Life and Other Inconveniences(123)

I stopped at an orchard on the way home and picked up some apples that made my car smell like heaven. Riley came into the kitchen as I peeled and sliced, telling me about her AP Gov class and how she’d been assigned to present the arguments for a Supreme Court case decided in 2011. “It’s pretty interesting,” she said. “This guy was shot, and he told the cops who shot him, but then he died, and originally, the case got thrown out—”

A crash came from upstairs. “Gigi?” I called.

There was no answer.

Riley and I both ran upstairs.

My grandmother was lying on the hallway floor, her mouth opening and closing. Donelle knelt at her side, and the five dogs were barking.

“You better call Dr. Pinco,” Donelle said tightly. “It’s okay, Gen. We’re all here.”

“Gigi?” Riley said, her voice sounding young and scared.

“Sweetheart, go get my phone,” I told my daughter. “Take the dogs and put them out back.” She did, and I knelt beside my grandmother. Her mouth was drooping on one side, and she was flapping one hand. The other lay still. “I’ve got you, Gigi,” I said. “Let’s get you to your room. Good thing I’m strong, right?”

She was lighter than I expected, but still, it wasn’t easy, carrying her down the hall. Donelle flipped back the covers, and I set Gigi down awkwardly, but not dropping her. Riley ran in, her face white, blue eyes too wide, and thrust the phone at me.

“She’s having a stroke,” I told her. “Looks like this is bigger than the others.” My voice was calm, but my heart thudded sickly against my ribs.

Dr. Pinco and I had talked about this—what to do, what could be done, whether or not to go to the hospital. Gigi was adamantly against going anywhere and had all her wishes written up by her lawyer—do not resuscitate, no heroic measures, pain control only. At the end of August, she’d made me her medical decision maker.

But now that the moment was possibly here, the little girl in me wanted to beg her not to die.

I called the good doctor, and he said he’d be on his way and to make her comfortable in the meantime.

There was a hard lump in my throat. “We’re here, Gigi. Dr. Pinco’s on his way. Can you smile for me?”

She tried, but the left side of her face didn’t move.

“How about talking? Can you say ‘Nice to see you’?” I was talking too fast, my voice too chipper.

“Nahsh ee oo,” she said.

Shit. “Good! That’s great. Okay, just take it easy, Gigi. We’ll take care of you.”

There were tears in her eyes.

“Shouldn’t we call 911?” Riley asked.

“No,” Gigi said. “No. No.” That, at least, was crystal clear.

“She said no hospital,” Donelle reminded me.

Riley was crying. I stood up and walked her over to the window. “Call Pop.”

“Is Gigi dying?”

I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know. Maybe. It might be her time.”

Riley’s face scrunched up, and I kissed her forehead. “Call Pop,” I said again.

“Hello! It’s Jeff Pinco,” came a voice from downstairs.

“Up here!” Donelle called. “Hurry, Doc.”

He came in the room, doctor’s bag in hand. With him was a nurse—Sophia, the same one who’d shaved my head. She nodded at me in recognition. “Let’s see how you’re doing, Mrs. London,” he said. “Out of the room, everyone.”

We left, a cluster of worry and teary eyes. Riley called my grandfather, and we all went into the upstairs sitting room, which looked out over the water, to wait.

The view was almost too beautiful for what was happening.

A few minutes later, my grandfather appeared, squeezed my shoulder, kissed Donelle on the cheek and sat next to Riley, tucking her against him.

We waited. And waited. No one said much. Charles came up from the garage and sat with us, crying surreptitiously. Riley texted someone.

After an eternity, Dr. Pinco came in. “It’s a stroke,” he confirmed. “The nurse is with her now, making her more comfortable.”

“Is it ischemic or hemorrhagic?” Donelle asked, and we all looked at her in surprise. “I read the Internet,” she added, scowling.

“Ischemic,” he said. He glanced at Riley. “There’s a blockage in a blood vessel in Mrs. London’s brain,” he explained. “It’s cutting off blood flow, and that’s why she’s having trouble walking and talking. I gave her a shot that should clear it up, but she won’t go to the hospital for a CAT scan, which is what I’d prefer.” He looked at me. “You’re her medical decision maker. At this point, she’s impaired, so the call is yours.”

My throat was tight, and my nerves buzzed in fear. I knew she was old, and I knew her wishes, and I didn’t want the responsibility.

“Get her to the hospital, Mom,” Riley said. “She could get better.”

I cleared my throat. “No. She stays here.” My eyes filled. “That’s what she wants. If this is going to clear up, her odds are better if she’s home. And if it doesn’t . . . she deserves to die here.”

Riley put her head against Pop’s shoulder and started to cry softly.