The Things We Cannot Say(8)

“She certainly seems to recognize Eddie,” I say softly.

Mom sighs impatiently and runs her hand through the stiff tufts of her no-nonsense gray hair. I settle onto the chair beside the bed and reach into my bag for my phone. There’s another message from Wade on the screen.

Ally, I really am sorry. Please write back and let me know you’re okay.
I know I’m not being fair, but I’m still so disappointed that he wouldn’t help me today. I scowl and think about turning the phone off, but at the last second, I relent and reply.

Having a very bad day, but I am okay.
It’s a long while later that we’re approached by a middle-aged woman in a lab coat, who motions toward us to join her at the nurses’ desk. Eddie is holding the dreidel up again in front of his face and doesn’t react to me at all as I turn from the bed, so I leave him be.

“I’m Doctor Chang, Hanna’s physician. I wanted to update you on her condition.”

Babcia is stable today, but given the location of the stroke, her doctors think there’s damage to the language centers in her brain. She can certainly hear, but she’s not reactive to requests or instructions and further testing needs to be done. Behind us, I hear Eddie’s iPad as the robotic voice of the AAC app announces, Dreidel.

I’m not paying much attention to Eddie, only enough that I’m vaguely surprised he managed to figure out what his new treasure is called. His visual language app lists thousands of images he can use to identify concepts he might need to communicate, but dreidel is hardly going to be in the “most commonly used” section of the menu. I enjoy a moment or two of Mommy-pride in among the panic of the seemingly endless bad news from Doctor Chang. Could be permanent, more testing required, scans, this situation is not entirely unheard of, unfortunately high chance of further events. End of life plans?

I like dreidel, Eddie’s iPad says. Your turn.

I wince and turn back to glance at the bed, where Eddie has turned the iPad toward my grandmother. He’s sitting up now, his back against the bedrail. I don’t know what I expect to see, but I’m surprised when Babcia lifts her hand slowly and hits the screen.

I...like...

I interrupt the doctor by grabbing her forearm, and she startles and steps away from me.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “Just...look.”

The doctor and Mom turn just in time to see Babcia hit the next button. Mom draws in a sharp breath.

...dreidel...too. Babcia hits each button slowly and with obvious difficulty, but eventually, she expresses herself just fine.

Babcia hurt? Eddie asks now.

Babcia scared, Babcia types.

Eddie scared, Eddie types.

Eddie...is...okay, Babcia slowly pecks out. Babcia...is...okay.

Eddie nods, and sinks back onto the bed to rest his head in Babcia’s shoulder again.

“Is he autistic?” the doctor asks.

“He’s on the autism spectrum, yes,” I correct her. The terminology doesn’t matter, not really, but it matters to me because my son is more than a label. To say he is autistic is not accurate—autism is not who he is, it is a part of who he is. This is semantics to someone who doesn’t live with the disorder every day and the doctor looks at me blankly, as if she can’t even hear the distinction. I feel heat on my cheeks. “He’s nonverbal. He uses the Augmentative and Alternative Communication app to speak. Babcia is already used to communicating that way, although she’s normally much faster—”

“That’s the problem with her hand,” Mom interrupts me, and she’s glaring at the doctor again. “I told you, she’s having trouble moving her right side.”

“I remember, and we’re looking into it,” the doctor says, then she pauses a moment and admits, “We don’t tend to use technology with elderly patients in this situation—most of them don’t have a clue where to start. So as difficult as this is, at least she has the advantage of her familiarity with the concept. I’ll talk to a speech pathologist. This is good.”

“This isn’t good,” Mom says impatiently. “Good isn’t my mother having to speak through a damned iPad app, it’s frustrating enough that we have to use the rotten thing for Eddie. How long will this last for? How are you going to fix it?”

“Julita, in these—”

“It’s Judge Slaski-Davis.” My mother corrects her, and I sigh a little as I turn back toward the bed. Babcia catches my eye and nods toward the iPad, so I quietly leave the doctor to deal with my nightmare of a mother. Babcia hits the your turn button, and I take the iPad from her hands.

Are you hurt? I ask her. She takes the iPad and flicks through the screens until she can find the right images. Then slowly and carefully, she speaks.

Babcia okay. Want help.

She hands me the iPad immediately, obviously keen to see my reply, but I have no idea what to say to her or even how to ask her for more information about what she needs. I look from the iPad screen then back to her face and her blue eyes quickly shift from pleading to impatient. She motions for me to pass her the iPad again and so I do, and then she scrolls through screens and screens. She finds the magnifying glass icon and hits it, and the iPad says find, but then she goes back to scrolling. Her gaze narrows. Her lips tighten. Beads of sweat break out on her lined forehead, and more time passes as a flush gradually rises in her cheeks. She hits the find button again and again, and then she growls and pushes the iPad toward me.