Wet Birds Don't Fly at Night-Chapter 1

The first chapter of a novel

CHAPTER ONE

      “All Good Men Must Come to the Aid of Their…”

AMY

“I don't deserve this.” Amy snaps up from her crossword puzzle with a small jolt of shock. Joan is looking straight at her, the intelligence behind her blue eyes apparent. The afternoon nurse steps in, switches out her IV bag and checks on Joan's chemo port. This is the second one they've had to put in and there is a real concern about infection. Joan flashes her a spirited look as the tall nurse exits the room. Mom really can't stand her, Amy thinks. The nurse's name is spelled differently, “Liisa” on the small white board in the corner and Amy is convinced that the extra “i” may be slowly driving her mother crazy. “I have never done anything in my life to deserve this,” Joan repeats as a single tear runs down her face. “Why is this happening?” Amy takes a deep breath. This is the most lucid her mom has been in awhile and she wants to be sure she makes the most of it. “Of course you don't deserve this, Mom. This is terrible. I know it's hard, but I am here for you” she says carefully, watching her mother's every expression. “The doctor says that this is what we have to do, so that you can have more years. With us, with your grandchildren.” Joan slams her arm down on the side rail of the hospital bed in pure frustration. “What if I don't want more years of this?” Amy is stunned, tries to readjust her thoughts for this new version of her mother, the version she has been trying to reach for over two months now.

Amy sees, going back to that horrible day, the doctor enter the room. She noticed the doctor had a spattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks that made her look very young. Have I finally turned into one of those middle-aged ladies bitching about the apparent youth of all doctors? I feel too young to go through this, she thinks bitterly, even though she just turned 42 in March. Joan's doctor looked at them with compassion, this must be the worst part of her job. “I am so sorry but what you have is lymphoma of the brain. Unfortunately, the tumor is too large and there is no way we can remove it. We can get you a few years with aggressive chemotherapy, but we need to start right away.”

The nurses come back in and begin the process of getting Joan out of bed. It is quite a production, two of them lifting her up while a third changes the bedding beneath her. As they stand her up, Amy hears an awful sound and knows with a feeling of pure dread that her mother has just lost control of her bowels onto the floor. The nurses spring into action, cleaning it up efficiently while changing Joan into a new gown. They really are angels here on earth, Amy thinks as she heads out into the hallway to try to give her mother back a little dignity, if that is possible.

How did I not see it sooner? Why did she try to hide this from me? Her mother had always been the smartest woman she’d ever known. A quick mind and intellect that up until two months ago, was in full charge of her faculties and enjoying life. She remembers her on the night of the election, the last night that their lives resembled any kind of normalcy. Amy had just gotten back from singing at an International competition with her chorus right here in Denver. She could tell something was off all week with her mom. She laughed a little too loudly at things that weren't funny. She couldn't figure out how to get onto the webcast in order to hear her sing after she had been doing it for ten years. The silence, the refusal to talk and give herself away. She should have left right then and there, come home and forced her to seek help. But, she wasn't completely sure, didn't want to overreact. Chuck went over there at her request and got the same funny feeling, “She's quiet Hon, not like herself….but I can't say for sure.”

Amy is wracked with regret and guilt, a constant bitterness eating away at her. She went over and had a glass of wine with her that last night, their usual routine. “How do you feel Mom?” she asked, watching her carefully. “Oh, not so great.” She had let it go that night, but the next day Amy confronted her and Joan finally admitted that yes, something was indeed very wrong.

She called her mom twice before driving over there and making her get in the van. “We are going to the emergency room” she remembers saying, “if there's nothing wrong, I promise that you can be mad at me for an entire month--please just humor me this once.” God, that must have been the longest, most painful day of her life.

