“Yes, precisely.” He still has one more bomb to drop. “And if it is assessed that she is considered brain dead, which I am fully qualified to do, the living will must be evoked. Your mother’s living will states…”
We all know what it says. Please, don’t read it out loud. I can’t listen to it again.
He opens the file to a page that has a blue tag marking it and reads, “‘I direct my attending physician or primary care physician to withhold or withdraw life-sustaining medical care and treatment that is serving only to prolong the process of my dying if I should be in an incurable or irreversible mental or physical condition with no reasonable medical expectation of recovery.’ This includes the feeding tube, which would be removed. Without the feeding tube—”
“What if I don’t want to take it out? What if there is a chance that her brain can repair itself ?” I asked. I feel a panic attack coming on.
“If the second electroencephalogram comes back with the same results, as I am quite sure it will, the damage to your mother’s brain is irreparable. I’m sorry,” he says, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “The family and health-care community are required to honor an advance directive. If you do not agree with your mother’s choices, you are still supposed to honor them. If you wish to contest your mother’s advance directive, then it can become a battle in the court system.”
Auntie D. squeezes my hand more tightly and asks, “If you remove the feeding tube, how long will it be before…” She can’t finish her question.
The doctor straightens up in his seat and explains, “Once the feeding tube is removed, she will be taken to our Hospice Unit, where the specially trained team will care for her and will be there to take you through the process.”
He lowers his voice and says, “They took extremely good care of my father when he was dying last year.” He looks at Auntie D. “It can be anywhere between a week to ten days.”
“I want Dr. Karpen to get a copy of all my mother’s results so he can give his evaluation. Can you make sure that happens, please—before the feeding tube is taken out?” I ask. Tears are streaming down my face. Tommy hands me a tissue and wipes his own eyes.
“Certainly. I’ve already faxed his office all test results thus far and will fax the last one to him tomorrow. Miss Lockwood, nothing will happen without your being notified. Please don’t worry about that.”
He stands up and says, “If you’re not in the hospital tomorrow, I will call you with the results of the last test.” He heads for the door, then turns around and looks at me.
“This is the worst part of my job and one I never take lightly. I am truly sorry. The team has done all that is possible. I do hope you will honor your mother’s wishes.”
He walks out the door. Tommy, Auntie D. and I stand together hugging and crying for a long time.
Tommy is the first to break our group hug. He says, “She’s telling us, by her living will, what she wants us to do. She’s doing us an enormous favor. She is taking the hardest decision of our lives away from us. Don’t you see, she’s telling us, without a shadow of a doubt, what she wants? Daisy’s controlling the show—even now.”
I walk over to the couch and sit down. I am lightheaded again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see my Mom for a few minutes alone.”
“No problem. Let me get Fernando. I’ll take him away to tell him.”
“Get Ferny, meet me in the restaurant. I’ll be down in a few minutes, we can tell him together,” Donna says.
Tommy nods and heads out the door. Auntie D. sits next to me and plays with my hair, just like Mom always does when I need comforting.
I start crying and she says, “I know…I know… this is tragic, just tragic.”
I look up at her. She takes a tissue and wipes my eyes and nose, like I’m a child.
“I’m pregnant,” I tell her. Her mouth literally falls open. I’ve often heard the phrase, but never saw anyone actually do it.
“Oh my God. Lily—how long—how do you feel? HOLY SHIT!”
“I just took the test. You’re the only one who knows.”
“You haven’t told Jamie yet—I’m assuming the baby is Jamie’s, right?” she asks.
“Of course it is.”
She shakes her head. “Have you thought of what you’re gonna do?”
I feel old, tired, and drained—emotionally and physically. I say, “I think I have an idea, but this is the time I usually call Mom.”
“Well, honey, go to her room. She’s still here with us. Go speak to her.”
I spend the next hour alone with my mother. I give the private nurse a break and close the door so there are no distractions.
I kneel on the floor as close as I can get to Mom’s bed. I take her hand, kiss it, and hold it to my face. For a second I make believe that my mother is stroking my face, trying to comfort me. It feels good to have her hand touching me again. I wonder if, in years to come, I will forget what her touch feels like.
Keeping her hand on my cheek, I tell her everything—what the doctor told us about her condition, that I found the living will, and that I am pregnant. I tell her that I know about David and I understand how hard it was for her.
“Mom, please, I need your help, your clarity, to guide me. How can I possibly tell them to take away your feeding tube? How can I do it? How can I possibly have and raise this baby without you?” The real question is: how can I survive in a world that has no Daisy in it?
It is nighttime and I crawl into bed, looking forward to the escape from reality that sleep brings. Over the course of the day, I was bombarded with more emails and phone calls than I was able to return. So many people are concerned about my mother and want to be kept up to speed.
Since my mother’s accident, dark chocolate has become my drug of choice. Earlier tonight, I sat at the kitchen table, lined up three Lindt bars, and proceeded to return phone calls to my own friends and to those closest to my mother. Later I would write an email updating the rest.
