Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(13)

“What’s the long-term prognosis?” I ask.

The truth is I don’t want to hear what I am afraid is coming. For a moment I want to be like Mama. I want to close my eyes to this tragedy and swallow gulps of rye whiskey to dull the sorrow of reality.

Doctor Craig rubs the bridge of his nose then replaces his glasses. “The likelihood is that Donna will never live to be an old woman.” He avoids looking at either of us when he says this, and then with the worst of the ugliness out of the way he lifts his eyes to Mama and says, “But rest assured, we will make certain Donna is kept comfortable for however long she has.”

“However long she has?” Mama gasps. She starts to cry. Soft sobs bring forth a flow of tears that forces her to use her lace hankie.

I wrap my arm around Mama’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” I say, knowing such a thing is not possible. “Donna’s strong, she can beat this.”

Mama takes my hand in hers and says nothing. She is simply holding on to whatever she can, and right now I am it.

“When can we see her?” Mama asks.

“Donna is still in recovery.” Doctor Craig suggests we go have lunch. “By then she should be back in her room.”

I take Mama by the arm and lead her away. Neither of us speaks. It is as if we are walking through a bad dream, one from which we will wake and find it to be nothing more than the aftermath of a late-night pizza. In the span of a few hours it seems as if the world has changed. Everything looks unfamiliar. Even the green hallways appear narrower and headed in different directions. Clinging to one another, we walk to the end of the hallway and step into the elevator. On the ground floor there is a small coffee shop and we go in.

I cannot remember what we ordered; I remember only that we did not eat whatever it was. And I also remember Mama tearing her napkin into tiny shreds, nervously picking it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but a scattering of scraps.

When we finally get to see Donna, she is pale and confused. Several times she tries to speak, but the words are no longer there. They have been replaced by a gurgle that starts in her chest and is then held prisoner by the steel fixture tied to her throat. I make a feeble effort to cheer her by saying it might only be temporary. She in turn pretends to believe me.

Donna doesn’t cry. She never cries. Whatever sorrow Donna feels remains trapped inside of her. She mouths the words, “I guess this means I’m not going to be smoking for a while.” She then gives a so-what shrug.

We stay beside her for another two hours, and as we turn to leave I hear the gurgling coming from her open airway. I can still remember the sound.





The Aftermath




We have entered into a time of life when we are all liars. We lie to one another, and we pretend to believe the lies. Not only do we believe them, we pass them on as truths. I tell Mama that Donna will be okay. I say she just needs time to let her throat heal and then the tracheostomy will be reversed.

“You know Donna.” I say, “She’s tough. She can do it.”

Mama pretends to believe me. She nods, but the fear never leaves her eyes.

When I ask Donna if she is uncomfortable or if there is something she needs, she shakes her head and grimaces. I know the look; it is her “Don’t be such a sissy” expression. As I said, we are all liars.

Two days later Donna comes home from the hospital, and that afternoon medical supply trucks start arriving at her apartment. They come with a machine that growls and churns as it sucks loose the accumulation of mucus. They bring oxygen tanks that stand nearly as tall as me and cartons filled with gauze, tubing, and bottles of saline water. Donna sits in the recliner as Mama and I push chunks of furniture aside to make way for the barrage of medical supplies. In her bedroom the nightstand is turned sideways so we can squeeze in the chest that was moved to make way for boxes. The apartment was small to begin with and now it is overcrowded. It has the jumbled look of a storage bin.

“Maybe we should try to find you a bigger place,” I suggest.

Again Donna shakes her head and gives me that same disdainful grimace. This time it is accompanied by a wave of her hand pushing the thought away.



I remain in Baltimore for another week, and during that week I learn what Donna’s life will be like. She is a woman with a boyfriend and countless friends, yet she has told no one of this situation. The phone rings constantly, but Donna waves me off when I start to answer. Instead we wait until the caller leaves a message, and then we listen to it. Don, her boyfriend, has called twenty or more times. At first it is just a message for her to call him back. Then his messages become more desperate. “Dammit, Donna,” he says. “I’m worried about you! Call me back!”

Don doesn’t even know Donna was in the hospital. She is a person who shares good times and fun. She is not a person who shares her fears and heartaches.

“Let me call him,” I say. “He’s really worried about you.”

For the first several days, she simply gives a negative shake of her head then finally she writes a note and hands it to me. The note reads, Call Don & tell him I don’t want to see him anymore. Don’t tell him about the tracheostomy.

“I can’t do that!” I say.

She points to the phone and nods.

“You’ve been dating him for over six months,” I remind her. “He’s not going to believe you just don’t want to see him.”