Chuck had to go out of town for work, the first time in years, naturally. Their trip to the ER was supposed to take a couple of hours and didn't end until late into the night. “Ma'am, do you know what happened yesterday?” Joan looked at the nurse with annoyance, “Yes there was an election. Our guy lost.” They shone the light into her eyes, checked her vitals, “so what's the problem? She seems to be answering fine.” Amy recalls her frustration. “You don't understand, this is not my mother. I know something is wrong.” They wheeled her out to do the first scan, the first of so, so many. They did the MRI but something went wrong, so they had to do it again. An additional two hours of worry. Amy tried to use her cell phone, saw that it was dead and went to sit in the car to charge it, trying to clear her head. This cannot be happening to us, what do I do? She got a bar up, called her brother-in-law, “Please go get the kids from school. I don't know when I'll be back.” She remembers the look of pure shock on her mother's face when they told her there was something there, a large mass,“We need to check you into the hospital right away.” More waiting, as she tried to contact her aunt Marilyn, Joan's sister in Florida, Chuck, anyone that could help her with this. She was an only child and never had she felt it more painfully than at that very moment. Scared to the point of breaking, Joan pulled the IV painfully out of her arm, blood spurting out everywhere in a great red arc. “I'm going home, I want to go home!” The nurse ran back in, “Ma'am, you are very sick, I'm afraid we can’t let you leave.” They finally sent us off to a different hospital across town, over eight hours later, she remembers sadly. By that time the entire left side of Mom's face had begun to droop. God, I thought maybe it was a stroke, I would never have dreamed it was a tumor. Another two hours passed as they filled out more paperwork, checked her in. They finally got her into a bed, the biopsy scheduled for two days later. She offered to stay the night but Joan sent her away saying simply, “I knew you'd find out.” Amy went out to the valet and found that they had closed an hour before, so she spent the next half-hour aimlessly wandering the dark parking garage, searching for her van, tears streaming down her face. Level after level, an endless maze. She was completely shattered, lost in every way.

BOB

Bob hovers high in the corner of the room. God, I hate f*****g hospital rooms. How many years of my life did I waste in sad little rooms just like this? He watches the awful scene as his wife loses control and his daughter flees the room. She hates this, he thinks, Joan would never stand for any of it. Why can't Amy see it? He watches as they clean her up, tuck her back into the sterile hospital bed. Even though she is not in her right mind, Bob sees that a glimpse of his high-spirited bride manages to break through. Good! Joan is a formidable woman, not one to be taken lightly.

Over the almost forty years they were married, she took care of almost everything, the business, the bills, their daughter. He may have gotten the job at Windsor Industries that moved them out to Colorado, but once they got there, she took charge. She had worked in a real estate agent's office before they left Chicago and she had planned on becoming her own agent. She passed all the requirements and was ready to go, until he told her that he wanted to start the business. Things weren't working out at his job and he had begun putting carpet cleaning machines together in the garage of their new house, tinkering and planning, trying to make his dream into reality. Carpet Plus, Incorporated, their own company. She quit real estate, took the leap with him and never looked back, but then she had always been there for him.

The nurses finally leave her in peace and he approaches the bed, holds her hand in his own spirit one. I'm here my love, I'm here. She lightly dozes, childlike. She is on so many medications and he knows that she would be completely horrified. This is a woman who hates even taking an aspirin. I am supposed to be the sick one, my love, he thinks as he flashes back to another hospital room many years earlier. He sees himself in a waiting area, Joan holding his hand, “it's going to be alright Bob, don't worry.” He was a traveling salesman in those days, living on the road five days out of seven. He had been having really bad heartburn and she finally convinced him to make an appointment, had come along for moral support. In the waiting room, there is an elderly couple, the man pale and sickly looking. Suddenly they hear “Code Blue, Code Blue” over the loudspeaker as the orderlies rush into the room. That poor man they both think, his poor wife�"how sad. They run up to Bob, a wheelchair waiting; “Sir you need to come with us immediately,” as the old couple looked on in alarm. He was 35-years old. The first of many surgeries, he recalls, open heart surgeries. He remembers the cutting-edge doctor that sewed his artery to the chest wall therefore saving his life, giving him years he never would have had. The endless roto-rootings he went through, additional heart surgeries, appointments, procedures, the small strokes he had later on in his life. He only had half of a working heart, the lower two chambers had completely atrophied. They didn't expect him to live past 40. Joan kicked into action, his helpmeet in every way--making sure he got his meds, staying late at the business so that he could go home and take naps in order to rest and preserve his health. Every year they would exchange cards, him thanking her for the extra year and she wishing him happy 40th birthday plus whatever the years were until he died in his sleep at the ripe young age of 63. Damn that emphysema! They were both smokers so it was no great surprise that he got it, but combined with the heart problems, it was a real killer, no pun intended.

