Late Bloomer

“My kids.  They’re both late bloomers.  What can I say?” Bev’s raspy voice sounds defeated, tired.

She turns her head and gazes out the dirty, aluminum framed window.  From her vantage point five floors up, her view is mostly of gray clouds.

Her snow white hair, normally soft and fluffy, is flat from too many days on a hospital pillow and too many days without a proper shower and shampoo.  She sighs, a deep heave that lifts her chest, moving the thin hospital gown and jumble of tubes and wires with it.  Difficulty breathing and low oxygen are a big part of the reason she is here this time.

We are talking about her son Seth, my fiance.  Seth and I met later in life, and now at fifty-five he is making a career change.  I’m excited for him, but not so sure Bev feels the same..

 Is 55 so late?  At age 48 I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. His brave move and excitement for the future  also gives me hope. For me.

Bev had muted her 24-hour hour companion, the TV, when I walked in. I was grateful for the absence of the obnoxious commercials and drama steeped, pretend people of her daytime shows. 

The room is quiet now, except for the whir and beeps of the various hospital machines.  She still stares out the window, her thoughts elsewhere.

“I was married to Herschel at 28, you know.” It seemed she was talking to herself more than to me.  “Everyone was telling me I was an old maid by then.  That’s how it was in those days.” her voice trailed.

“My sister Flo was already married for a long time by then and had two kids,”  Bev says, maybe she is seeing Flo on her wedding day.  

She looks back at me.  “I was very pretty.  Everyone said so.  And thin, too.  Oh, very trim figure in those days.” She pauses, “I’m not saying I was prettier than Flo of course.” 

She worried that I would think she was bragging, or worse, insulting Flo’s beauty.  She would never do that.  They were best friends to this day, Bev at 86 and Fay at 92, both widows. 

Four months earlier, Bev had fallen out of bed. She woke up that early morning and more concerned with the urgency of her bladder than with being careful getting out of bed, her foot got tangled  in her sheets and she tumbled to the floor. 

Because she lived alone, Bev lay, wet, cold and in pain, unable to help herself for four hours.  

That short fall and little mistake caused a hip fracture-the injury every elderly person and their family dreads.  The common lackluster recovery so often marks the beginning of the end has followed as well.

That first hospital stay involved surgery, lasted 10 days and ended in her transfer to a foul smelling, understaffed rehabilitation center, where she lingered in bed for another 30 days.  

She returned home weak, but determined to see Seth and I married, we often talk about her being well enough to dance at our wedding.

This is Bev’s third hospital stay in four months and she is weaker with each episode.

Now, back on a stiff plastic covered mattress, hemmed in by cold aluminum rails, she takes a shallow breath, all of her regret and anxiety caught up in her chest. Her thin shoulders, as they so often are, raise up near her ears as if stuck in a shrug.  Nasal tubes that are supposed to carry oxygen rich air into her lungs and bloodstream do little to ease her breathing. 

“He smoked like a chimney, Herschel.”   I knew that from Seth.   His father’s second hand smoke was the cause of their mother’s emphysema.  “He smoked in the house every day. Two, three packs a day. Can you imagine?” She pauses for a couple of short breaths.

“But really it was his drinking that ruined my life.  I tried to leave him, you know.”  her voice was dry and raspy.

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said. “Would you like some ginger ale?” I asked, lifting the mini-can with a straw already poking out from the rolling hospital tray, and offering it to her.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she answered, taking it.  She held the can with bony fingers, blue veins visible beneath her thin translucent skin.  She gulped all that remained in the can, each swallow an effort.  “Ahh.” she said, “I didn’t know I was so thirsty.” She grins at me, and I smile back. 

 “I can get you some more. Would you like me to ask for another can?”

“No, no.” she answers.  Just stay.  I have some water over there too.  I’m fine.”

“Ok,” I answer

Our eyes connect, her blue eyes wet.   Bev is not a touchy person, nor am I.  But at this moment, I want a connection and I lightly squeeze her cold hand. I hope she feels understood. I know that in these last months she has been replaying so much of her life in her mind, watching an old, familiar movie; one without a happy ending.

Jo told me more than once that Bev is consumed by, as she says, “Shoulda woulda coulda”.

“Did you know Herschel barely left the house for 20 years, after he retired?  Even before, to be honest.  He just wanted to sit up in our room,  smoke, drink and watch TV.” 

I nod.

“He retired pretty young, while the kids were all still home.  Holing himself up in our bedroom all the way on the third floor.   It was a secret, you know. No one was supposed to know that he was an alcoholic hermit.  But of course everyone knew.” 

“I could have left when the kids were all out of the house.” she says. “I still had some good years left  ahead of me that I could have done something with.  But I didn’t.  I stayed.  I thought I should take care of him.  So I did.”  

“I cooked.  I bought him his liquor and his cigarettes.  I listened to him rant and rave. I waited on him, I breathed his smoke. I watched him drink and waste the rest of his life.”

She continues, “He figured he was entitled.  He made a lot of money in sales and had enough put away for retirement… and to still leave something for me and the for the kids.”

“Once the cancer came, I couldn’t leave then, right?” she asks me.

I shake my head no.  “I would have felt the same way,” I tell her, wanting her to let go of the regret, knowing though, that she can nott. 

“It was pretty terrible.  Cancer, the hospitals. But at least he stopped smoking and drinking.  His body just wouldn’t let him do that anymore.  If he smoked, he would cough until he bled, and if he drank he would vomit- which was crazy- all the alcohol he drank in his life never made him throw up. Ever.” she pauses, taking a few shallow breaths. 

“His body should have rejected the booze sooner, it would have done him a favor.  He might have lived a life.  He came from a family of alcoholics.  It was all he knew.” she pauses, and falls silent, then adds quietly, “And I knew that.  And I knew he was trouble when I married him.”  

“I just didn’t want to be an old maid.  Anything would have been better than that.  And I was getting long in the tooth- I thought I didn't have any other options. So I married him. Look at me now.”

I finally say something.  “You know Bev, you had terrible circumstances.  I can’t imagine.  But still, you raised your kids right.  You kept the Jewish traditions.  You showed them how to be  good people.  That was all your doing.  I don’t know how you did it. And they are both great, honest, sincere, loving people. Both of them.  They take after you.”

“They’re late bloomers,” she said.  “But, I guess, at least they’re blooming.That’s more than I can say for me.”

“Well, they are both happy.  And as a mother, that’s what you want, right?” I asked.

“For them. Well, yes.” The ‘yes’ sounds uncertain.

A dark haired, thick waisted nurse peeks her head into the room, “How are you doing, hon?” she smiles at Bev.  “Do you need anything?”

Bev, very much a people person and never wanting to put anyone out answered, “Fine, fine, thank you Ginny.  I’m fine.”  

“Good then.  I’ll let you visit, but I’ll be back soon, to do the check on your vitals and give you your meds.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Sweetie.” Bev gave Ginny a bright, broad smile.

As soon as Ginny withdraws from the doorway, Bev’s face drops.  She turns to me, laying her head back and says, “Too bad she can’t bring me my life back.”

Her eyes fill and a single tear escapes and rolls down her cheek, disappearing into the wrinkled skin pressed against her pillow. She takes a shallow breath, then another.

“I want my life back.  But I can’t have it.”

Not wanting to lie, even if in comfort, I say nothing and lean forward, gently touching my forehead to hers then pull back. 

We are both quiet.  I place one of my hands back over her needle-bruised one and slide the other beneath to warm it.