Say A Simple Sentence

   
         I'm sitting in the little wood grained, exposed brick coffee shop that shares a wall with a small indie thrift store. Everything feels like it did in the 1990's before Things Got Cray Cray in Colorado, until I look up from my computer at the construction workers outside of the car dealership. The dealership isn't new, this has been Dealership Row along Broadway here for years. But the construction workers make me nervous. They have a lot of steel cords. Their orange vests and giant spools give me PTSD. It is never good. It used to be I 25, which was constantly under construction, and then they finally "finished" it, only to have parts of it flood in the first big rain storm. Sigh. I love my state, but sometimes I dunno how bright they are. And this was before pot was legal.
         I like this stretch of Littleton, it reminds me of Denver. I was raised in what is now the Trendy Highlands. It didn't used to be trendy, and there was nothing heightened about it. Mom got us out after high school, and I went to Kansas for college. I know, freaking Kansas, right?  I loved that it was not crowded and felt safe. But I didn't stay, going to school there was fine but after four years I was ready to come back. I'm hanging in Littleton today after making sure mom is OK. We moved out here into a tiny, blonde brick house on a block of tiny brick houses near the elementary school. We don't have a garage, which is a weird thing for Colorado, but to us it was heaven. I live in Lafayette, which also used to be not trendy, but now they have a Bar Louie. Somehow in the last few years Boulder has just annexed Lafayette and Nederland. Oh well. At least we held on to our identities, it feels the same. and frankly, there's no where else to build.
     I come down every day during the summer to spend the morning with my mom, get her coffee and chat. She's not sick or anything, but her mind is starting to slip a bit. She's OK once she's up and around. Our neighbors have been on one side have been the same for years, and the new family that moved in on the other side has small kids that love to come over and play in her garden. She has this epic rose garden out back, it takes up most of the yard. The kids think it's a blast to come over and weed and water, and mom lets them pick their favorite rose to take home. They will choose before it blooms,and then check it every day until it's ready to be plucked and displayed in a tea cup on their coffee table.
         It's only ten a.m. and already it's eighty. Sheesh. The last few summers have been ridiculous. It's crazy hot and I guess we have hail storms now. It must suck to be any kind of construction worker in this state. Last summer I hung out up in Gunnison and Montrose, my cousin lives in Delta and I like to go visit her. There's no construction up there, nobody wants to live on the Western Slope or the Banana Belt. Coming back down it looked like Grand Junction had some growth going on. They have wineries now in addition to all the fruit. We use to joke about what a pit Grand Junction was back in the day, but now it looks freaking gorgeous compared to the steel and glass monstrosity that Denver has become. Every time I visit my cousin I threaten to move up there. But then, what would I do for a job? That's the catch. She works for social services, some kind of dispatcher. She has a nice little house and it's just so quiet up there. She said last year she bought a snow shovel because they got about an inch. An inch. Banana Belt, dude.
          My phone is going off. I look down, it's mom.
          "Hey, what's up?"
          "Something is wrong. I've called the ambulance but I wanted to call you in case," that's my mom, over communicating and making sure the entire planet has all the necessary information.
           "I'm on my way."
           I arrive at mom's house, the ambulance isn't there yet. No reason for it to have beat me, I was across the street. I let myself in and mom is sitting at the dining room table. Her driver's license and insurance card are on the table. There is also a handwritten note. I pick it up: My name is JW and I feel dizzy. Her meds are lined up next to the note.
            "Mom?"
            "I think I'm having a stroke but I can't be," she starts lifting both arms over her head "say a simple sentence."
             "The hell are you doing?"
             "If it's a stroke I shouldn't be able to say a simple sentence. Or to put my arms up level."
             "I'll call the ambulance off, I can take you."
             "No, I want the medics to see me before I leave the house. Nothing personal."
             I shake my head at her. She knows I was an EMT for ten years. Yet for some reason, that isn't medical training in my mom's eyes. I also work part time as a nurse in Boulder Valley Schools, but again, it doesn't count.
              "Mom, the ambulance medics have the same training that I do."
              "Yours is old,  you haven't done it in years. There's new technology and treatments."
              "Not for strokes there isn't," I sigh. I hear the ambulance drive past our house.
              "Will you go out in the walkway and make sure they know which house."
              I do as asked and wave down the ambulance. I give them the 411 on mom, her meds, her symptoms, her history. They're really young, these guys, I swear they get younger all the time. I'm only thirty, but these EMT's look like middle schoolers. One of them looks at me longer than the other. When I'm done and they unload the gurney, he smiles. "I know you. You taught anatomy at the massage therapy school, didn't you?"
                I nod. "One of my many gigs, yep."
                "Steve," he shakes my hand. I realize that if he was in MT school when I was teaching, he has to be at least 28. "Your stories are one of the reasons I became an EMT."
                 "Did you dump massage?"
                 "Not even remotely, I do that part time on my off days. I love it."
                  We enter the house together, and my mom looks at me. "Are we done flirting now? Can it be about the woman having a stroke?"
                    ____________________________________________________________
             