He sees his daughter come back in the room, pull up a chair by her mother and start biting her nails. She was always a nail biter, he thinks, a bad habit. He laughs at himself, he is the last one to judge bad habits. She looks tired, older, she has really been through the wringer. She needs to go home for a while. Joan would be so worried if she knew what was happening around her, to her daughter. She and Amy have always been extremely close. Liisa, Joan's favorite nurse enters and walks right through where Bob is sitting. He dissipates with an angry whoosh, Goddamnit! No wonder Joan can't stand her he thinks, as he takes his leave. He blows his wife a kiss as he takes flight and is gone without even making a sound.

JOAN

All good men must come to the aid of their..? What? Joan tries again, trying to remember that old snippet of something she learned way back when. All good men must come to the aid of their...party?What was that typing class? She has a vision of a tall, severe nun, Sister Mary-What's It, a class full of typewriters. St Thomas Aquinas High School, Class of 1962...I am Joan. Joan... French, Zulanas? Something else, she can't quite remember...all of a sudden that nosy woman comes into the room. She keeps asking her to do things. “Where do we live? Mom, please tell me the names of your grandkids.” Wait, that's Amy, my...Amy Cooper? No wait, she got married, her last name begins with an H. “Mom. Here is your username and password�"It's written down on the sticky note, right here on your computer, can you see it?” She nods, hoping to get rid of her so that she can think, try to remember any of this... “Here's how you start an email, do you see? Here is my address, subject line, now you can type and send to me.” Joan asks (Joan? She's pretty sure that's right) “what do I type?” looking up hopefully. “I don't know Mom, anything, your name, say I feel like crap, anything at all. Just try it.” She concentrates hard, manages to type in “i feel like crap” and sends it off. Amy comes in again with a small cup of pudding--God how I hate having it everyday, the woman grinds up something and puts it in, makes her eat it.  She has a flash of memory, a young man with a short haircut, hazel eyes picking up a chair...Joan can’t remember anymore when this first started. They went on a trip somewhere, where was that? Wisconsin? Sometime in the months that followed, she began to forget things, small things like why she came into a room, where she put the cat food, things any sixty-something would laugh off as age related. As things got worse, she made a decision to try to ignore it, play along as normal as possible. Joan was always in control of her own destiny, never dependent on anyone or wanting to be a burden. Amy had enough to worry about, three kids, her singing. This will pass, she was sure of it, I can always go in for a checkup sometime if nothing changes. There is no sense in getting everyone worried over nothing, just normal age stuff..she is staring blankly at the computer screen, trying very hard to hang onto that last train of thought when she comes in again (Amy?) and tells her it’s time for lunch. Joan sighs, she can’t stand eating lately especially after that horrid morning pudding, but she humors her and follows along. Taking her usual seat, she always sits here doesn’t she? It does seem like she’s done this before she thinks as Amy turns on the TV, Joan can’t quite recall how to turn it on so the woman has put little stickers on it to try to help her. “See Mom, first this button, than this one, just like this”. A brightly (painfully bright!) colored football game flashes on, football I love football, don’t I? Why are they running that way? She stares at it intently but it is no use, none of it makes sense so she goes back to her vigil, hoping that if she can figure that out, other things will fall into place. “All good men must come to the aid of their…”

She wakes up out of her dream, she is no longer in her favorite chair but the dreadful hospital room, her daughter in the corner, concentrating on something, a pen in her hand. The awful nurse comes in and Joan gives up, goes back inside of herself trying to shut them all out in this terrible place.

EXCERPT FROM JOAN’S JOURNAL “MEMORIES OF A WET BIRD,” 2005

“As I reflect upon my life with Bob Cooper, I can’t help but be deeply moved by his loyalty and respect for me. Bob was not a perfect specimen of husband, but as a true friend, he had no peer. The hardest adjustment I have had since his passing is missing our evening conversations about the trivial things in life. At the last part of his life, Bob was too sick to care about much but his own survival but it never prevented him from showing me kindness. The Wednesday before his death he gave me one last pink rose, as if to say ‘Farewell Sweetheart’.”

Author's Note

Would love any feedback, this is the first chapter from a 56K word story

Reviews

[Patricia Wedel]

dear Elizabeth... I wish you the best in pursuit of
your desire to write stories. My pursuit is poetry and since
my time is limited, in fairness to you, I want you to know...
You are a very good author and I wish you success. truly, Pat