Bad Signs
Mom had come to live with us here on Broadway to recuperate following knee replacement surgery, at 89 years old. This woman, who has been through more storms than the weather service could have predicted, only missed her expiration date by about seven months. At 90, she would have been officially out of warranty. [ed. note: At the time of this posting, mother turned 92 and retains her warranty on life.] As it was, the knee was replaced and she was sent home the same day to get better.
Rehabilitation was slow but steady and my ma even graduated from at-home physical therapy to the out-patient kind. Riding stationary bikes and going up and down steps were out of the question, but progress was being made. That is, until she came down with a cold.
The nightmare began the week before Thanksgiving. Covid wasn’t in the rearview mirror, although in many places it was being kicked to the curb. We had endured false hopes before, but preventive measures were so ingrained there was a small feeling of victory.
Started as sniffles, then congestion and malaise set in and a low-grade fever became a constant. Ma took to bed and had no desire to move. Nausea was unceasing. This poor woman had only eaten spoonfuls of soup and nothing else, so the retching only produced dry heaving. We kept an eye on her condition and hoped for the best.
A day later, her condition had worsened to the point that the ambulance driver was summoned. We headed for the local emergency room and preparations were made for IV fluids to combat the rapid onset of dehydration. On the good side, medical attention helped and when IV fluids were given, she felt better, stronger and we were discharged.