Wednesday, October 1, 2008

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines." - Neruda


The call from P. at 2:13 am. Some thing's more wrong than usual wrong.

No! Don't wear that tee-shirt. You like it. You will always remember you wore it this night. Wear the shirt you hate.

The cab driver doesn’t realize Columbia stops going two-ways at Delancy. He tries to speed on the East River Drive service road but hits all the red lights on Grand Street.

Does running fast - through an empty courtyard, on the same stones I ran as a child, past the fountain I sat by - does running fast slow down bad things?

Two years of "normal" changing - from a woman who could walk to the bathroom on her own to this fragile sparrow of ancient skin struggling to breathe her only eye already traveling to other places.

I ask can I take you to the doctor the sound "no" not from parched lips unable to close for fear of suffocation but speaking from gut clinging to home.

After I sing her sutras she sips water.

There is too much distress.

The wishes made ten years ago. What decision can I live with what decision can I not old papers pulled words scratched out other neatly typed reread what decision can I live with what decision can I not?  P. listens, tilts her head, raises eyebrows, nods, listens, tilts her head, raises eyebrow, nods...

It is near 3am. Doctor Russia calls back immediately. If it is another flare-up then the hospital can treat it. If it is the end you can get her home you can refuse intubations.

It's win-win I say to P. I’m calling 911.

I ask again you are in so much distress I want to take you to the doctor I promise I'll bring you home I promise you I'll bring you back home I promise and the word “yes” is her trust in me she raised me not to lie.

HE is tall huge like a redwood. SHE is officious. They both stomp around with many big FDNY emergency bags. Two more show up. Such heavy boots. I know the neighbors below must know something big is happening. SHE orders everyone around.

Suddenly my mother is no longer mine. She is THEIRS and I cannot stop THEM or the massive amount of medical equipments flying out of boxes and bags or the law that says the form we didn't fill out means THEY get to do everything. When I hear my mother cry out I snap "no more" or "stop that" or something and one of THEM steps in front of me to keep me from stopping THEM.

The stretcher doesn't fit in the elevator so THEY tip her up. If THEY went a bit higher she'd be on her own two feet for the first time in months.

SHE tries to put me in the second ambulance. "No! I'm riding with my mother." HE makes me ride shotgun, not in the back holding my mother’s hand.

SHE says, "Stop taking pictures please." "I'm not taking any of you, just my mother." "It's breaking HIPAA patient confidentiality." "She's my mother. I am her HIPAA person." "Ma'am, it's breaking confidentiality." I mutter under my breath, "I'll take a picture of my mother if I want to." But I'm too tired, too tired, too tired. "I'll take a picture of the coffee cups instead." The driver grins. My camera malfunctions.


In March, when Florence and I spent 10 hours in the ER (The ER Visit-Part Two: The Walls of Jericho) there was a doctor there some addict was screaming at. I remembered him. Tonight he became Florence's ER doctor.

"Do you understand what that means if we do that?"


"Ok honey, ok sweetheart, I'm sorry, we're almost done, it's a bit uncomfortable, we're almost done..."

"Your mother was biting the tubes.”


"Yes. She didn't want them."

"I'm glad she was biting them."

"Let's make her as comfortable as possible now."

"I want her home."

"This is Dr. Palliative Care."

"What seems to be happening is..."

"Should I call my sister or can we wait..."

"Call your sister, now. Tell her to get here as soon as she can."

"The lab result just came back. It looks like she had had a heart attack and that's why..."

"I'm on the train platform. I couldn't find any cash for a car service."

"Mom, she’s is on the train platform. You have to hang in there until she gets here. You have to. I know you can do it. Hang in there."

"You're looking at the machine to tell you how your mother is doing. I'm going to turn off the machines so that you can just be with her."

"I can't remember the Cole Porter song, You're the Top. I didn't bring her cassette player to play her old songs..."

"Do you know when your sister might get here?"

"My mother will wait. She's going to wait until my sister gets here."

"Here. I just downloaded Pandora on my I-Phone. It's not all Cole Porter but similar. Here, put it by her ear..."

"Mom! She’s is here!"

"Hi Mom."

thank you thank you I love you thank you so much for giving me I'm so grateful for I love you music is the most important thing in my life I got so much from thank you for my passion I'm so sorry so grateful for this I love you thank you so much I love you I'm so sorry I love you thank you


Near 6:25am, on the first day of Rosh Hoshanna, while my sister and I were taking turns holding her hand, the two of us talking to each other in that allegro molto staccato of words that we've always done, Fred Astaire, Ela and Sinatra playing into her ear from of the I-Phone of Dr. ER, in some brief second of some brief exhale, Florence (Frances) Deutsch Moed died.

My sister and I offer profound gratitude to Pearline Edwards, Ghislaine Carrington, Dr. Portnoi, Nurse Peters, Dr. Pool, Dr. DeSandre and the incredible staff of Beth Israel on both the 5th Floor and in the ER, the many FDNY EMT we rode with, and our incredible friends and her students and neighbors and beloved family who loved, supported, and travel this road with Florence and with us these past two years.


El said...

thank you for sharing this! so much love...

Bucko said...

thank you for allowing us to see love and sorrow and all she is and all you and your sister are.

Anonymous said...

I am sitting at my table, surrounded by all the things anyone could want and being lucky enough to have all the emotional love anyone could dream of. All that comes out of me is sadness for you, sadness for Florence... but I want you to remember that there is always something good that comes from the bad.. " no Hay male que por bien no venga"... Sorry, I can't be as eloquent as you are, so I just end it saying Love ya.

"Miss" said...

Dearest Claire,
I love you so much, and am so glad I have you in my life. Louise has also been a part of my family's life for many, many years. Florence joined you two in the community that we called "home" for a big chunk of our young lives, and that was courageous and open-minded of her. I'm glad and honored to have known her, and will be forever grateful to her for bringing both of her wonderful daughters into this world.

c.o. moed said...

thank you so much, Miss. At the time, her actions were so normal, at least to me. The normalcy of attempting life at its absolute fullest expression. Only now facing 50 do I see how rare that is.

Anonymous said...

well presented thank you