Beaulah

Beaulah is rushed into the hospital room while I’m in the bathroom. It’s my second day in the hospital and I was told my semi-private room would probably be relinquished by the time I would be giving myself a spongebath. They’ve forgotten to undo my heart moniters: I’ve never had heart moniters on before, and I don’t exactly know how it’s possible to shower with the six chords connected to a heavy box in a “pocket” of my gown (which isn’t a pocket at all; it’s an opening just narrow enough to house such a box. But if I pivot too briskly or shift to one side, you might be able to catch a glimpse of my nipple. This disarms me).

I give myself a sponge bath. Oh, there’s also an IV I’ve wheeled in here.

I hear the commotion. Beaulah has arrived. Is she Spanish? She’s speaking in gasps. There are no words, just exhalations of sound and intention. Is she a mental case? Is she dying? Everyone in here is dying.

But, everyone there is dying, too.

I catch a glimpse of Bea in her bed. She is late middle-aged, overweight, and has a paunchy face. She looks decidedly American, even though her gibberish has not yet confirmed this. I think one of the nurses close the curtain and I’m thrilled – absolutely thrilled – at the immediate privacy this gives me. This half of the semi-private now becomes my room.

Bea will stay with me for the next four days.

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About 11:00 my fiancé arrives with healthy snacks from Wal*Mart; he brings my parents. Lucky, as always, my man was flying down this morning anyway to see me in a show. (A show that’s just going into tech and previews…now with an understudy). My parents were across the state visiting family and awaiting their turn to see me, though when they got the call I was hospitalized, they jumped in their car. I’m indebted, as always, to kindness of loved ones.

The breakfast of shiny, liquified cheese in an egg mold and what I fondly call “cheese mound” has just been taken away by “Eric”. It also came with a finger-lickin’ good biscuit and two strips of bacon. Just what the body needs to recover. Needless to say, the Trail Mix my family bought me is as good as Christmas.

My insurance lapsed nearly a month ago. I didn’t sign up for Cobra because I couldn’t afford it. Probably because I spend too much money on Trail Mix. Those bills can mount up. Especially when your apartment is 4x your salary. Ken spends approximately an eighth of his visiting hours on the first two days on the phone with Equity-League Pension and Health, seeing if I can get on board with Cobra before the grace period ends. I had tried earlier, and got a dud on the phone. When I told her what happened to me she said “Oh no! That’s terrible!” Very comforting, lady.

And then Beaulah’s family enters, one-by-one: A woman enters, with a face of determination a la Mother Courage, cane in hand. She wears her hair in the classic mullet tradition, nothing remarkable: A recognizable emblem of heritage. Her voice is that of a child’s -- comforting, at times. This is Bea’s daughter-in-law, who’s led a hard life (I’m guessing). Her motto: They can’t make you do nothing you don’t want to do.

Bea’s blood pressure, which was 240-over-I can’t-remember (when they wheeled her in), is now reduced quite a bit so that I can tell her accent is Southern, I find out.

*Though not Southern like my Southern, she’s from Missouri. Though, not the same part of Missouri my beaux is from. He’s from the Midwest.*

Waiting for her blood pressure to lower even more before they can perform Gall Bladder Surgery on her. The worst part about the situation is her portable toilet right next to my bed.

Accompanying the D-I-L of Bea is Bea’s three grandchildren and her husband: The man of few words. The grandson only stops by on two occasions, he is very slow. The girls come every day and night with their mama. The brunette granddaughter has a penchant for loitering in the lounge area. The daughter-in-law threatens to pop her if she doesn’t get off the computer. Why on earth does she want her off the computer, I think. Isn’t the computer a learning tool?

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When I’m finally able to walk around the halls and visit the lounge, my family and I turn on Skype and call my bro. (The saving grace of this hospital is the wi-fi access. No, there is no Facebook – but I have my laptop! I have Hulu! I have email! I have earphones!) The brunette invites herself to our table, facing us as we face the computer. It is mighty distracting. When K. realizes maybe she is unable to deal with the fact that there is not a chair immediately in front of the neighboring computer, he wheels over a chair and without a hitch she signs onto America’s Most Wanted to search the database.

The other granddaughter is mentally handicapped. She is a very large girl and repeats three phrases over and over during the next four days: “I love you” “I pray you” “I miss you”, to which Bea replies “I love you too now shut-up”. Sometimes, Bea and D-I-L send the girl away to draw, and then ask if brunette has been on the computer when the girl returns. She returns every two minutes to tell Bea “I love you, I miss you, I pray you”.

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During one jolly visit from some colleagues of mine, the girl’s voice cuts through the masses’, rings out: “are they going to cut your finger off grandma?!”

Not much interaction between my family and theirs. I’m sure they are annoyed as hell of K. talking about Jon Stewart and NPR and CNN: We share the same oxygen, we can hear every word.

Does she have surgery? Yes. They meet her with a “wheely bed” on the third day. The nurse invites Bea to the bed. “Beaulah, your chariot awaits.” And the D-I-L clearly doesn’t know what a chariot is, doesn’t find the phrase familiar. “What’s that?”

Upon their leaving, the nurse sprays Febreeze in the room and imparts to me that they aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. Bea returns a few hours later and spends the next few hours sound asleep. Visitors return the next day. Visitors leave. A doctor comes in to talk to Bea. Sort of always happens right when the family leaves. Which infuriates the family – and me(in my safe little bed, a captive audience). THEY know more about her condition than BEA does! Only Bea and I know the truth: The doctors must be crouching somewhere nearby in invisibility suits, waiting for the family to leave. Because every time the family leaves, a specialist enters not five minutes later, asking her all the important questions -- questions to which she does not know the answer! She is not properly primed. She is Sarah Palin when faced with Katie Couric.

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On the final day, after stabbing myself in the stomach with some drugs (I feel very brave saying that) I’m given the go-ahead to GO HOME! Bea’s family is also determined to get their matriarch home. Even though the doctors say they need to monitor her kidneys. The fam bridles at being told what to do. And maybe not without reason: I could have gone home earlier (according to K’s dad, who is an internist and a blood-clot specialist). Hospitals don’t want to be sued. Hospitals want to be paid. But kidney failure??? I dunno….scary stuff. Especially when you don’t have a specialist in the family.

The man of few words speaks from behind the curtain. Lovingly, to his wife: “It would be good……if….they let you….go home”.