Nightwolf

“Maybe we could move her down to the first level of the house,” I tell him. “And put a wheelchair ramp in the front so she doesn’t have to deal with stairs.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Wolf says, giving my hand another squeeze and once again I feel like I’m drowning in my feelings for him. The way he’s stepping up for us is…I’m just so incredibly lucky to have him.

“And,” he goes on as we turn the final corner, “she might be fine, too. Maybe it’s just memory problems, or perhaps her speech is affected, but we can work with that. As long as she’s happy, we’ll do anything to take care of her.”

It’s a big ask, what we’re talking about. I know this. A social worker talked to us the other day, I guess the hospital assigns her in these cases. She said my mother was lucky to have us since many times people who have brain damage are put away in certain homes and facilities. She kept talking about how hard it might be for us to take care of my mother on our own, but I feel like this might be the best-case scenario now and I’ll take it with open arms. Yes, it would be hard, and especially so for my mother who has been so independent and hates to rely on people, but it’s a trade I’m willing to make. I feel like I’m constantly bartering with God to make sure she’s going to come home to us. We’ll love any version of her that we can get.

We stop outside the doors to the ICU and my heart is beating so fast I’m starting to see stars.

“Easy, baby,” Wolf says to me. He’s looking through the doors, something I’ve made him do before I take a look, like watching a scary movie through your fingers. “She looks fine. Like normal.”

I let out the breath I most definitely was holding. I think my biggest fear is that one day she won’t be lying there at all.

I give his hand a squeeze and then I step through the doors. The nurses don’t like us in there two at a time, so while Wolf has gone in to see my mother and speak to her, he usually has to wait outside.

The day nurse gives me a tight smile when I approach, which immediately sets me on edge.

“How is she doing?” I ask, projecting cheeriness and positivity, as if daring anyone to try and tell me something bad.

“Her blood pressure is high,” she says to me as we walk into the room. “So we’ve given her some medication to help. She also has an infection in her lungs, from some aspiration, which is common when on a vent and always in this position, and we’ve sent that sample off to get the right antibiotics to fight it. Her white blood cells are high too but that’s the infection most likely.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, still trying to smile. I look down at my mom, who doesn’t seem responsive at all. “And has she tried to open her eyes, I mean her good eye yet?”

She shakes her head. “Last night the nurse had good luck with getting her to follow some commands but today it’s nothing.”

“So far,” I add.

“Yes, so far.”

She exits the room and I’m left alone with my mom.

I talk to her. I say my usual spiel. I start with the basics, who I am, where she is, that she’s safe and okay and loved and getting the best help and that she’ll pull through. Then I talk about the day, the weather, people, anything. Like she’s normal. Just conversational. They say that’s the best way to speak.

She gives me nothing though.

It’s early in the day, I tell myself. Give it time.

So I leave and then Wolf goes in to say his daily hellos to her and I wait outside the doors.

I’m only waiting for about five minutes when Wolf comes running out of the ICU. Immediately my heart drops but then I see he doesn’t look upset, just excited.

“Go, go, go!” he says to me, pushing me to the doors. “Your mother opened her eyes. She looked at me, I told her to keep her eyes open and that you were coming. She’s fighting to stay awake!”

“Oh my god!” I cry out and push through the doors, hurrying across to the ICU to her room.

I see her lying there and her unbandaged eye is open and she’s staring up at the ceiling in determination. It’s not a blank stare, it’s a true stare of determination, like she’s doing everything she can to stay awake and she’s doing it for me.

“Mom!” I cry out and rush to her side, leaning over her. “Mom it’s me, it’s Amethyst, it’s your little girl. I’m here, I’m here.”