To paraphrase the Beastie Boys, I got this thorn in my side.
Last week, I promised you a story about my mother. It won’t be as contrite as my story about Don.
It’s rarely good news when the phone rings at six in the morning, right? I mean, Ed McMahon isn’t calling that early to tell you Publisher’s Clearing House is cutting you a check. The Caller ID showed my parents’ phone number. I began putting everything in place to suspend my day as I answered the phone.
Here’s what I really enjoy about Willie’s emergency phone calls. As soon as the phone rings, I’m filled with suspense. It’s like the first time you watch the shower scene in Psycho. You know something bad is coming, but what?
Indeed, Willie rivals Hitchcock when it comes to building apprehension. I try to ruin the uncertainty by asking pesky questions like, “Is everything OK?” But nobody ever said to Hitchcock, “Hey, kill Janet Lee’s character in the first scene of Psycho.” Or if they did, Hitchcock didn’t listen.
Willie bears the torch of Hitchcock’s wisdom.
The quick answer would have been “My asthma is acting up. I’m having trouble breathing.”
Imagine how bad Psycho would have been if Anthony Perkins had leaped across the desk to stab Janet Lee the moment she checked into the Bates Motel.
I had asked if everything was OK. Here’s Willie’s answer:
“I woke up this morning feeling like I had –“
You know, I’m going to interrupt Willie here. What she said is a little gag-worthy. So I’ll again paraphrase. She had a post-nasal drip.
Back to Willie:
“- and I have a cold and Daddy has to get blood drawn and I can’t be left alone because I feel like I can’t breathe and I need to go to the hospital to make sure I don’t have pneumonia or a blood clot but by the time they do all the tests the damn hurricane will be upon us!”
Lots of words for a lady who can’t breathe.
With Janet Lee finally hip to Mother Bates’ murderous ways, I could see I had three problems to straighten out. First, Willie’s cold/ asthma flare-up needed addressing. Second, I needed to evaluate whether Willie really needed to go to the hospital. And last, I needed to deal with Indy.
Indy – and Willie for that matter – do not drive at night. With Hurricane Isaias licking the region like a greedy kid with a Popsicle, the morning sky may as well have been night. Indy had no business driving.
That’s when I started in with my pesky questions again. Now, Hitchcock was notoriously swayed by his blonde leading ladies – Tippi Hedren, the aforementioned Ms. Lee, Grace Kelly. Fortunately, Willie bears this Hitchcockian torch, too. She’s susceptible to the (now) very blonde me.
In other words, she answered my questions.
First things first. Willie owns a pulse oximeter. What, I asked, was her pulse oximeter reading today?
She hadn’t checked.
One hundred percent is perfect, but in healthcare we don’t really get alarmed until you hit 90%. Willie checked as I waited on the phone. A robust 97%.
Next, had Willie taken her asthma rescue medications, the ones intended to open her airways?
Yes. Perfect.
Last, did Indy really need blood work today?
Yes. He was scheduled to see his doctor the following day. Indy has had some non-COVID viral thing going on for a month. His persistent illness has been preventing him from preparing Willie’s morning tea properly, and Willie has had it. Indy’s doctor needs the blood work to see what, exactly, is Indy’s major malfunction so Willie can have a proper cup of tea in the morning.
I told Willie and Indy to sit tight. I dressed. Let Pete out. Woke the kids. I’ll be gone for a little bit. Hold down the fort, guys.
And then I did the smartest thing I did that day. I grabbed a banana. You’ll see why it was so smart in a bit.
Letting myself into Willie and Indy’s, I evaluated the situation. Indy, who had not had anything to eat since the night before in preparation for his blood work, was chilling at the table. Willie lay reclined in her BarcaLounger, the all-important tea at her side, the news playing on the TV.
The sight of her caffeine made my brain spasm with need. Oh, to have had some caffeine that morning!
I did a head-to-toe exam on Willie. Tip-top health. Her lungs were clear as mountain air.
While Willie appreciated my assessment, she doubted its accuracy. Her oxygen level couldn’t be 97%! She felt like she wasn’t thinking clearly.
You don’t say.
Another pesky question from me. Had Willie eaten today?
No.
A few tweaks and Willie was resting comfortably – physically and mentally. It was time to tackle Indy.
“I’ll drive,” I said.
Indy and I arrived at the lab. Sign-in is by electronic kiosk. Indy still has a flip phone.
“Get me signed in,” Indy directed.
Willie hadn’t made an appointment. When you walk in at six or seven in the morning, Willie told me, they take you right back.
An hour later, Indy and I were a bit twitchy from lack of food and caffeine. I at least had eaten that banana. Indy, not so much.
Two hours later I began making phone calls and texts to rearrange my day. I also went online and made Indy an appointment with the lab for later in the morning. I kept him signed in as a walk-in to hedge my bets.
Three hours later, Indy, looking off into space, laughed and muttered to himself, “I took my pills this morning with apple cider.”
Now, if you’re not allowed to eat anything due to pending blood work, apple cider is off-limits. If we told the lab he’d had apple cider, our three-hour wait would have been for nothing.
I weighed this out. Apple cider four hours ago? We’ll get the blood work.
“We’ll just make sure we tell your doctor,” I told my dad. “But when the phlebotomist asks, you’ve only had water.”
Four hours in, Indy said, “Oh hey. I don’t know if Mom told you.”
If it had anything to do with Indy’s health, no. Mom didn’t tell me. I’m only his medical power of attorney. Why would I need to know about changes in Indy’s health?
Indy had been to the dermatologist last week, and I knew he’d had several lesions removed. Indy gets melanomas all the time thanks to his Parkinson’s and an unfortunate family history.
As it turns out, one of this crop of lesions came back positive for melanoma. Indy needs to go back and get a chunk of his arm carved out to prevent further spread.
It’s small. Likely contained. No need for alarm.
I mentally rolled my eyes as Indy’s name was called. Four long, hungry hours after we first walked in the doors Indy was just getting called back and I was just discovering Indy, you know, has a cancerous lesion on his arm.
My head rang with a migraine screaming for food, caffeine, and Advil. Indy was pale and stooped with hunger. I drove him home and walked him up to his apartment.
We found Willie doing dishes, taking out trash, and cooking dinner. The housekeeping equivalent of juggling while spinning a plate from a stick in your mouth and hopping on one foot.
Short of breath indeed.
I’m tellin’ y’all. It’s sabotage.
I sat Indy down to eat, laid out a game plan for the next few days with Willie, and headed home. Starbucks. Advil. Food. Hugs from my kids.
The next day, I called Willie early. Not six in the morning early, but early. What time is Indy’s doctor’s appointment today?
Willie, contrite, quietly told me she’d been wrong. Indy’s appointment wasn’t until next week.
And with that, Willie bested Hitchcock. She was like the secret love child of Hitchcock and M. Night Shyamalan with her little curveball ending. My crystal ball ain’t so crystal clear. I never saw it coming.
“OK,” I sighed.
“You took that well,” she said, surprise in her voice.
Indy and I had sat, for four hours in a storm, my kids under a tornado watch with no power, for blood work that could have waited a week. What could I do? You don’t get mad at Hitchcock for making you root for Janet Lee, only to have her taken away. No one resents Night for making us long to see Bruce Willis reconcile with his wife only to find out it’s impossible.
You can’t be mad at a master.
Listen all y’all, it’s sabotage.