The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) (17 page)

D
onna and I arrive at the hospital in the late afternoon. As we walk into my mother’s room, we notice that the entire medical team has surrounded her bed. I can’t see my mother through the wall of white coats.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Doris, the head nurse, come overs and asks me to step outside the room. She walks us halfway down the hall, explaining that she is doing so in order that she can speak privately with me. But I think she just wants to get us away from the doctors. She lowers her voice and says, “There have been some changes in your mother’s condition, and the team is examining her right now.”

“Changes…what kind of changes?” I ask.

“What Dr. Niptau would like is for you meet him in the conference room in thirty minutes, and he’ll explain everything to you.”

“Doris, is there something you can kindly tell us so that Lily and I don’t spend the next thirty minutes imagining the worst?” Auntie D. asks.

“So sorry, Dr. Niptau really wants to go through everything himself. Do you remember where the conference room is?” she asks. She is obviously not going to give us a morsel of information.

This is just one of many hospital annoyances that multiply during the day, leaving a patient or family member frustrated and frightened and angry beyond belief. I feel like throwing something (Doris, perhaps) across the hall.

“Oh yeah, I know that room—it’s become my second home,” I say sarcastically, and turn to Auntie D. “So far, any time they tell me to go to that room, the news is always bad.” I look Doris in the eye. “Isn’t that right?”

Doris’s expression does not change, but her face turns red in response. She replies, “Well, then, I’ll tell the doctor you’ll be waiting for him there.”

When Doris leaves, Donna turns to me and says, “Remind me when this is over to get you the book
How to Win Friends and Influence People.”
She put her arm around me.

“Why, do you think I came off as a bitch?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah.” She squeezes my hand and we walk to the conference room.

Earlier in the day, while we had waited for Fernando to arrive at the house, Auntie D. and I had checked online and in the
Times
for any news about the other person in the accident. All we found was some sketchy information at best. Some reports online said that she was in a crash
with
another vehicle, and that the driver of the other car was injured; others said that someone else was injured in the accident, but that he was in the car with my mother.

So before going up to the I.C.U., we went to Admissions to see if, on the night of the accident, someone else had been brought in to the hospital with my mom. The woman in the Admissions office couldn’t give us any information, because she said it would go against the HIPAA Privacy Law. She was able, however, to give us the police precinct phone number and the name of the police officers on the scene. We called and left a message for Sgt. Tim Green.

While we wait for Dr. Niptau, Sgt. Green called me back.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Sergeant. As I said in my message, I’m Daisy Lockwood’s daughter. She was in the accident on the LIE a couple of days ago.”

“Yes, Miss Lockwood, I know who you are. My wife and daughter are big fans. So sorry about your mother. How’s she doing?”

“Right now she’s in a coma, so we’re waiting. I’m going to put you on speaker so that my aunt can hear too, okay?”

“No problem,” Green replies.

“Can you tell us what happened in the accident, and if another car was involved?” I ask. I hear him going through papers. He says, “Well, let me look through the report. At 13:50, we got a 911 1053 call—”

“You got a what??” I interrupt.

“Sorry, just habit—we got an emergency vehicular accident call on the LIE Westbound east of exit 65. We got to the scene ten minutes later and assessed the situation. We called for an ambulance and the firehouse to bring the jaws. Your mother was behind the wheel. They were able to cut her out within a few
minutes. Her passenger, man in his thirties, had been thrown approximately twenty feet from the car. ”

“Oh dear God,” Donna said, shaking her head.

“Was there another car? How did it happen?” I ask.

“As far as we could tell, it had been raining—coulda been faulty brakes. We don’t know for sure, yet. The skid marks indicate the car went about thirty feet, then hit the divider and flipped. The paramedics called for air support for your mother. The passenger was brought by bus… ambulance to the hospital.”

“Hi, Sergeant, this is Donna Bianca speaking. Can you tell us what kind of car it was—and whose it was? Since Daisy’s car was in the shop, we know it wasn’t hers.” She pauses for a second. “Also, we’d like to know the name of the passenger, and if he was brought to University Hospital.”

“Okay, let’s see what we got here, hold on.” We hear more paper shuffling. “It was an Infiniti 35, a rental car. I’ll fax you over the report, if you want, so you can have all this info. Let’s see the man’s name. Here we go: David Rosen.”

I looked at Donna and whisper, “Who the hell is that?” She shrugs. “Sergeant, do you know what hospital he was taken to?”

“It was either University or St. John’s—the accident was between both. It all depends on the situation at the hospital at the time the paramedics called it in.”

There’s a knock at the conference room door, and Dr. Niptau and his team pile in.

“Sergeant, the doctor is here to see us. Can you please fax the report to me, here at University I.C.U., in care of Doris?” I ask.

“Will do—and Miss Lockwood, hope all goes well for your mother.” He hangs up before I can thank him.

It looks like the team has increased by four or five white coats. I introduce Auntie D. to Dr. Niptau, and he introduces us to a few of the older doctors. They are heads of one department or another. Auntie D. takes my hand under the table.

“There has been a significant change in your mother’s condition. About an hour ago she opened her eyes—”

“Oh my God—that’s great,” I interrupt. Donna is squeezing my hand so hard my fingers feel like they’re being crushed.

“Please allow me to continue.” Niptau looks uncomfortable. “The state she is in is called Apallic Syndrome, otherwise known as a vegetative state. It is a condition in which patients with severe brain damage, who are in a coma, progress to a state of wakefulness without detectable awareness. Your mother’s eyes are fixed, and she is unresponsive to external stimuli. She does not have a gag reflex, so we will be inserting a feeding tube. We are removing the ventilator, however, because it has been determined that she can breathe independently.”

