Solid Ground by Jeff McKown

Author:Jeff McKown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: family drama, gay, lgbt, humor, religion, infidelity, homophobia
Publisher: NineStar Press

Chapter Twenty-Two

Before we left the hospital late one afternoon, my parents were called to Dr. Gonzalez’s office for a consultation. They returned a half hour later. My mother trudged into June’s room like a B-movie zombie.

“What was that about?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said.

“Fine.” If the nature of the conversation was potentially upsetting to June, it could wait until the ride home.

“So then,” my father said, “let’s get going.”

I climbed into the backseat and waited patiently while my mother gathered herself. She stiffened and looked out the passenger window in an attempt to appear resilient, but the facade was difficult to maintain. Strength through defiance works for a while, but sooner or later, it leaves you worse for wear.

“We met with Dr. Gonzalez and a woman from social services. It was good news, I guess. They never expected Mother to breathe on her own, much less start talking again.”

“None of us thought she’d get this far,” I said.

She stared out the side window, making no effort to face me in the back seat. My father listened and drove us in silence.

“Dr. Gonzalez thinks her mental capacity is severely limited.” She swallowed. “And he’s certain she won’t regain much mobility.”

“That’s not good news,” I said. “But it’s nothing new.”

“We also discussed….” She inhaled and then let out a long breath. “We also talked about our options at this point.”

“Options?” The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I thought we’d already made all the shitty decisions we’d have to make.

“She’s stable, and she doesn’t need constant medical attention. What she needs now is long-term care.”

“Okay…” I waited for the other white, cushy-soled nursing shoe to drop.

Her back stiffened. She continued to stare blankly out the window. “We talked about possible next steps, and none of them are worth a shit.”

“None of this has been worth a shit,” I said.

My father provided an ambiguous mélange of silent support and disengagement as he motored us past Pensacola’s standard offering of rundown strip centers and repurposed gas stations.

“We have two choices,” my mother said. “One that’s…challenging, and one that’s heartbreaking.”

“I’d go with challenging.”

Her unsteady voice betrayed the tears she suppressed. “We can put her in a facility…a nursing home. Or your father and I become full-time caretakers for as long as we can handle it.”

“Are you shitting me?” I asked. “There are places that specialize in rehab for stroke victims.”

“Space is limited in those places, and Mother would have to be further down the road than she is now.”

“That’s fucking great.”

“Dr. Gonzalez believes she won’t make much more progress, so she’s caught in between—too well to stay in the hospital, but too damaged for rehab.”

“That’s just fucking great,” I repeated, because such brilliance needs reiteration. “Too fucked up to live, and not fucked up enough to die.”

As her own frustration mounted, tears cascaded down her cheeks. “There’s only so much science can do. The rest is in God’s hands.” As she spoke the words, she no doubt wished she could gobble them up.

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