May 11, 2006
My Mother’s Mostly Beautiful Heart
"Overall, she has a mostly beautiful heart" is what the cardiologist, my brother's friend, says as we quietly stare at the beating organ on the computer screen. We're waiting for other images, the not-so-beautiful parts, from the lab after her emergency angioplasty.
"Her beautiful heart," my father repeats, as though the doctor had answered the enigma he was pondering.
He leans against the wall, massaging his head: "That's why I married her. That's what I saw from the first."
My mother always tells their love story as a fairy-tale: He was gorgeous but into her petite, black-haired, green-eyed friend. Eventually though, my mother sparked his interest. They talked all night. And he kissed her. And her toes lit up and the bells went off. That was it. They were married in six weeks, 56 years ago. I wonder if that's what my father is remembering. How one night, one kiss, became life.
A few minutes later the slides upload. In one, the artery's a thread in two places, in the other, it looks normal. He says it all fast and I only hear parts.
"Ninety percent blockage ... the stent worked ... no clots for now."
"Tick. Tick. Tick," my brother says slowly, pointing to the breeches.
He's in civilian clothes, a green Nike jacket, not his usual white one when he walks these halls.
"Bad situation, blessed timing," I say quickly.
My father blinks behind his giant glasses. The lenses magnify the glimpses of primal fear I see, but most would miss. At 80, he's still handsome, one of those stoic, solid-as-a-rock guys.
He's half of AlandFlorence: one word.
He being here and she being there makes him feel out of control, isolates him. I walk over and stand close. He's not used to being his own name in public. He's witnessed this plenty though: Their gang of friends is dwindling quickly, especially this year. They're the lone holdouts where one or the other isn't dead or incapacitated -- but they've closed ranks, conspiring not to let us all know how hard it is, or what's going on.
"After the last funeral," my mother mentioned matter-of-factly just the other day, "the book club had to merge with the film club and we alternate months."
We just came from the waiting room. I brought hand-carved turkey sandwiches, chicken soup and pineapple. It's a family trait, I think, this quixotic, quasi-mystical belief that the marriage of will and wholesome food can in some way beat back the forces of time, illness, and human loss.
My father says he isn't hungry.
"You have to eat," I say, handing him half like an order. He eats slowly, not like him. He is shaky.
Now it's almost midnight. She's getting unhooked and we'll make a pilgrimage with her gurney across the low-lit buildings to the ICU.
My mother is groggy, but OK. I stay and my brother takes my father home.
In the morning, I bring my mother a bagel and egg white omelet and she's ravenous. A good sign.
I tell her something about a rabbi I study with, and all that I've learned.
She asks if I have talked to him about her: "I was wondering because, you know, we've had some very difficult periods."
She wants to hear that the rabbi said she's right and I'm wrong. It doesn't quite matter about what, just in principle. But there's something below that. I think she wants me to say what's on my mind even if she doesn't like it, in case something bad happens.
I keep my response general and light. I say that she's done great with her life. As far as those things that went south between us, none of that matters, I tell her. I will do my best to understand her wants, and to protect her if she can't protect herself.
Although edited for complexity, this is the truth.
I get home and my boyfriend, Stuart, checks in. I tell him I just came from the hospital, say that this is the thing about love -- mortality, the sense that love is filled with 1,000 risks of loss.
But he's on his way to work. There's road noise and wild winds on the 101, and it's hard to hear. He doesn't do well with deep conversations on the fly.
He responds with his marathon runner's optimism: "She's strong, looks 65 -- of course she'll pull through." Then he tells me: "Just so you know, I bought two bottles of the Coppola your brother likes for Friday night."
When we hang up, I think about Stuart. The one I get to love. And I know even though he's smart and handsome and other things I'm drawn to, it's his beautiful heart -- that's why I've chosen him.
By noon, my father calls, sounds like himself again: The enzymes are great, there's no actual damage to the heart muscles, they've unhooked her.
"Mommy took a walk," he says, the relief palpable.
Later that night in the ICU, the monitors are blinking everywhere. She's trying to nap but can't.
I swore to myself that I wouldn't reveal a recent conversation with Stuart, but I have a deep-down fear I might not get a chance to -- that she'll die without knowing that Stuart loves me, enough to tell his brother that I'm "The One."
I've almost become superstitious that she's been waiting all this time for me to find someone to love again, and now that I have, she's going to vanish suddenly.
So I say it fast: "Stuart talked about engagement rings. Don't say anything to anyone, we're not engaged yet. Period."
"Please God" she says, waving her hand to scatter the air and ward off the evil eye.
My father is snoring in the chair, exhausted from everything.
"He is such a good husband," she says, "the things he has done for me this year." From the wince in her face, I know they're not pretty things.
I'm remembering a conversation I had with my parents at a restaurant some time back.
We were talking about soul mates. It was before Stuart. I was dating and it was weird and hard and dispiriting. I couldn't seem to figure out how love or even dating worked.
"Maybe it's not so good to be with your soul mate," I said. "Maybe it's better to have more of an earthy, functional connection. Like you and daddy. Maybe it's the secret."
My mother looked up: "I always thought of your father as my soul mate."
The words surprised me. I did not think of my mother as soulful or deep. I didn't think my parents suited to each other on that level.
