We go from week to week without much thought most of the time. Monday comes, and we drag ourselves out of the bed and into work. Sometimes we’re lucky and have a job that we enjoy, and we’re eager to get to work. I’m fortunate that most Mondays, that’s how I feel. But no matter how much we love our job, the week grinds us down, and Friday evening brings a welcome release. We make the most of the weekend, try to recharge ourselves, and head out into the world the next week.
We go through these weeks week after week, again and again, and each week brings some progress to whatever our goals and adventures might be, but after a while, everything just seems to blend together. Week after week, no single week seems to be different than the one that preceded it, or the one that proceeded it. Weeks pass like days which pass like hours, which flow by like seconds, which make the steady stream we call reality.
But every now and then, we have weeks that change everything made up of days that are constant little shifts that are made up of hours that are utterly unpredictable. And the reality we start those weeks with is completely different than the reality that ends the week.
When Nana had a pulmonary embolism two and a half years ago, the week she spent in the hospital afterward was just such a week. She should not, according to the statistics, have survived that first night. But she did. And any time someone survives like that, the week that follows is a week that realigns the reality of everyone connected to the survivor.
This has been such a week for us, ending in a trip to the ER. We make it into a room at the ER but have to wait for a while: there is an arrest issue on the floor, the nurse explains, and I have to ask for clarification: cardiac or criminal? It is, of course, the former, and I feel immediately stupid for asking the question.
The doctor comes in and asks Papa some questions. He sits behind me and talks to me about what’s been going on. I show him some videos I shot. He’s suddenly as concerned as I am. He orders some tests and tells me he’s going to try to get the presiding hospital doctor to come in to see Papa.
While we wait, we hear a child outside crying as his mother tries to explain something he ate while crying at the same time. No one can really get the words out, but in the midst of it all, the mother is trying to comfort her son, calm herself, and talk to the doctor at the same time.
A nurse comes in and wheels out Papa as I reflect on the role reversal that’s been building over the last two years. I recall an ER visit when I was in second grade and got busted in the face with a football helmet face mask because the coach was letting me run the workout with the other players even though I didn’t yet have a uniform. Blood gushing everywhere, I required several stitches that evening. That was a week that changed a few things, but not everything: I refused to give up football even though my ability to practice was hampered. Curtailed even.
When Papa comes back in, he asks me where we are. I take his hand and tell him, giving his hand a squeeze and assuring him that we’ll all be alright.
It reminds me immediately of what I used to say to L when we were nearing an argument over some petty triffle: “Don’t worry, honey, you won’t be thirteen forever.”
“You always say that!”
“I’m not just saying that for your sake…”
Coming full circle in so many ways.