Going Down Slow
All the Time in the World
Rob drives with assurance, navigating the San Antonio streets with help from the GPS on his dash. He punches up the hospice number on his cell phone, and arranges our tour. Anna sits up front with him and I’m in back with Mom.
I realize this is the first time, as adults, we are all together in the car without Dad. “It’s strange being in a car just the four of us.” Then I wish I hadn’t said it because no one replies. We’re all silent for the rest of the thirty minute trip.
When we arrive at the parking lot, I can see a long, single-story structure built of old brick. The barracks feel of the building is softened by deep eaves shading large windows. In the center, at what looks to be the visitors’ entrance, the roof line lifts and angles in several directions.
We approach the building through grounds that are thick with live oaks reaching out to each other over the curving flagstone walkways. A clipped rye-grass lawn alternates with colorful spills of flowers. I picture Dad being pushed in a wheelchair on these stone paths, the scent of roses rising in the heat of the day. I approve.
Rob and I lean into heavy glass doors and hold them open. Mom clutches Annie’s forearm for support as they follow us through. We enter a cool, hushed, high-ceilinged room. Overhead, skylights send down shafts of sunlight sparkling with drifting motes. The room is roughly circular, with open corridors leading off from the hub. In the middle of this space is a smaller circle, a waist-high structure made of red cedar topped with a white marble counter. This is the nurse’s station. Vases placed at intervals along the counter are filled with fresh bouquets, permeating the room with a clean, sweet scent.
We stand in reconnaissance for just a few seconds before hearing the brush of leather soles on the carpet. A tall woman approaches us from the shadows of a corridor. She steps into a shaft of light and I catch my breath. A halo encircles her head—but no, it’s her hair, the color of corn silk, braided and coiled into a coronet gleaming in the sunlight. A powder-blue wool dress hangs in chaste folds over the curves of her frame. A thin silver belt clasps her waist. She smiles and her glance lingers on each of us in turn.
“Hello, Mrs. Friedrich? And these are your children?” The timbre of her voice is a plucked harp. Mom beams at her and we all murmur assents.
“I’m Celeste McGuire. Welcome to our hospice. I’ll show you around.” She pads slowly ahead, leading us into a wood-paneled corridor with recessed lighting and framed pictures on the walls. Doors open off the corridor on both sides, and she stops at the first one. She gestures in invitation, and we crowd through the doorway.
A hospital bed defines the room, standing high off the floor with railings discreetly lowered. The rest of the room, in masculine blues and browns, is furnished with a Shaker-style dresser and bedside table, a rocking chair, and an upholstered easy chair. Drapes are pulled open across a picture window, revealing a live oak tree and a blue cloudless sky.
“This is very typical of our rooms. Each décor is different, but all have a window and private bath.” She nods at a closed door in the corner of the room.
“Will he be looked after?” Mom’s question is oblique, but our guide seems to understand.
“If you and your family decide to bring your husband here, we will begin with bathing, barbering, and fresh clothes.”
“But what if he gets upset?” Mom asks.
“Agitated,” I put in. “He has nightmares sometimes.”
“For agitation we give Haldol.”
Anna quirks her mouth. She knows about drugs, and I decide to ask her later about this one.
“What about pain?” Rob asks, cracking his knuckles.
“We use morphine. Depending on the capability of the patient, it can be self-administered. And you can be with your husband,” she looks at Mom, “round the clock. We’ll bring in cots, and meals, too, if you wish. Please, look around.”
Mom smoothes the quilt on the bed. Is she imagining Dad lying there? Rob wanders back out into the hall. I open a few drawers as Anna pokes her head in the bathroom.
“Clean?” I tease, knowing her penchant for cleanliness—especially bathrooms.
“Yes.” She smirks. She’d seen me eye the corners for dust and scan the ceiling molding for cobwebs.
Our guide waits for us in the hallway. When we’re all assembled, she says, “The pictures on the walls here are very special. They were done by children in the district elementary school, especially for our hospice.”
I’m not impressed with the awkward stick figures, the predictable primary colors and themes of sunbeams and hearts. I wonder what they told the kids before handing them the crayons. For me, the drawings are the only false note so far.
Mom glances at the pictures. “Mmmm.”
I think, “Uh-oh. Mom’s gonna veto this place because of bad art.”
We single file after our guide, peeking into two of the other rooms. They are each decorated differently and each has a nice window view of the landscaped grounds. At the end of the corridor is a small sitting room with one wall almost entirely glass.
“Our patients can come to this room to read, listen to music, or socialize.”
I imagine Dad in this bright little room listening to his radio.
“Very nice,” Mom says as she lowers herself into a soft chair and the three of us arrange ourselves around her. I perch on one arm of the chair, Annie stands behind with her hands on the chair back, and Rob rocks on his heels at Mom’s other side.
Our guide regards the four of us. “Do you think you will bring your husband, your father, here?”
Like chicks in a nest, we turn our faces to Mom.
“Well.” She folds her hands on her lap. “I don’t know yet. I need time to think about it.”
“Of course. There’s no hurry. You have all the time in the world.”
I’m stricken by her words. “All the time in the world?” Not exactly. When will Mom face this?” But I say nothing. This is to be a family decision, and family includes Mom.
“I’ll leave you now, then. Feel free to look around the grounds. I’ll be at the nurses’ station if you have questions.”
Rob helps Mom out of the chair. “Seen enough?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. Annie and I nod. I have a good feeling about this place.
“Then we’ll pick up some Tex-Mex for you and Tess on the way back to the hospital. Everyone set to go?”