                   At the ER, mom continues to raise her arms and repeat "say a simple sentence", much to the nurse's amusement. They get her hooked up and settled and she asks me where her meds are.
                  "I put them in your purse. When the doc gets here we'll give them to him."
                  "If he ever gets here, how long have we been here?"
                  "Twenty minutes."
                  "This is an ER? Nobody's here, where are the nurses? Where's the doctor?"
                   I shrug. She isn't going to like my answer based on her politics, so I just shrug.
                   "Say a simple sentence. It wasn't a stroke, I didn't have a stroke."
                   The nurse enters. "We have you in line for a CAT scan, it may be about an hour."
                   "Is this an emergency room? An hour for a CAT scan? I could die."
                   The nurse runs more diagnostics, asks her questions, checks her head and eyes. "The specialist on call is in the building, hopefully he will be down in the next half an  hour."
                   "This is an emergency room? In the suburbs? This is as bad as Denver General used to be. I do have insurance."
                     The nurse warily smiles and takes mom's blood pressure.
                    "I have to go the bathroom," my mom states. She's only 68, but right now she sounds 80.
                    "Let me unhook you," the nurse begins to adjust the IV so mom can wheel the bag with her.
                    "I'll walk you down," I volunteer.
                    When we get back from the restroom, the room is empty. I get mom resituated with her IV.
                    "Where are my meds?"
                    "In your purse. I've told you that twice now. You don't remember asking?"
                    "Say a simple sentence. How long have we been here?"
                    "Forty minutes."
                    "This is an ER?"
                    This same conversation, almost verbatim, repeated over the next two hours. The nurse came in twice in that time, both times assuring us that the specialist was in the building.
                     I looked at the nurse, "This is America, right?" referring to the ridiculous amount of time we have been waiting to see a doctor.
                     At hour four, the Doctor appears. He asks her to say a simple sentence.
                     He asks her to raise her arms simultaneously.
                     He says there is a line for the CAT scan and it will be about an hour.
                     He then left.
                     "Where are my meds?"
                     "I gave them do the Doc when he came in. You watched me do it."
                     At hour five they arrived to take mom to the CAT scan.
                     They brought her back and thirty minutes later, the doctor reappeared with a clip board.
                     "Well the CT scan doesn't show any abnormal bleeding, but we need an MRI to tell. The ER does not have an MRI, but you should schedule one down at the Franklin location as soon as possible. Or we can admit you for the night, and do an MRI upstairs in the morning."
                       "Let's do that, please. I'd like to know if my mom had a stroke."
                       "Allright, let me put in the request."
                       Thirty minutes later, another nurse--shift change--appeared to tell us that the hospital is full and there are no beds available. We will have to wait here in the ER for a few hours for a bed to open.
                        "Or, we can go home and schedule the MRI at Franklin," I say.
                        She nods sympathetically.
                        "Mom, you wanna stay?"
                        "Nope, this is ridiculous, are we in Russia? Am I not an insured American citizen?" I start to laugh, because usually this is my role. Whatever has happened to mom's brain has changed her personality, at least for the moment. "How long have we been here?" she asks me, looking at the clock as if it's Greek text.
                         "Five hours."
                          My  mom looks at the nurse. "Clearly I am fine, let me out. Say a simple sentence."
                          As I put mom in the car, she loses consciousness. Like a ragdoll, she just slumped. I ran back in and got the attendant.
                         She had an aneurysm. The doctor said "There is no way we could have seen it coming."
                         I replied "That sounds like a simple sentence."
                         

Fiction
 22  June 2017