September 23, 2011
Before I continue, it is important to understand the events that had started three short weeks earlier:
After five days of observation in the neurology ward at the hospital’s 24/7 video monitoring room, Gabriela was about to be released. I got a phone call early on Friday morning from her, she needed me to come pick her up.
We had agreed that I wouldn’t spend every day with her during this monitoring because we had not been getting along and this was a well needed break for both of us. Gabriela sounded better but her voice was apprehensive. She whispered into the phone, “I don’t think I’m ready, Mom.”
I arrived to the hospital before noon. I was tired. I walked from the parking structure with my head down, trying to talk myself into a more positive attitude. Gabriela’s words repeated over and over in my head, “I don’t think I’m ready.” I took a deep breath, lifted my head, and rode the elevator up to the 7th floor.
It was a private room. However, for such a well-regarded hospital, the rooms were not well kept. The floors were always dirty and I had never seen anyone mop them, which seemed odd to me.
The door to Gabierla’s room was open. She sat quietly on her bed, fully dressed and ready to go. We waited together in uncomfortable silence for her neurologist. Her room was directly across from the nurses’ station and the constant noise was more than just a distraction, so I closed the door for some quiet.
Gabriela didn’t want to talk to me, so I sat in the corner of the room watching as my daughter obviously ruminated. She stared blankly, then she was smiling, and sometimes mouthing a conversation. I knew all of this had been viewed for five days, but no one thought this was noteworthy. Gabriela did seem somewhat better but there were still issues.
Soon enough, Dr. Wreck, Gabriela’s neurologist, came into the room. She was an attractive middle aged woman. It was always apparent in the way she carried herself that there was no shortage of ego, but we were willing to tolerate her sense of self-importance because she had a wonderful reputation in neurology.
Dr. Wreck had been described by one of her staff at the hospital as thinking she was “the last bottle of coke in the desert.” I thought this a perfect description. She strutted across the room in her 4-inch heels, her smile and greeting lacking any truth.
“Your daughter wants to stay here with us forever!” Dr. Wreck said with a wide smile, freckled nose, and sparkling blue eyes.
Gabriela responded earnestly, “I just don’t think I’m ready.” She paused, “I’m still ruminating a lot, and I like what I’m thinking about so I can’t stop….” Her voice trailed off.
The doctor laughed this off and told Gabriela that with the adjustments to her medications she should be doing much better and that they couldn’t keep her in the hospital forever.
We discussed the need in the near future to get the Vagus nerve stimulator (VNS) done, which is much like a pacemaker for the brain and that this, along with medications, and the anti-seizure diet would be the combo needed. We were all three on the same page with this treatment plan, which was a first.
She asked to see Gabriela in one month for a follow-up.
This was the point that I will always go back to, the place I can put my finger on, the “do over” spot. The spot that forever I will replay in my mind. The day that I could have made a different choice and supported my daughter as she had asked so softly over the phone for help.
Gabriela had enough strength in her to say to me and her doctor, “I’m not right, I’m not okay, I need help”–but not her Mom nor her Doctor listened. We both heard what she said but so massively underestimated the gravity of what was happening to Gabriela and her desperation.
And so Gabriela and I headed out of the hospital towards home.
I remember the silence in the car as we drove for over an hour … she was completely consumed by her thoughts. I had heard the expression “faraway look”, but never really understood what that meant; now I had become very accustomed to that “faraway look” of Gabriela’s.
On drives, Gabriela would sit silently ruminating. I would try to break her out of it by starting a conversation. Many times she didn’t respond at all because she couldn’t hear me or she would become angry because she didn’t want any disruptions in her fantasies. Occasionally, she would smile and manage a short conversation before she slipped back into silence.
I lived for those snatches of time when I spoke to my daughter and she spoke back.