I heard the grunts before I saw her face. As Mom descended the stairs that morning, I could hear a moan with every step and knew there would be a story to be told at the bottom. I braced myself. Whatever could these moans mean? Well, last night I had one of those ice cream sandwiches and I thought that there was a big piece of ice on the side of it and I swallowed it. But I don’t think it was ice. I think it was plastic. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was plastic. The ever-present “ohhhh shiiiiiiit” ran through my brain on loop.
I scurried to the freezer to pull out the plastic package of specialty ice cream sandwiches and immediately saw the evidence— an approximately one inch chunk of jagged plastic missing from the section that she had pulled her treat from. Mom! That’s a REALLY big piece! Are you sure you swallowed it? Mom put her hand just under her throat and said I think I must have. I feel it. Now, plastic is not glass. That was one, albeit minor, relief. However, as you can see in this picture, this was neither small nor smooth and I had a hard time envisioning it sliding down her esophagus or squeezing through her narrow duodenum. Yes, my OCD has led to my knowing quite a bit about the internal universe of the human body. Are you in the medical field? Doctors often ask me that question. No, no. I’m just a touch crazy, that’s all. Carry on, doctors.
Now, I know you don’t want to hear this. But I think you need to have this checked out and it might mean going to the emergency room. Her little moans had continued throughout all this conversation as she shuffled around the kitchen in her black sparkly slippers and light pink robe paying bills and checking her bank statement. I know. I’m gonna wait a little. I can’t just pick up and leave. I have THINGS to do. My God, the number of deep breaths I took that morning. OK, but, the longer we wait the further that piece of plastic is moving and we don’t want it to become, you know, “surgical”. Meanwhile I was furiously texting a nurse friend and a friend’s sister (also a nurse). They were concerned about Covid exposure at the ER as was I of course. But, that piece of plastic was big and Mom was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Could you at least call Neisie and see what she says? God. Bless. Neisie. Our cousin and family expert in all things medical. What time is it? Mom asked, not wanting to wake Neisie. It’s 10:30, Mary. She’s up. Call her. Please.
Good morning, Andy. How are you? Neisie’s husband had answered the phone and Mom does not skip pleasantries. Is Neisie up? She finally asked. I listened as Mom described the events of the night prior to Neisie, imagining the ever calm “uh huhs” and “OKs” on Neisie’s end. Let me text Neisie the picture. I was not messing around with this one. I shot off the picture to Neisie and within 30 seconds, an ER visit was strongly recommended. Like I said. God. Bless. Neisie.
After getting off the phone, I began to make preparations to go to the ER and came downstairs to find Mom folding laundry. Mom. I’ll do this. You go get dressed. She counted the number of boxer shorts she had done in that load. Seven. Seven pairs of shorts. That’s how long it’s been since I did laundry. The number of boxers tells her how many days have passed since using the washing machine. Good to know. Now go get dressed, will ya? She shuffled into the kitchen and proceeded to START EMPTYING THE DISHWASHER. Oh. My. God. GO. GET. DRESSED!! She finally agreed after uttering a couple grunts over the descending piece of plastic. I’m going to the Emergency Room. Mom explained to Dad that she needed to go get checked out. Want me to go with you? Dad offered to accompany her, I told him he couldn’t. Because of the virus, you can’t go in with her Dad. Comforted by the fact that I would go instead, he agreed to wait it out at home and I promised to keep him informed.
When we finally arrived at the ER, I helped Mom into her sugar skulls/Frida Kahlo mask (made by Assemble Lab in Lowell, MA). Not being particularly fond of the mask requirement, her awkwardness while wearing it was painfully obvious and I nearly wet my pants laughing. I’m glad I can be such a great source of amusement for you. She was laughing too because even she knew just how ridiculous she looked in the bright blue muzzle. We entered the ER, answered the Covid gatekeeper’s questions, and proceeded to wait for over an hour. Surprisingly, I was allowed to wait with her in the waiting room but was told I needed to leave after she went in.
Setting foot in an ER waiting room during Covid comes with so many questions. Do you sit in the chairs or stand? Do you scratch your nose when it itches? Do you use the bathroom when you have to pee? Do you slam the counter and demand to be seen right away because the person you’re accompanying is vulnerable? I’m sure they sanitize all these chairs throughout the day. Mom has faith, I wasn’t so sure and wished I had brought my Lysol wipes. Careful not to touch the armrests, we sat. With every new patient that came in during that waiting period, Mom was thoroughly entertained. I wonder what’s wrong with her. Why does that guy have a blue bag in his hands? What is that? Oh, that guy is really bleeding. I was sitting on the side of her deaf ear and she turned her head completely around every time I answered her questions. Truth is, I was just as entertained if not more. A little quarantine excitement goes a hell of a long way.
The 70ish-year-old woman sitting next to us scoffed at a younger patient whose painful moans got her immediate attention. I’M in pain TOO! I’ve got a KIDNEY stone and I’ve already been here this week. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. She stroked her long blond extensions as she told us her tale of woe, shaking off loose hairs onto the floor as I gagged with every strand that dropped. I hate the ER and hate the waiting room even more. When it seemed as though every other person had been called, Mom’s turn finally arrived and she was whisked away. Neisie texted to see how things were progressing. A piece of fucking plastic, Neisie. I can’t make this shit up. My last gasp of bewilderment via text.
I know what you’re thinking. What happened? Did they get the plastic out? Is she ok? Well, after a regular x-ray and a barium x-ray, that one inch sucker could not be detected. She still felt discomfort that got a little lower and lower as time marched on. Apparently clear plastic is difficult to be seen on x-ray. She was discharged with instructions to a) not eat plastic again and b) come back if any worsening of symptoms occurred. Needless to say it has been a week of watchful waiting and minor GI discomfort. Did she really swallow that whole piece? Did she manage to chomp it up into smaller pieces and then swallow it? Will that piece live in her stomach until hydrochloric acid does its job? This, too, shall pass? There have been no answers to any of those questions and that’s a bitter pill, or should the saying be “jagged piece of plastic”, to swallow. It has been a whole week and not only does she seem just fine, she has also not spiked a fever assuaging my fear of her contracting the plague. Go Mary.
This new level of paranoia is something else. With the added ridiculousness of things that only happen to Mary/Mom, I knew this past ER visit was just a matter of time. I’m actually glad to have gotten it over with. This whole pandemic is a lot like swallowing a jagged piece of something and the discomfort along with the unknown of its passing is brutal. This will pass but maybe not as we would like. Living for the moment and learning as we go is all we can do. This week we learned to be careful not to eat packaging of any kind here on out. A very important lesson.
From lung cancer, breaking her arm, cracking her head open (read This Too Shall Pass as a reference for all of that), and swallowing plastic (all within the last 2 years!), Mom has proven to be what I had suggested she was all along—a tank. There’s just no better way to describe her. Forge onward, keep moving, crush a few undesirable things in your path, deal with life’s challenges with force. That’s how to get through Mary style. Try it. It just might work for you too. And, Neisie, thank you for being the family’s medical rock and voice of reason for as long as I can remember. You deserve the happiest of birthdays this week to be celebrated alongside your sister and niece.