Code Blue

August 2018

I’m sitting by my mother’s bedside when a voice breaks out through the hospital speakers and says.

                “Code Blue, Room 511…Code Blue.” I've never heard them announce a Code Blue before.  We are on the third floor, my eyes travel upwards towards the ceiling.  I don’t know what Code Blue means, but I can imagine it means someone has suddenly fallen close to death.  My mom stares at me, and then she mimics me, and she too stares at the ceiling.  My toddler Maya then copies both of us and throws he head back, staring intently at the ceiling tiles.  I suddenly realize I am probably the only one who cognitively understands what a Code Blue might mean.  I wonder if someone two floor up is about to die.  I wonder if they’re scared, or if they’re ready.  My daughter hands my mother a fake, plastic cell phone and it takes a few tries, but she manages to open it and pretends to hold it to her ear.  Maya giggles.  We sit in silence for a few minutes and then the voice on the speaker returns and says, “Code Blue canceled.”  I let out a sigh of relief. 

                My mother then suddenly looks at me wide-eyed.  She does it a lot, it’s a new mannerism I’m still getting used to.  She asks me a question.  It takes three tries before I understand. 

“You want your purse I ask?”  She nods her head, and I go to the closet and then bring it to her.  I open it up and set it on her lap.  She just stares at it.  Long seconds tick by.  “What are you looking for?” I ask gently.  “Your wallet?”  She nods at me with her wide-eyed stare again.  I pull out her wallet and then take her driver’s license from the bill fold.  “You want to look at this?”  I ask holding it out to her.  She glances it and then pushes my hand away.

“No!” she says sharply.  I nod and put it away.  I hand her the wallet and she just stares.  I watch her eyes move back and forth very quickly.  I know her brain is trying to retrieve information, it’s trying to re-route itself past damaged tissue.  My heart hurts a little watching her, watching her struggle, watching her try to remember things she can’t.  Eventually I put the purse away, and I ask my mom if she is sleeping okay at night.

“Yeah, I sleep great with the dogs,” she tells me.  I nod and smile.  She’s talking about her dogs who are staying currently at my sister’s house.  My mom stares at me for a long moment.  Sometimes it’s like she’s seeing me for the first time, and I wish I could know what she’s thinking.  Her eyes widen, and she suddenly turns her head away from me, she even skootches a little bit away.  I reach my hand out and rest it on her shoulder, “Love you ma,” I whisper.  She doesn’t respond.