Blue Skies and Black and Blue Eyes

Yesterday began with a beautiful blue sky and ended with my mom with a black and blue eye.

I noticed the sky as I walked down 17^th Street to the “M” train on 4^th Avenue. I had just gotten my coffee and as I took my first sip, I thought of my cousin Sarah’s quote- You may only ever get one first kiss. But you can have a first sip of coffee every day. And that might even be better. I sighed as the hot liquid warmed my throat and appreciated, at that moment, precisely what Sarah meant. Then I saw the sky and immediately recalled my father’s eyes. Once when I remarked that the sky was the exact color of my father’s eyes to my insightful friend, Rebeca, she responded “ How wonderful that you’ll always have the sky to remember your dad.” So, in tribute to his memory, I found the song “Embraceable You” on my ipod, which was the last song I sang to him before he died. As I listened to the words, I said, silently, Give me a sign, Dad, that you’re watching over me- cause I miss you. I considered how inane it is when we ask for signs from the people who aren’t with us any longer. Even if there is some sort of sign, is it something we conjure up because we never really accept they are gone and we choose to make things appear like they are still around, somehow, from a force that is beyond the cold grip of reality?

My moments of reflection were halted by the hustle of commuters and the cacophony of the subway. I was so immersed in my work that the day went by all too quickly and soon enough, I was traveling home with my daughters in the car when I got a call from my sister. She never calls me, so I knew something must be wrong. My mother had fallen. They were taking her to the hospital. I tried not to panic. What kind of sign is this, dad, if it is, in fact, a sign? The next two hours were spent in Belt Parkway traffic while we tried to find out which hospital she was taken to. Nobody could agree on the hospital the ambulance was taking her to. The lady at the front desk of the assisted living my mother lives in told us one hospital, while my sister and my cousin, Janie, whose mom shares a suite with my mom, told us another hospital. We phoned both hospitals’ emergency rooms and she wasn’t at either. Of course we ended up at the wrong hospital at first. All along, my worst fears were that my mom was so hurt that she wouldn’t be at Lindsay’s wedding. I didn’t express this to Lindsay who was busy arguing with everyone she could on her cell phone about her “missing” grandmother. When we finally got to the right hospital we began going through doors and halls looking for my mom; it was like a nightmare going down long corridors in slow motion. At last I spotted an aide wheeling a white-haired woman in a wheelchair, which seemed like miles away. In my heart, I knew it was my mom and thankfully, I was right. She sighed in relief when she saw the three of us. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. And then I saw her face. It was hard to miss. “You look like you were in a fist fight,” I said, trying to allay my concern. A large bulge protruded on the side of her right eye; about the size of an egg, black and blue, or rather like a purplish color. As a matter of fact, I told her it was the color of the mother of the bride dress that I tried on and loved- purple haze. We laughed. Mom seemed fine; upset because of all the fuss, but still, herself. While we were waiting to talk to the doctor, she began telling us about her day, before she fell. She read Teammates, a book about Jackie Robinson, to the class of first grade students she visits every Wednesday. She told them how Jackie Robinson used to live around the corner from her. We were relieved that she knew what she did that day and was able to remember something from her past. Good signs. We just had to wait for the results from her CAT scan and x-ray on her knee. The doctor was a pretty girl, about Lindsay’s age, with fuchsia pink strands of hair sticking out of her black bob. She looked more like a rock star. I thought to myself how I keep getting older and older and the doctors keep getting younger and younger. Dr. “Pinky” (I named her) came over to tell us that everything was fine and mom can go home. While she was writing out the discharge papers, Lindsay noticed Dr. Pinky’s engagement ring and so the “wedding talk” began. “So, how are your wedding plans going?” Dr. Pinky asked. They started to compare; the doctor was getting married in August and hadn’t even gotten her wedding dress yet. Lindsay recommended the store she got her dress in. The focus shifted from my mom to the bride(s) to be. It certainly eased the tension.

My daughter, Kim, spent the night with mom to keep her company and to make sure she didn’t fall again. We visited her today and picked Kim up. The swelling went down, but the bruise spread and now not only has black and blue and the purple haze shade, but is beginning to include Dr. Pinky’s fuchsia pink hair color as well. They gave her a cane when she left the hospital; she’s using it to practice her “Charlie Chaplan” imitation. Yep, she’s okay, my mom.

As for the sign from my dad- nothing palpable. I’ll never give up hope, though, as long as skies are blue.