Christmas

"She don't need to go to no hospitals," the woman said, "I know what they do in there."

"Umm," I said, "Ma'am, could I just get some information about your mother, an ID card or something?"

"Oh," she said, "you're going to arrest me? You're going to call the cops on me, is that what you're going to do. I see..."

"No," said the Angry Black Man. "We're not going to call the cops. My partner just needs to write down some information."

"I have a frying pan and I'm willing to use it!" the woman was growing increasingly defensive. "No one is going to take my other to one of those hospitals. She's ninety-five years old, she's got no medical problems, she takes no medications...."

The apartment was musty and cluttered with out of fashion candles and other antiques, but like the woman, it felt somehow proud. Grainy pictures of family members long gone lined the walls. In one corner sat an African statuette. On the couch lied a bright yellow headscarf--the kind middle aged black women wear in America to show off their African pride. Opposite the couch hung a wide mirror, buttressed by fake plastic evergreen boughs and christmas lights. Practically invisible in the darkness, the old's woman's best friend sat in a dark chair next to the window.

In the background, ABM and the old woman's daughter were talking. I greeted the old woman's best friend.

"How ya doing today, ma'am?" I asked.

"Just fine," she returned, nodding.

As she silently smacked her lips, watching me, I turned to a picture on the wall. It was the grainiest of all the photos. Five girls and an older man stood outside an old house. They were probably sharecroppers somewhere in the south.

"Is that your parents?" I asked.

"No. No." she said, pointing to the old woman. "That's her on the left, wearing the little hat."

"Well no sh..."I said, catching myself. "Well I'll be...that's an old picture."

"Yes it is," she said. "That's in Georgia."

ABM was still talking to the old woman's daughter. The old woman had choked on a piece of angel food cake, but was fine by the time we got there. I mean, as fine as you can be at ninety-five. She was gaunt and frail looking, as though a wind might knock her over or a fall might break her in half. She didn't say much, but then again, she didn't have much of a chance with her daughter being so insistent and agressive. I let the ABM deal with it because I saw that she saw my presence as an unwelcome threat. I might throw her in jail or call on the cops to beat her, but ABM, well, he was alright.

"She just needs to go to her doctor and get some herbs," the woman's daughter explained. "She needs a vitamin drip, that's all. I don't want her in no hospitals. I know what they do in there. All the chemicals, and the corporations, it's run by the corporations. They'll just take her in there and never let her come back."

I darted my eyes at the ABM. He was listening and nodding attentively. Sweat was dripping from his brow.

"Okay ma'am," he said, "I just need to have you talk to my doctor. He's the one who makes the decision if she can stay or not. It's out of our hands because of how old she is."

"I understand," she said, "you have to cover your behind because there's always someone who wants to sue you. But I'm not like that. I don't believe in that."

"Okay," ABM nodded, "great....Yeah, hi doc, this is 13 Zebra calling in to secure an RMA..."

As ABM explained the situation to the doctor, I did something that no one had done so far: I spoke to the old woman. "How you doing there, ma'am?" I asked. "Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Okay," I said, "just checkin'."

After a few minutes, the telemetry doctor approved the Refusal of Medical Assistance (RMA) for the old woman. As we packed up our bags and walked out the door, I said goodbye. "Merry Christmas, and take care now..."

"Okay," the old woman's daughter said, quickly locking the door.

In the elevator, I turned to the ABM. "Dude," I said. "I'm so glad you were here for that."

"Yo B," he said, smiling, "I thought she was gonna take you out with a frying pan. All that vitamin drips and herbs and shit, what the fuck? She's fucked in the head, B."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm just glad she didn't try to kill me."

Comments

[ar]

On the couch lay.

Fantastic blog, by the way. Keep it up.

[Tyson]

Thanks.