Theresa is one of the people I call on a daily basis. She is still in New Mexico and has a couple more days of shooting before she can come to New York. She planned to fly in to visit with my mother before the accident happened, so she already has her ticket.
Who would’ve guessed she’d be spending her visit in a hospital room instead of power shopping at Prada, Versace, and Ferragamo on Fifth Avenue?
When I call her, Theresa picks up the phone on the second ring. She tells me that she is with Paul and the main cast members having dinner at a friend’s ranch. I imagine Jamie, sitting next to Natalie, smiling at her, looking into her eyes. . .
I hear Theresa excuse herself from the table. She tells me she’s walking into the next room for privacy. The last couple of times I’ve spoken to her, I’ve had to force myself not to ask her about Jamie. I don’t need to be playing and replaying scenes of him and Natalie over and over in my head, clogging up my brain.
I let her know what is happening with my mother, explaining that they will base their final determination on the results of the test tomorrow morning. I tell her about David, and how my mother found him after all these years of searching. She is stunned when I inform her that he was in the car with my mother, and had been thrown through the windshield.
“Fuck,” she says, and then there is silence on the phone.
“Hello, hello? You there, Theresa?” I ask.
She finally answers, her voice shaky. “I’m here. It’s just a lot to take in.” She takes a deep breath. “All right—what time will they be taking the tests in the morning?”
“I think sevenish. But Theresa, they don’t think it’s going to change anything.”
“Will you call me as soon as you know?” she asks, weakly.
“Will do.”
I hear her crying on the other end.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Well, darlin’…you know, Daisy’s like a sister to me. I love her dearly—and your news…well…I don’t think there’s any
thing you could tell me that would have surprised me more. Have you told Jamie what’s happening?”
“No. Things didn’t go well during our last visit.”
“What happened?”
I told her that I saw Nasty Natty’s text. “And then he had the nerve to tell me that his visit was cut short because they needed him on set.”
“They did need him on set, Lily. I don’t know about Natalie’s text, but they called him back early. I was pissed, but they said it was an emergency.”
I’m speechless.
“And, I wasn’t going to tell you, but the situation here has done a complete one eighty,” she whispers. I quickly pop half a chocolate bar in my mouth.
“Do you want me to tell you about it?” she asks. I swallow the chunk of chocolate and tell her I do. I open another candy bar, my emergency backup. “Well, let me put it this way. As my friend Dr. Phil says, ‘you can’t hit what you can’t catch.’” She sounds very pleased with herself.
“What the hell does that mean? Who’s hitting and who’s catching?” I ask.
“Okay, let’s try this: no dog can pee on a moving car,’” she says.
“Gross, Theresa. What are you talking about?”
She covers her mouth for added privacy. She whispers, “Okay. I’ll make it crystal clear for you—the bitch is sleeping her way up the ladder and has left your boy on the bottom rung!”
I take a big bite of the Lindt bar.
“You know the writer on the film, Terry Peterson?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “It seems he wrote a screenplay that is burning hot! All the studios want it. Warner Brothers was the highest bidder, and he agreed to go with them—with the caveat that he’d be named director and get final say on everything, including casting. It’s gonna have a big, big, big budget, and apparently Nasty Natty thinks she’d be perfect for the lead role, or so she’s been telling anyone who’ll listen. Long story short, she’s been all over Terry like white on rice. Literally! Poor Jamie doesn’t know what hit him. He either walks around moping or he looks like he’s going to punch someone out.”
I’ve run out of chocolate.
“Now, instead of there being this incredible chemistry between them—they can’t stand being in the same room together. Paul is madder than hell!” she says triumphantly.
So he was summoned back to the movie set. He was telling me the truth about that. I am taken aback. I think about him and Natalie. Truth be told, I feel a bit sorry for the poor schmuck. He’s been played, big time. My mother taught me years ago that unfortunately, in our business, many people have ulterior motives—you have to learn to develop a sixth sense and weed out the phonies and the users. Thank God I never had to learn that lesson firsthand.
Then it hit me. Jamie was using me to propel himself up the ladder. That’s why Mom was so angry during our last conversation. Jamie never would have gotten this film, or the last one, for that matter, without our connections.
I feel like such an idiot, and even shittier about the argument I had with Mom.
“You still there, Lil?” Theresa asks.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.
“Wow, fuck me again,” Theresa says. “I didn’t see that one coming.” She pauses. “Have you spoken to Jamie?”
“Not yet. There’s too much going on here, Theresa. I have to be in the right mindset before talking to him.”
“Well, darling, I know that he doesn’t deserve it, but he does have a say... he should know.”
My stomach does a major kamikaze dive. I tell Theresa I feel like I am going to puke; I hang up fast, run to the bathroom, and do exactly that. Which seems to be the way I am dealing with everything lately.
I force myself not to pick up the phone to call Jamie. I keep reminding myself that even though he did tell me the truth about getting called back to set, I did see the text that Natalie sent. He was indeed fooling around with her. I get into bed and feel myself drifting off to sleep as I think about my mother, Jamie, and the baby.