"I always thought you two were more pragmatic than that -- a function of pure will mixed with passion."
"Yes, I know," she said, going back to her hamburger, "that's what you thought."
The author's parents a few days before Florence became ill and had to undergo angioplasty.
Now I see her studying the IV in her arm, more like a professional than a patient. She's a retired nurse; she's never been sick like this before.
"I was so scared last night," she says. "But more scared for Daddy."
I hold her hand.
She continues: "The doctors told me the possibilities and I let Daddy and Bert make the decision."
My mother's vulnerability is unsettling. I have noticed it more and more lately. It's hard to suddenly be vulnerable when you've spent a lifetime cultivating indomitability.
The ICU nurse with striking blue empathic eyes comes in to explain the morbid possibilities of ulcer-causing meds, traveling clots and other unknowns and insults of being sick. She does it with wit and Zen resignation.
"She buried two husbands," my mother says as we watch her exit into the hall.
My mother has, inimitably, and quite expectedly, turned the ICU into her social command center.
Besides being a celebrity -- with my brother's being a surgeon on staff -- she's elicited the life stories of all the nurses, doctors and patients in every room. What she doesn't learn for fact, she surmises. She's already critiqued the woman next door who screamed all night, and inferred that because he's a teenager, the
young boy across the hall overdosed on drugs.
I keep passing the father in the elevator and hall. I think I've seen him before in line for coffee at Peet's. He's in a state of spaced-out, perplexed anguish. It makes me really sad. I can see that life has not prepared him for this at all.
How could it? My mother is a year shy of 80, and I'm baffled, feel catapulted into a surreal airspace.
Still, my mother's conclusion about the kid irritates me in old, familiar ways.
"Ma, how do you know it was drugs?" I ask. "You know nothing about him."
"What else would it be?" she says.
When I return later, she's on the edge of the bed, glasses on, reading magazines and watching The History Channel -- a muted documentary about Charles Lindbergh and the Nazis. She has a whacky theory about the kidnapping that she expounds on. I don't really want to hear it, but instead of getting annoyed, I veer her onto another subject.
The Nurse of Profound Empathy comes in. The doctor says she might be able to go home tomorrow.
She looks at me: "When it comes to hearts, repaired doesn't mean fixed. It means you do the best you can with what the situation is."
I help my mother freshen up before I go. I take a wet cloth and wipe her face. Her hair is unmovable, holding strong -- the 110-proof spray she insists on using daily is working fine. I put a little plum lipstick on her with my pinky, and I take some baby powder and she obediently raises her arms like wings, childlike. I notice how nicely her nails are rounded and polished with pearl white, how smooth shaven her underarms are and how kempt she is.
I never look at her this close.
I'm impressed by her grooming and tell her so. "You look so pretty -- look at you, after all that happened. You know Stuart said you look 65."
"He did?" she says, flattered, her brown eyes glittering like a girl's.
"Please God," she whispers again, looking out the window. She is not thinking about looking young, her pain, or this ordeal.
She's thinking about me.
It's Friday night, 48 hours and an epoch since my mother was rushed to the hospital.
We're at my brother's house -- a noisy, happy place of dogs and children and clinking glasses of wine.
Now she is here with us, doing well.
"Florence decided to stay for the party," someone says.
Stuart and I are sitting on the piano bench and Sunny, the old Patriarch golden lab comes and -- ignoring me and everyone else -- sits at Stuart's feet, anointing him as family, like he knows in some sixth sense that we have a future together.
Stuart is familiar and watchful. Now we hold hands like a contract, not tentative like a wish.
The day before he came in from his run and told me that I am his everything, that he has never felt things like this. He told me he now knows what love is, not just lust and desire, but more expansive.
"I'm a 'we' now," he said and wrapped me in his arms.
We all go into the shadows to wait for Talia, who turns 8 today, to walk in. The lights flash on and everyone shouts surprise and then happy birthday.
I'm watching my mother.
She is standing off by herself. She doesn't carry a tune well, but is belting the song, her cheeks are bright pink. She is oddly makeup-less, without lipstick even, without the darkish foundation she uses that covers like a mask. Her skin looks luminous, glowy. She is smiling and singing and lifting her knees and waving her arms full tilt like she's marching in a parade.
A few nights later we're sitting around the dinner table and my parents are giddy like teenagers.
At that moment there's no inkling that in a few days she'll be rushed back into the ER and spend two dangerous weeks in the ICU, much worse, much harder -- "stuck in a very serious medical conundrum," as one doctor puts it. And then recover beautifully, even doing Pilates and walking a mile with her physical therapist.
But, for now, they are laughing about their dinner: salad, grilled chicken, pasta.
"This is what we eat every night," my father tells me, again laughing, rubbing my mother's cheek, looking in her eyes. He is saying, this is who we are, how we live.
This simple meal anchors the universe, in all its complicated, profoundness. We talk about Stuart. They adore him.
We'll be married in October.
And I am happy and I am scared.
And I know love -- above all -- makes us very brave.
Reeva Hunter Mandelbaum is vice president of story research at John Wells Productions, a film and TV production company, and is finishing her first novel, "The Lost Songs of the Cowboy, Jakob Boaz." She can be contacted at: email@example.com