When Charles Bukowski is Your Mom

And it never really ends.  

My mom kept calling and texting from the hospital, telling me she wanted to go home.  The hospital kept calling, saying the same things I had heard in November.  We think she needs physical therapy rehab.  Wait, no she doesn't.  We'll send home health care.  Fine, I kept saying, fine.  I already knew how all of this goes.  I started looking up alcohol rehabs, private ones this time, expensive ones, since my mom had balked at going to the free, state-run one in December.  My mom was really harassing me to pick her up.

"Mom, I have COVID."  I told her.  Don't think it's a great idea to pick you up.  
She didn't even blink and kept demanding I pick her up.  She sent me "Betsy's" number, saying she had discharge orders, demanding I call her.   Betsy said she had no discharge orders.  I was laying on the couch, trying to keep the dogs apart, feeling pretty COVID-y.  A couple of days into my COVID extravaganza, the hospital people decided to discharge her.  I told them I had COVID and they just told me to mask up and come and get her.   

"I'm coming to get you, mom, but the only place I am taking you is to rehab."  I texted.

"Do you have your hearing aids?"  

"No."  she answered.

The hearing aids my sister and I went through hell and back to get for her in December.  The ones she doesn't bother using.  My mom texted over and over that night, telling me to turn off the light in her hospital room, telling me to help her out of bed.  

"You are in a hospital, mom.  Make them do it."  I responded.  

"When are we going to rehab?"  she asked over and over.  She even sent a message to her brother in the night, asking him when she was going to rehab.  She was addressing my brother, who wasn't even on the text.  

"Tomorrow, when you are discharged."  I told her.  

"You better call your brokerage account and get some money moved around.  It's 18k for the month and I don't have it."

"That's expensive!"  she replied.

"Yes it is, but the state-run was too ghetto for you.  Or, we can go to the 24k a month one, you pick."

She said she called about he money.

I double masked and went to CVS to buy toiletries for my mom.  Then, I went to her house and packed a bag of clothes for rehab.  The rehab intake people knew we were coming.  After, I drove to Emory.  Like most hospitals, the pickup area was like the Indianapolis 500 with wheelchairs thrown in the mix.  Someone rolled my mom out, she looked like a zombie.  She was wearing a hospital gown.  She got in the back seat and wouldn't put on her seatbelt until the valet did it for her.  I handed her a mask.  

"That's right," she said in a mocking tone.

"You have COVID."

Then, she rolled up the window in the car.  I rolled it back down and drove toward her house.  She had to put clothes on and get those hearing aids before I could take her to rehab.  When we arrived at her house, she said she could not stand up to get out of our car.  I waited.  She had to be able to do basic life things to go to rehab, stand up, use her walker, put clothes on.  In December, the at-home physical therapist said she didn't even need physical therapy, that the more she moved around, the stronger she would get.  And, the longer she stayed off of booze.  She had to start now.  If they saw her like this, they wouldn't take her.  We were in the driveway for at least fifteen minutes.

"How did you get out of your bed at the hospital?"  

"People HELPED me."  she said, her tone nasty.  

Yeah, because I never help you with anything, do I mom?   Never.  

I grabbed her arm and got her to stand up and use the walker.  I heard a shitting noise and realized my mom probably just took a shit on the seat of Alec's car.  She went inside and I waited outside, mainly because I was still worried about giving her COVID.   After waiting for a while, I finally looked in.  She was sitting on a chair in her living room, looking at her phone.

"Are we going to rehab or not?"  I asked her, even though I knew the answer.  

"Just put me to bed."  she responded.  

I was furious.  I was having fever spikes and started sweating.  She stood up and started rolling toward her bedroom.  I could see her whole ass hanging out from the hospital gown and blood on the sleeves of the sweatshirt she wore underneath.  A fucking turd hung from the side of the gown.  I turned around and left.

As I walked across her front porch, I heard a thud from inside.  I stood out there and called the rehab.

"I'm sorry."  I said.

"She's refusing to come."

"This is where she really needs to be, with us."  the counselor responded.

"I know."  I said, starting to cry.

"I can't make her go." 

I almost left, but that thudding noise I heard worried me.  I walked back inside.  She was laying on the floor of her bedroom.

"I fell."  she said.

"I hit my head."  

She was curled up on a nest of blankets.

I handed her her phone.

"Call 911."  I said and left.   

I went home.  I sat there for a while, trying to get my head together.  Finally, I texted her.
"Call 911 or I will."

"I got hold of Patty and she lifted me up."  she responded.

"WHO THE FUCK IS PATTY???"  I answered.  

"WHEN ARE YOU READY TO GO TO REHAB?"

The next morning, on my birthday, she answered.

"Today.  Help me get out of bed."

Yeah mom.  I'm still sick and it's my birthday, but today is the day, right?

She put some more unintelligible things in the text and then told me the fire department was on the way.  

"Are you back at the hospital?"  I asked.

It turned out that they gave her an assisted lift and also, left.  

"Today was my birthday."  I texted.

"If you can get out of bed tomorrow and get dressed, I will call the rehab for another intake appointment."  

"Okay."  she responded.

"I only have the clothes on my back."

"Thanks for wishing me a happy birthday, mom.  And for asking how I'm feeling.  And for asking about how my foot is healing.  And for asking about your dog."

And for packing your bag for you.  Buying you toiletries.  Arranging everything.  Play hobo all you want.  You've had more than any of us have ever had, clothes on your back bullshit.  

"P"  she responded.

I have no fucking idea what that means.