I wake up with a start at three o’clock in the morning. The room is so bright that for a moment, I think it is daytime. Then it goes dark again and there is a sound of booming thunder. I get out of bed and run to the window, from which I see a torrential downpour taking place. The wind is so strong that all the windows in the room are rattling. Outside, even the biggest trees are bending almost in half.
I see a lightning bolt come straight from the heavens and crash into the water. It’s an awesome sight, and, if I weren’t scared shitless, I could’ve admired Mother Nature’s splendor. Within a few seconds I hear another deep, loud roar of thunder. I try furiously to remember what Gramps told me about determining how many miles away a storm is. Something like, you have to count the seconds between the lightning and thunder and then divide by five.
I wait, and another bolt zigzags across the sky, this one even brighter and bigger than the last. I start to count: one, two—a bigger boom resounds, and I move away from the window. What is two seconds divided by five? I don’t know, but it is way too friggin close for comfort.
I remember a story Gramps told me. He and Grams were in bed during a bad storm when lightning came through the window, whizzing right between them and into the wall behind the headboard of the bed. For years there were three large black burn marks where the lighting struck. Gramps kept them there as a weird badge of courage.
Meanwhile, there is no way in hell I am going to get back into bed. I look around. Mom loves the large windows in this room. They take in the view of the Sound on one side and the gardens on the other. As a matter of fact, almost every room in the house has large windows that Mom says “bring the outside in.” But on this particular night, I desperately want the outside to stay where the hell it is.
I grab my blanket and pillow and duck under the four-poster bed to cheat death. The box spring is high enough off the ground that I can lie comfortably underneath.
Once under, I feel better. A lightning bolt would have to be pretty damn intuitive to find me.
I put the pillow over my head and try to get back to sleep. With every crash of thunder, I feel as if my heart is going thump right out of my chest. I WANT MY MOMMY!
I think of the last time I lay under a similar bed. It was January 17, 1994, at 4:30 a.m. We lived in our condo in Santa Monica. I was in my bed and Mom was on the other side of the large condo, in her bed. I awoke to the room being shaken and to a sound I can only describe as the same craaack craaack I imagine you hear when the dentist is yanking out a tooth.
I had never been in an earthquake before, but there was no doubt at that moment that I was experiencing a major one.
I soon realized that the craaaack craaack craack was the sound of the walls splitting open. Then all hell broke loose—my books were thrown from their bookcases and then the bookcases themselves went flying. Pictures crashed down from the walls, and even my television was catapulted clear across the room. I ducked under my desk and heard my mother shouting for me. “Lily, I’m coming, hang tight.”
I was crying by this time, but I managed to call out and tell her where I was hiding. Like a mother hen, she swooped under the desk and picked me up.
I almost forgot my fear when I saw her. Her hair was disheveled and she had suffered a cut above her right eye that was bleeding. (I found out later that the picture over her bed had crashed down on her and had cut not only her eye, but also two places on her head.)
She ran with me to her room and told me to get under her four-poster bed. She and I held onto each other while the room continued to gyrate with crashing sounds everywhere. When the quake stopped and the room was still again, we lay there, holding each other so tightly we almost couldn’t breathe. I heard a heartbeat and I couldn’t figure out if it was mine or hers. That’s when we smelled the strong sulphuric, rotten-egg odor of leaking gas
“We have to make a run for it, Lily. If the quake starts again, I don’t want to lie here while the roof comes crashing down.” We found out later
that this actually happened to some older buildings a few blocks away.
Mom had tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. It was really dark, but from what I could see of her face, she looked scared.
She continued, “I’ll try to find our shoes so we don’t cut ourselves on the broken glass. Stay here.”
The electricity was out, so she grabbed a pair of her sneakers. She gave me the pair of slippers that were near the bed. Even though they were too big for me, I put them on. We ran out of the condo, down the stairs, and out of the building.
Now I lie, in this farmhouse on the Sound, under a similar bed, wrapped in a blanket with a pillow over my face, crying and wishing I had my mother lying next to me—not only to save me from the lightning and thunder, but to guide me through the tornado that has viciously swept through my life, leaving me forever changed.
The phone rings early and I jump up out of a dead sleep to answer it. I forget that I had slept under the bed, so the first thing I do this lovely morning is bang my head on the wooden slats under the box spring.
“Shit, piss, and corruption,” I yell. It’s an abbreviated form of my mother’s favorite alternative for down-and-dirty cursing, which is: “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, shit, piss, and corruption.” I answer my cell-phone, which is on the bed stand. The Caller ID says University Hospital. My first instinct is to let it ring—to throw the phone as far away as possible and hide under the blanket.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Miss Lockwood, it’s Dr. Niptau. We have the results from your mother’s electroencephalogram, taken earlier this morning.” He pauses. Waiting for him to continue, I die a thousand deaths. “I’m sorry; there is no change at all. The tests are conclusive: there is no brain activity. We have confirmed the diagnosis of cerebral death.”
If there’s an award given for the doctor with the most ice water in his veins, Niptau would win it hands down.
“So now what happens?” I ask, even though I know full well what he is going to say.
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 20