In my mind I heard my thrifty gran complaining about fools buying water when it was free from the faucet. My lips twitched. Goodness, she’d taught me so many things in life, some amusing, some so valuable. I hoped that she was okay. Please.
My phone vibrated. Cricket.
I wanted to take the call, but that would require stepping outside. I wasn’t going to miss the doctor giving us an update. So I quickly texted my situation. In true Cricket fashion, suddenly her situation wasn’t important and mine was. She wanted to come to the hospital. I told her no. And then I went back to sit next to Jimbo and Ed Earl to await word on Gran.
Thirty excruciating minutes later, a thin, balding man in scrubs came out and said, “Is there a Ruby Balthazar here?”
I had legally changed my name, of course, but Gran had refused to accept my new one. I stood. “Right here.”
Behind me I could hear Jimbo complaining that they were her sons and why did she call for Ruby, but I didn’t have time to explain that sometimes a woman needs another woman. Or that I would make Gran less nervous than they would. The doctor motioned me back through the double doors.
“I’m Dr. Angelo, and I’ve been taking care of your mother—”
“Grandmother,” I clarified for no real reason. What did it matter?
“Yes, well, we think Mrs. Balthazar has had a TIA, a transient ischemic stroke. What that means is that there was a brief time where blood didn’t flow into the central nervous system. Most of her initial symptoms—the numbness, the slurred speech—have abated, but we still need to run a few tests to rule out some things like dehydration and a bladder infection. Both of those last things can cause the same sort of symptoms, so we’re running a blood panel and a urinalysis.”
I had just spent the last half hour reading about the various kinds of strokes. This was the best to have because it was considered a ministroke and usually didn’t cause long-term effects. “Is she feeling okay?”
“Most of her symptoms seem to have abated,” he said, gesturing toward a long row of curtained bays. “You can go and see her. She’s in number six. Once we have the results of her panels, we will determine if we need some follow-up diagnostics. We will probably do a CT. And then perhaps an MRI if we need more information.”
“Thank you,” I said, nodding at a nurse who hurried by carrying an IV bag.
I pulled back the curtain for Bay 6 and found my grandmother wearing a floral tunic and green leggings. On her feet were the slippers I had bought her a few years ago. Kitty-cat whiskers jutted out to each side. She looked pale in the bright overhead light, a yellow cast to her age-dotted skin. Never had she seemed old to me, but at that moment she sure as hell looked fragile. “Gran.”
“Sugar, you gotta get me out of here. I’m making gumbo for Johnny’s birthday tomorrow. I have two fryers in the pot that need to be deboned.”
I almost laughed. Almost. Because this was the woman I knew and loved. No time to take care of herself, too busy managing everyone else’s lives. “I think that can wait. We need to make sure you’re okay before you go home.”
“I asked for you because I thought you would understand that there ain’t a dang thing wrong with me. Just a little episode. I’ve had them before, and they’re no big deal, but the whole family is coming over tomorrow. I gotta make some soda bread and still need to bake a sheet cake.”
“Totally understandable, but if you were having a stroke or could still be having a stroke, that might interfere with your ability to ice Johnny’s birthday cake. If you are in the clear, after they do the tests, then I will go home with you and make that buttercream frosting everyone loves and help you debone the chicken. Deal?”
She waved her hand in a disgusted manner. “Tell them to get Ed Earl. He likes cake. He’ll help me fly this coop.”
“Oh, come on, Gran, even Ed Earl is going to make you get checked out. Cake or no cake. But I can call Jimbo back.”
“No, Jimbo is an idiot,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “But I guess he’s my idiot. Fine. I’ll do whatever tests they want. But you have to come help me with the cooking. I’m getting old and arthritic, and my kitchen has missed you.”
A flash of guilt struck me, as she intended it to. It had been some time since I had sat with her at the kitchen table, sipped coffee, and spent time listening to old stories or clipping coupons from the Sunday paper. I hadn’t been to any family dinners or get-togethers, barring her birthday celebration a few weeks back. Now, looking at her so small in that hospital bed, scared of what she might learn, brashly demanding she was fine, I knew that as much as I had to let go of my anger toward Ed Earl, I also had to hold tight to what truly mattered.