Back and Forth

This is where my mom is, on the seventh floor. Oddly enough, I didn't know there was a cross on top until after I took and then downloaded this picture. It's called St. Joseph's, though, which is something I've been wondering about: why are there so many hospitals called St. Josephs? I can only think, offhand, of two St. Josephs - Jesus' stepfather, who I think was a carpenter, and Joseph of Arimathea, who brought the Holy Grail to Britain. But then I'm not all that up on my saints. There is a statue of the Virgin in a niche on each floor by the elevators, though, or at least the ones I've glimpsed on my way from 1 to 7 and back again. She's wearing a different colored robe in each one, which is kind of nice.

I'm getting tired of going to the hospital and I wish my mother was getting better. You would think, with all that blood going in, and the antibiotics, and the big plastic bag of what looks like milk but is some kind of perfect liquid nutrition, that she would be feeling a bit more chipper. But she isn't. She's tired and vague and sick, and all our jokes just bring forth a smile. At least the view from her room, at right, is good, although the place was built in 1974 and is showing it's age: my mom's window is scratched and dull and apparently held in place by duct tape. And yesterday the smoke alarm went off, which may have been my fault, because I was standing quite close to the alarm pull thing and possibly I bumped it, but I don't think I did. My brothers think I did. Still, it didn't faze anyone and there was no fire drill. The nurses sighed and shook their heads and called somebody to turn it off. Which is a little unnerving, but then nobody ever does believe fire alarms.

After the boys leave each day I wait behind a minute, and ask her if there's anything I can bring her the next day. There are many things, you see, that must be kept secret from the males, such as the existence and location of the floral foam in her garage. She wants to rearrange some of her flowers into a basket, which idea I applaud heartily, since it means she's noticing things, and that's good. She also asked if I could bring her some bacitracin. "Mom," I said, "You're in a hospital. I bet they have some antibiotic ointment around here." "No," she said, "If you go buy a new tube at Wal Mart it will only be $2 but if they bring it up they'll charge me $50." "No they won't," I say patiently. "These nurses are your friends. I bet they'll give you a few little foil packets of it for free." She has a stubborn look on her face and I know I'm not going to win this one. "Then they might find out where I'm going to put it." she said and that was that. I have to get some antibiotic ointment and a plastic lined basket and the floral foam and a pair of good scissors or pruning shears and take them over to St. Joes.