wheelchair ramp, I stepped with surefooted confidence.  And when we reached the entrance, I felt even more hopeful.  I pressed a black button in the elevator and waited for it to reach our floor.

            But then, once I opened the office door, absorbed a whiff of rubbing alcohol, detected the canned, emotionless sound of Muzak, and looked into the faces of strangers in the waiting room, I was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. Every bit of the confidence I’d had only moments before slipped away.