Time Capsules

As a child I was obsessed with time capsules. I buried them probably every week for a month. I would make little maps and swear to myself that I wouldn't dig them up for years. But each time, after a mere few days I would find myself digging them up- fearing that they had somehow changed or were no longer there. The only one I left buried I ironically cannot find now because the landscape of my mother's backyard has changed. My swing set, which I always used as my main marker because I assumed it would be there like my father who installed it but unfortunately neither is there any longer. My father died when I was 18 and my swing set came down shortly there after. Even the indents in the ground that showcase where the legs of the swing set had once been have long been filled and grass grown over. My hopes of finding this lost time capsule are all but nonexistent.

I started writing this blog as I sat in the ER waiting room. Once I went back to the room where they kept my mother, she was the child and I the adult. I was not comfortable with this switch. When we become the caretakers of our ailing parents, it's a special kind of heartbreak. When I followed the ambulance to the hospital, I was sure to put my sunglasses on so that my mother wouldn't be able to see me crying through the windows. I was glad I did when we were in the ER and she asked me if I could see her waving. I couldn't because they had the American flag painted on the outside of the windows for patient privacy. I was glad I had the foresight to hide my tears. My mother was very apologetic as it was, she didn't need to worry about me. My mom apologized for being sick and for ruining my evening, as though there was anywhere more important for me to be.

As the time dragged on and we weren't getting any answers from the hospital staff I began to feel as helpless as the child who buried those time capsules. And then I started to get angry. Having to hunt down hospital staff is one of my least favorite activities and yet one I find myself doing frequently at this particular hospital(my sister spends a lot of time in the hospital). Waiting for 2 hours to have an IV put in after the doctor requested it is unacceptable in my world especially since my mom was dehydrated when she came in. But at least having someone to track down and being slightly murderous kept me from having to dwell on my Mom being in the hospital. Having only one parent left, and her being the most important person in your life, makes one a little panic stricken. My mom was often my only playmate growing up (at least the only human one). I couldn't imagine living in a world without her and the knowledge that one day I will have to isn't something I can even bare thinking about.

One thing that I was extremely touch by were the friends both old and new who were willing to come and sit with me at the hospital. And my wonderful roommate who brought me food when I had been at the hospital for six hours and was desperately hungry. My anger level also went down once I ate. The moral of this story is if I am ever really angry, feed me and I will no longer be murderous. Who knew those Snicker's commercials were right?