Ben Taub County Hospital, Saturday, 2 a.m.

Ben Taub County Hospital, Saturday, 2 a.m.

The flourescent lights are blinding. I am alone in this never ending hallway of stark white walls and beige tile. Approaching the huge double doors that separatethe barren hall from the horrible world of hurt where my mother and others exist, I lift one foot and somehow it steps and I move forward. My body leans against the cool, dark, black steel. It holds my shoulder, I drop my head, close my eyes, press harder still into its comfort, until the door finally gives and swings open against my weight.

A barrage of white overhead lights and yelling, bustling people crashes into my senses. Worried families in cheap sweats gather in too few chairs, most with dark skin. Nurses scurry across the way with arms outstretched, directing, pulling IV’s, pushing gurnies, barking orders. Nearing them, I am consumed by and become them. I know that as I search for my mother I will see someone else’s mother before I find mine, someone else’s daughter, someone else’s sister, someone else’s ex –wife, friend, co-worker.

I am walking through the maze of halls, beds, moans, searching. I peer through a set of curtains as discreetly as I can. A tiny, black man with white hair tries to lift his withered face from his bed. Guiltily, I snap my head away from him.

Is she in the next set of curtains? I don’t look into the ones where someone is calling loudly for the nurse, where a woman is crying outside of them, where there is a scream. I can’t. And then I see her. Wait, is that her? Yes. I see the round curve of her hip. I see her roll onto her back. I slowly push back the curtain. She doesn’t see me.

I step further inside. I see her cracked and purple lip caked with blood against her yellow, leathery face. I observe her distended middle, her legs so small in comparison. I see her bloodied knuckles, split and thick, dirty fingernails. Hair that is dry, unwashed, tangled, graying.

This is my mother. My mother whose once slender hands used to play “Moonlight Sonata” on our upright piano. My mother who had gorgeous reddish, brown hair, a slender waistline even after two kids, smooth, freckled, fair skin. My mother who sang at weddings, was the church secretary, and taught preschoolers to finger paint with pudding.