Auntie D. is crying. She looks from one doctor to the other. “I don’t understand how that can be. If she opened her eyes…this doesn’t make sense.”

“Actually, it makes perfect sense,” one of Niptau’s colleagues answers. “There is a fair amount of brain damage to the frontal lobe, which is associated with reasoning, parts of speech, movement, emotions, and problem-solving. There is also damage to the parietal lobe, which is associated with perception, auditory stimuli, recognition, and speech. Her brain stem is intact. The brain stem structure is responsible for basic vital life functions such as breathing, heartbeat, and blood pressure. So we will be monitoring her, and we have several means of evaluation that will give us an accurate assessment of her condition.” His voice softens. “I know Dr. Grippi has asked you about her living will. If she has one, we need it to be on file. Legally, we need to see if there is a physician’s directive.”

“What is that?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Dr. Niptau replies, “We are going to be giving her different Pet and MRI scans, testing her with visual stimuli—photos of loved ones, things she may recognize or that have meaning to her. We will do the same with auditory stimuli—with music and sounds—to see if her brain shows any activity or change. If there is no activity or change, within a certain amount of time, we have to determine if the feeding tube goes against her living will. If she has a physician’s directive stating that if she is in a medical state in which life-sustaining procedures would only artificially prolong her death, the living will directives—to remove those life-sustaining procedures—must legally be honored.”

I faint.

I
suppose if you have to faint, doing it in a hospital with a roomful of doctors is probably the way to go. I come to lying on a nearby couch with an icepack on my forehead. Dr. Niptau and Auntie D. are hovering over me. Now, he is a scary-looking dude when you are eye to eye with him. From my vantage point, looking up into his nostrils and also seeing his comb-over sticking straight up, defying gravity—it’s a bit too much, even for the strong of heart.

“Lil, sweetie, you passed out and hit your head on the table. Are you feeling okay?” Donna asks. She looks pale and worried.

Dr. Niptau is shining his little flashlight in my eyes. He asks me to follow his finger up and down.

“I’m all right, just got a little lightheaded, that’s all.” He’s annoying me. “I want to see my mother.”

One of the nurses brings me a cup of water. “Please don’t get up for ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll have Dr. Grippi check on you.” Niptau clears his throat. “Miss Lockwood, I have to reiterate that it is imperative you speak with your mother’s lawyer and fax a copy of her living will, if she has one.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Geez, can you give it a rest?” I try to get up again. The room becomes a roller coaster and I lie back down.

“Do you need me for anything else?” I snap.

His face turns red. “No, not right now. We are going to keep your mother in the I.C.U. for at least forty-eight hours. After we get the test results, the team will make a determination about which floor she should be moved to.”

They leave the room and I tell Auntie D. I want a second opinion.

“Absolutely. I was just thinking the same thing.”

When we get back to my mother’s room, we are surprised by what we see. Many of the wires are gone, thankfully her ventilator is out, and she is
breathing on her own. Her head is raised, with three pillows supporting it. Her eyes are open. She is staring straight ahead. There is no light or life in her eyes. They’re just flat. She doesn’t blink and she has absolutely no expression on her face. Her mouth is open as well. I’m taken aback, but Auntie D. goes right to her and puts her face close to my mother’s face.

“Pali, it’s Donzi. Lily and I are here. You’re going to be all right. Don’t be worried, don’t be scared. You are going to come out of this, Pali. We love you very much, darlin’.” She whispers something in my mother’s ear, strokes and kisses her cheek. There is no reaction. I pull my chair closer to her.

“Mom, it’s Lily. We’re here with you, we’re not going anywhere. I need you to try to follow my words. We’re going to get you the best care, and we will do everything to get you better. I love you, Mom.” I fight back my tears.

To be in the same room with my mother and not talk or laugh or even argue with her is unthinkable. Before I could even talk, she knew what I was thinking. From the time I was in sixth grade, we could finish each other’s sentences. Most of the time, we are in such sync, such harmony. Now, to sit next to my mother and be so disconnected from her, for her not to recognize me or to react to what I am saying, is unbearable. To see her blank stare, with no Daisy lightness in her eyes, is heartbreaking.

Two nurses come in, one blonde and one brunette. They both look extremely young. I’d never seen either one before.

The brunette smiles, “Ladies, can we ask you to step out of the room while we change her?”

“I don’t need to leave,” I tell them. “My mom and I get changed together all the time.”

The blonde looks annoyed. “We need to move her so that we can change her diaper and clean her. We’ll be about fifteen minutes.” With that, she pulls the curtain around my mother’s bed for privacy.

I hear one say, “Grab the sheet and blanket. On my count of three, turn her toward me.” We leave the room.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Auntie D.’s face is pasty white and strained. She paces back and forth furiously in front of the room. Her eyes are wide and she holds her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out loud, I’m sure, or maybe to stop herself from screaming. That’s what I feel like doing: screaming. Screaming at Dr. Comb-Over for
being so robotic and negative, screaming at the nurses who are talking and laughing across the hallway, screaming at my mother to wake up, and finally screaming at myself for being so horrible to her the last time we spoke.

Suddenly Auntie D. stops in front of me, grabs my arm, and says, “She can’t live like this—she would hate to live like this, Lily.” We hold each other tight. We both need my mother to tell us what to do.

Donna pulls herself together and says, “Honey, I’m going to call Tommy and Fernando—first of all to tell them what’s happening, but also to find out who the lawyer is, so we can get the info the doctor is asking for. I’ll ask Fernando to find out who the top neurologist is in the city. I’m sure they’ll want to visit.”