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 Mom’s Last Hanukkah Bush |
It was an act of kindness
never to be forgotten
By PATRICIA J/ GEISTER
of TheColumnists.com
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A miniature Christmas tree sits on my mantle where I
need only to turn my head to gaze upon it. There are tiny bells,
glass globes of various colors, a Santa Claus, candy canes and
bright garlands. Its small base has tiny gift-wrapped boxes.
That was my mother’s last Hanukkah Bush, handmade and given
to her in a hospital post-surgery ward in 1993. Her hold on life was weak, yet she was determined to at least live beyond the holidays. Robert, one of the male nurses in that ward, was a gifted artist who took pleasure in making duplicate replicas of many holiday scenes and icons. The day Mom was at her lowest ebb, barely conscious and fighting to stay that way, he came quietly into her room. He stood at the side of her bed with a beautifully decorated Christmas tree in his hands. She must have sensed his presence, because she opened her eyes. A few seconds passed as they looked at each other, almost smiling, not speaking. “Nellie, you need a Hanukkah Bush to brighten up your room. I’ve accented it in red and gold to match the season.” “How…kind…” and her eyes closed in pain, not sleep. “Robert, you’re a fine person to do that for her. Thank you,” I said. “I get a little carried away during all the holidays, especially Christmas and Hanukkah. Hers was the last I made; the best one, too.” He left to carry on around the ward. I sat in silence begging God for a miracle to snap her out of her body’s lack of response to the blood transfusions. Nothing was working; not the medicines, not the plasma. The doctors walked in looking solemn and left without a change of expression. They would ask her questions, she’d look at me, and I would answer for her. Mom had been talking to first one doctor and then another looking for help. Her energy was fading without apparent reason. Some would tell her an older person has to expect aches and pains. “Here, take these pills and you’ll feel fine,” was what she heard most often. Or, “Well, if you’d go on a diet and lose that extra weight you’d be fine.” About the only thing they didn’t do was to look beyond her shoulder and shout, “Next!” I’d listen to her complain about first one doctor and then another. More than once I asked if she wanted to see our doctor for tests. At first she argued with me. “No, that’s pointless. Doctors say I have no problems, so I have no problems. It’s old age, I guess. In time I’ll get used to it.” That’s when I stopped being the child and began my role as caregiver and enforcer. “Mom, you’ve wasted a lot of time and money with these second class witch doctors. I’m picking up the phone right now to call the clinic and get you an emergency appointment. That’s it.” The following day she was X-rayed, thumped, poked and prodded. As we waited for the X-rays to be checked she grumbled and mumbled about these kids who think they know it all. Dr. Tee came in with her X-rays. “Nellie, you’re an amazing woman. Look at the basketball-sized tumor you’re carrying around,” as she turned on the backlight. We sat there, stunned, not believing what we saw and heard. “No, that’s a mistake! That’s not me!” “Yes, Nellie, these are your films You asked me to find the problem and I found the problem. Do you know how lucky you are to be alive?” That was December 1, 1993. We were referred to an obstetrical surgeon to remove this huge tumor. Dr. Emm was due to take his family to Florida for a vacation on December 9th and wanted to do Mom’s surgery on the 8th. I cornered him behind closed doors and asked if it was safe for a 73 year old woman to undergo such a drastic procedure. No, it wasn’t. If it proved to be cancer, then it was too late. If it was benign, it was still going to be a struggle to heal. Surgery was performed on the morning of December 8th. To cover all bases I offered prayers to God, Buddha, Allah, and any saint I could recall. I’ve never lived a longer day in my life. The basketball turned out to be 12 lbs. The smaller tumor behind it was 1 lb. It didn’t show up in the x-ray because it was obscured by the enormity of its mate. Both were benign. Hallelujah! Thank God! Thank all the gods and saints! Over the following four days Mom rarely woke up, but at least she finally became lucid enough to refuse to walk any farther than the 30 foot round trip between her bed and just outside the door. The second trip caused a severe hemorrhage with dire results. She was borderline critical. A nurse told me “guarded” was the preferred term. By the end of another five days she rallied enough to give me hope. I hadn’t left her room except to go to my own quarters for a change of clothes. Now I felt confident to let her sleep while I went to the cafeteria or made calls to the family. Late that evening she woke up and began asking questions and wanted something to eat. From then on it was a slow, favorable recovery. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have been allowed (by insurance company standards) to be hospitalized for more than four days. Her condition required a longer time, so she was there for 15 days. All the nurses on the floor looked in on her several times during their shift. They no longer tip-toed in wordlessly. Now they talked and smiled, kidding her about her star status in the local medical world. No one, doctor or nurse, had seen a patient survive such a drastic surgery. The size of her tumors were large and freakish. No cancer was found. That in itself was a miracle. Robert came in the last night. She gave him a big hug and kissed him on the cheek. He had been so kind and solicitous. The Hanukah Bush had its place of honor. I took her to our home where she stayed for the rest of December. She wanted the Hanukkah Bush on the mantle so it could easily be seen from her rented hospital bed. Her level of excitement leaped when she was able to climb the stairs into her own home. “I want you to keep the Hanukkah Bush here. Let’s display it every year and think of the dear young man who made it for me.” Mom’s gone from us now. We lost her in 1999. I have happy memories of all the years before and since that bleak time. When I took the little Christmas tree from the storage area, I gently placed it on the mantle. “Happy Hanukkah, Mom. Robert and I send our love.” |
©2004 by Patricia J. Geister. The illustration is composed of elements from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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