Then Again - Diane Keaton [87]
14
THEN AGAIN
Family
I was on my cellphone in the car, going over the endless to-do list with Stephanie. “Can you believe the alarm went off at four A.M. yet again? That’s three times in two weeks. What’s going on? All I can say is, thank God the kids slept through it. Anyway, please get the alarm guy to come over today and fix the damn thing. Okay? Oh, and I’ve got to reschedule dinner with Sarah Paulsen; plus, return the call to John Fierson. Do you have his number? Dang it. Hold on for a sec? Someone’s calling. Shoot, I’ve got a zillion things to go over with you. Don’t go away. Never mind. I’ll call you right back.”
It was Anne Mayer. She was saying something about Mom having bronchitis. She was aspirating. “Anyway, they admitted her into Hoag Hospital. But Dr. Berman thinks she’ll be home by tomorrow.” As I turned the car around and headed for Hoag, I forgot about the to-do list.
When I found Mom, she was plugged into an IV. Some sort of machine had been placed over her nose and mouth to help loosen the phlegm. The X-rays revealed evidence of a recent, undetected stroke. There was no indication of pneumonia, but Mom couldn’t swallow. Without taking extraordinary measures, there was nothing more Hoag could do. Mother would be released. That meant hospice, and hospice meant morphine.
I went home, packed a bag, and headed to Cove, where I found everything once again transformed. The word stuff came to mind. Stuff and junk—not the kind you collect but the kind you throw away. Old medicine bottles. Broken plates. Too many Kleenex boxes on the bed stand. Caregivers’ logs. Too many ugly balloons and awful floral arrangements. This wasn’t a celebration. Mom’s beloved home was stuffed with the effects of illness. If she were cognizant, she wouldn’t have allowed Suzy D to throw a sheet over the picture window, nor would the ancient videos of my films be collecting dust in the cabinets Dorothy so carefully designed. But it was the sight of Mom’s mottled hands holding a cute little stuffed bunny next to her chest that just about did me in. “Isn’t it pretty, Diane! If you pull the cord it plays ‘Mockingbird.’ ”
Robin had flown in from Atlanta with Riley. Randy walked around with a Rolling Rock beer as he smiled at Claudia, his friend. Anne Mayer, Suzy D, and Irma were also in attendance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte, the hospice nurse, try to drip morphine under Mom’s tongue. Morphine and Ativan every two hours. Suzy tried to help widen Dorothy’s clenched jaw. “Open your mouth, Mamacita. We love our Mamacita, don’t we, Dorrie?” Dorrie nodded.
Stephanie called. The unanswered to-do list was waiting. Mom didn’t have Internet access. Just as well. In her workroom, surrounded by stacks of carousels filled with slides from the sixties of Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and me catching waves at San Onofre, I told Stephanie I was going to take a break.
Dad would have loved Google and Twitter and Facebook and the BlackBerry. He would have been taken by the immediate everything, the instant history, the access to anywhere across all continents. Still, the dilemma is the same as it always was: What to do? How do we focus on some aspect of information that will help forge a path to an emotionally fulfilling life? Dorothy knew it was a matter of picking and choosing. She never quite figured out a way to find an audience for the missing part, the part that made her feel she was enough. She lost something on the way. Mom’s strength as a writer came out of assemblage. She understood the transitory nature and impact of information. In one ear, out the other. At heart, she was a modernist without the craft to gather her insights into a cohesive message. From Mom’s brain to the world. From the outer reaches of her mind’s