a nut, my aunt

my aunt. my aunt is dying and it sucks. she shouldn't be dying at 58 years old. she shouldn't have a brain tumor. she shouldn't be causing my mother to turn into a tense mass of crazy trying to keep her alive. my mother shouldn't be talking about "aggressive chemo drugs" when they're really giving her preservatives. keeping her alive, like a pickle. stopping her in time so she can have a little more. a drug that most single payer health care plans refuse to pay for. "it's just more time" is what they say.

i don't know how to really explain this to my mother.

i'm always the one who has to explain medical information. i'm always the one to "know." they call me when things are wrong with their dogs, with their other animals, with their sisters, with my aunt. i've talked to many nurses while my family has been in the hospital. they don't understand that animals are just like people. we use the same drugs. we do the same blood work. we have the same muscles. the same bones. the same blood. the same hearts.

it amazed me that an rn doesn't know that i use propofol on my patients just the same as they use it on theirs. they are amazed that i know what they're talking about. "what do you do?" they ask, "are you a nurse?" the thing about human medicine is that i feel like those in the profession can get to a point where they assume everyone is dumb. everyone is uninformed. everyone needs to be talked to like they don't know what's going on. i go the opposite way and assume everyone knows. i have to remind myself that some people don't know.

my mother is one of those people, so i see their point. my mother will call me when my dog, who's staying with them, gets a 3mm scrape in her armpit and describe it as such that i bring home medications. unnecessary medication. "what would you do if this cut were on one of your children?" i'll query. "well, um, i..." she'll respond. "that's right, nothing. why do i get caught up in your cries of wolf, mother? every. time." i'm mean to my mother, apparently.

first of all, let me say, my mother is the most unselfish human being on the face of the planet. she goes too far. she is a mother. she is a teacher. she is a storyteller. she is a nurturer. she is a victim. i love her more than anything. i used to have nightmares that she died. i used to have dreams that my father died. i used to go check to see if my mother was, indeed, still breathing. i would whisper, "mom?" and she would sit bolt upright in bed. alive.

when she asks, "what does this mean? what does this word mean? what should i do if i gave her a double dose?" like i'm supposed to know? like i'm the one who should have to make decisions? like i'm the one who you should call when something goes wrong? that's why i sometimes dread your calls, listen to messages instead of talk to your voice.

every day i'm off i come and "sit" with my aunt. she asks me, "what's new? how long have i had this thing? brain tumors suck. is this molly or sam?" in regards to my life, the tumor and her two black dogs, one alive and one long gone. we watch NCIS with her boyfriend, mark harmon. i say, "your boyfriend's coming on. guess who it is?" she sits, silent in happy anticipation and there he is, on the screen, navying it up all over the place. "he's so... mmmm. wow," she'll says dreamily. it cracks me up.

sometimes i don't want to know my aunt's a pickle.