Me
I need to talk to Lydia. How can I make that happen?
Kristen
Umm…
Have you asked HER DAUGHTER?
Me
Hannah can’t know.
Kristen
I see.
Me
Don’t ask questions.
Be honest with me. How bad is it?
Kristen
She’s on hospice, Rowan. She can barely speak most days.
Me
Dammit! I really need to talkto her.
Kristen
Maybe Richard can help. Let me touch base with him and I’ll let you know ASAP.
My knee bouncesas I slide my phone in my pocket.
A few days ago, Hannah told me her mom was nearing the end, but she failed to specify the hospice part. Perhaps it’s a matter of semantics, but one sounds way more ominous than the other.
“Sweetheart, what’s got you worked up?” Mom asks.
“Lydia’s on hospice.”
Mom gasps from the chair opposite me in the waiting room. She sets her magazine aside. “Oh no! How’s Hannah doing?”
Averting my gaze, the shake of my head is answer enough. Mom reaches for her cane like she’s about to change seats to be closer to me—to press for information I’m not emotionally equipped to navigate at the moment.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a nurse calling us back to the doctor’s office.
Mom’s neuro and orthopedic surgeons sit across from us. They carry the same air of optimism they’ve always had. Today, more than ever, I find myself clinging to it in hopes it will rub off on me.
“Tess, you’ve made excellent progress in your physical therapy,” Dr. Ward, Mom’s neurosurgeon begins. “We have your latest scans and want to discuss your next procedure.”
Mom gives a tentative smile, hand clutching her cane. I curl my palm over hers as the doctors outline what comes next.
A damaged spinal disc her orthopedic surgeon has been watching for months—he believes it’s time to replace it with an artificial one to help restore some of the last bits of motion she’s been unable to regain through therapy. And some compression issues her neurosurgeon says is the culprit of her chronic nerve pain—he plans to perform a spinal cord decompression procedure to resolve it.
“Recovery time?” I interject.