Waiting

Waiting

By Shay Thames

It feels as though I have been sitting in this wheelchair for months although it has been only two months since I had a stroke on my 60th birthday that bound me to this chair, changed my way of life, changed everything that I once considered normal. So, here I sit in my apartment. Waiting, waiting, waiting. That is all that I do these days. I wait for the phone to ring, hoping for a call from my daughter. I wait for the pharmacy to let me know that my prescription is ready to be picked up. And I wonder. Why hasn’t my daughter called? Who can take me to the pharmacy to get my medicine as I can no longer drive. Why did I have this stroke?

The doorbell begins an insistent buzzing. “I’m coming,” I try to say, but it sounds more like “Um coma.” I finally get to the door to my apartment and attempt to unlock it but with no luck. My right hand is useless and I scream at it. “Arrrrrrrr.” My sorry attempt to even scream exhausts me. As I sit there staring at the door in frustration, I hear the click of the lock turning, and the door slowly swings open and there she is. My Dora. I try to lift my arms but only my left one will raise.“Drrrrr.” is all that I manage to say.I want to ask her why it has taken her two months to come check on me. But I’m too worn out. I just smile my lopsided smile at her and pat her cheek as she leans over me.

“My goodness Mama, how did that door get locked? I wasn’t even gone five minutes to get the mail, and somehow it locked. Did you lock it?”

I try to say an emphatic NO, but again my words seem to flap around inside my mouth and all that comes out is “UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

Then I think about what she said. Five minutes? I’m confused. Dora has not been here. No one has been here to see about me. I’ve had to struggle with dressing myself, feeding myself, getting myself cleaned up. What is she talking about? I’ve been alone.

She sees the confused look on my face and gives me a kiss on top of my head. “Mama, let’s get you ready for the doctor’s appointment. The home health nurse is coming to help you bathe and dress. Time to get out of those pajamas. I bought you a new blouse to wear that you don’t have to pull over your head to get on. It has Velcro instead of buttons. Won’t that be easier? What do you think? It’s your favorite color. Gold.”

Doctor’s appointment? Who made that appointment? So many questions not answered. I look at Dora wondering where she got the mistaken notion that gold is my favorite color. I like purple. Purple looks so much better with my skin tone. Gold is too garish. Makes me look sallow. How could Dora get this so wrong? Maybe she’s not My Dora. I start shaking my head to let her know that I don’t want to wear gold. And Velcro? I know I’m not able to do everything, but Velcro? I’ve seen those old ladies at Mother’s nursing home with the vacant stares and huge bibs that attach with Velcro. Does Dora or whoever this is think I am some slobbering old woman in need of blouses with Velcro? And who is this home health nurse coming to bathe and dress me? I’ve been taking care of all of my needs. I’ll show Dora and this nurse that I can wash myself. I’m so angry! As I try to rise out of my chair to protest, my hands slip and I lurch forward tumbling, tumbling out. Time seems to come in film clips…click, click, click. I see the floor coming up to greet me and then, I’m sprawled, arms twisted, legs crossed, and my right leg caught in the foot rest of that infernal chair.

Dora is scrambling to get the chair off of me. She is trying to sound calm but I hear the panic in her voice. “Mama, Mama, are you all right? Can you answer me? The desperate look on her face touches me. Only My Dora would care this much for me. Only My Dora would be here to get the chair off of me and get me back in it. Only My Dora would know what I need.

Suddenly, tears spring from my eyes and flow in rivulets down my crooked face. Instantly, Dora is by my side hugging me and telling me that it’s going to be all right. She methodically wipes my tears with the tissue she found in my pajama pocket. She checks my legs for any cuts and slowly pulls me to a sitting position. She tries to get me back in my chair, but I’m too much dead weight for her.

“Mama, I guess we’re just going to have to sit here until the nurse arrives. I can’t safely lift you, and I am for sure not going to drag you over to the sofa and try to pull you up on it. So, we’ll sit.”

Then Dora begins to laugh, and I don’t understand why. “Mama, do you remember when I was six and I got my hand stuck in the porch railing. We had to wait for Uncle Theo to get his saw and cut that railing apart. Do you remember what you did while we waited?” Then she begins softly singing our song. The song that saw us through many tough times when she was growing up. The song that seemed to be made for just the two of us.

“Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money. Maybe we’re ragged and funny. But we’ll travel the road, sharing the load, side by side.” I reach for Dora’s hand with my left hand and squeeze it to the beat of the song. Waiting… Side by side.