Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(27)
Strange how you can miss something even though you weren’t all that crazy about it in the first place. You don’t miss it because it was special, only because it was familiar. The pumpkin chairs were here and they were familiar; now they’re gone.
We have been here almost five hours when Doctor Craig comes into the room.
“You’ll be able to see Donna in an hour or two,” he says. “As soon as she is out of recovery.”
I ask how the operation went.
“As well as could be expected.”
This answer makes me nervous. I was hoping to hear something more positive. I wait a moment thinking there will be more, but when nothing else is said I ask, “Will she be able to speak?”
“Yes,” he answers, “but she’ll need oxygen.”
“Why?” Mama asks.
Doctor Craig explains in lay terms that although they removed a considerable amount of scar tissue from Donna’s trachea, her lungs are far from healed. He goes on to detail the procedure for closing the tracheostomy with a removable plug and indicates that it can be reopened if necessary.
“I would have preferred to leave it as it was,” he says, “but Donna insisted on having the tracheostomy reversed.”
“What’s that mean?” Mama asks nervously. “That it will be harder for her to breathe?”
He pauses for a moment, fingers his brow, then answers, “Hopefully with medication and a steady supply of oxygen, she’ll do okay.”
I don’t like the sound of his answer. Hopefully?
The day after the operation Donna sits up watching television when we arrive at the hospital. A thick gauze pad is taped across the hole in her throat, and a clear plastic mask covers her nose and mouth. Through a mist of oxygen and moisture, we can see her lips curl into a smile at the sight of us.
Hesitantly, I say, “Hello,” then wait.
In a coarse, gravelly voice, Donna crackles, “Hi.”
It sounds nothing like the way she used to speak, but this is the first word she has said in two years. Mama and I both start talking at once.
“Thank God,” Mom says, her eyes growing teary.
I lean across the bed and kiss my sister. The knobs poking out at her elbows and wrists have grown larger, and the bones of her chest are like those of a skeleton. I wonder if her appetite will come back now that she will be able to taste the flavor of the food again.
“Can you eat anything?” I ask.
“Just soft stuff for a few days,” she crackles.
It is enough; I am encouraged and try to picture the plumpness returning to her arms and breasts.
Even though Donna is weary and speaks little we do not want this visit to end, so we stay until the nurse tells us to leave.
It is one of the only times I remember walking out of that hospital happy.
Christmas
Now that Donna is able to speak I am determined to make this the best Christmas ever. I spend almost a month on preparations and order a crown roast of pork so large it will barely fit in the oven. Knowing pork is Donna’s favorite I add sausage stuffing in the center and hope she will pile on double helpings.
We have much to celebrate this year. Not only is Donna able to speak but Anthony is now eight months old, an age when the lights and sounds of Christmas create a magical world of wonder. Anthony is the first grandchild in our family, and we have bought him more toys than he can possibly play with.
I tell Dick, “This year we need a tree that’s really special.”
He cringes at the thought of what means, and he is right in doing so. Our search takes us to a tree farm in Pennsylvania where we find the tree. It is too big to fit through the machine that secures the branches with plastic netting, so they wind it round and round with cord and then move it to the top of our car. Only then do I realize the true size of this tree; tied up, it is as wide as the car and almost twice as long.
This is the biggest tree we have ever had, almost fifteen feet high with wide reaching branches that sweep into the center of the room. Most of the rooms in our house are small, but the add-on family room is huge and has rafters crossing beneath a cathedral ceiling. This is where we set the tree. It is so tall the top branches spiral up between the rafters and scrape the slanted side of the ceiling.
“Perfect,” I say.
From beneath a sweaty brow Dick smiles.
After we’ve wound a dozen strands of little white lights through the branches, we start to add ornaments. This is the most enjoyable part of tree trimming. There are hundreds of ornaments, some of which date back to my childhood. Like a pack rat I have carried them with me from place to place year after year. There is a story attached to almost every ornament.
“Debi made this when she was in kindergarten,” I say, holding up a Styrofoam ball covered with a tattered piece of lace and dotted with sparkles. I tuck it into a high branch near the back.
Dick only half listens; he has heard these stories many times before. This doesn’t stop me. I continue to tell the story of each ornament as I unwrap them one by one. After we have found an appropriate place for each one, even those that are old and dented and scarred, Dick climbs down from the ladder and we step back to admire this work of art.
“Beautiful,” he says.
I respond with a sigh and say, “It’s the best tree we’ve ever had.”