The Pain You Hide

Part 2: Day 20

My cell phone is going off. Groggy and still half asleep, I sit up and glance at the time. It's ten o'clock at night.

"Hello? Ms. River?" A woman? She sounds familiar.

"Speaking," I mumble.

"This is Mary, your mother's nurse."

Oh, right. A jolt of dread shocks me awake.

"Please don't tell me you're calling to quit," I say.

"If I'm honest, I am thinking about it." I bang my head against the headboard. "But I don't plan on leaving just yet."

"What did she do this time?"

"Well, she's fine now. She just went to bed a little while ago, but earlier today she seemed a little tense. Whenever I offered to help her with anything, she'd snap at me."

"What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything really. She just growled and swatted at me. Nearly scratched my face when I was trying to give her her meds. I know she has a personality disorder, but I've never seen anyone act like she did."

"She growled?"

"Like some sort of wild animal. When I left her alone for awhile, she was her old self, but she didn't seem to remember anything she did."

"That sounds about right." A small pebble of frustration settles in my stomach. I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry she acted that way, but she was just recently put on this medicine. It might need some more time to get into her system before she gets better."

"Which is why I'm not quitting yet," she says. I try to ignore the 'yet'. "However, if she doesn't get any better with this medicine, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to leave."

"I understand," I mutter, rubbing my forehead. "Thank you for taking care of her today."

I sigh as I hang up. A couple of weeks ago, the psychiatrist diagnosed my mother with split personality disorder. Nothing was physically wrong with her brain--the MRI came back fine--but during a visit with Dr. Jane, my mother wasn't herself; she was finally starting to see what the nurses were. It took a couple more visits before she discovered what my mother was suffering from. I think my mother took it better than I did. To her, it sounded like an interesting thing to go through; another adventure she could tell anyone who would listen. For me, it sounded like trouble. It was bad enough to deal with just my mother, but now she had other personalities? It was both hard to believe and made sense.

The medicine was supposed to help. I pray it does. The sooner she gets better, the sooner I won't have to worry about hiring a new nurse every week. I try to go back to sleep, but I can't. My mind won't stop running. What if she never gets better? What if I never find a nurse that can handle her? The last thing I wanted was to put her in a nursing home, but it was starting to look like my only other option. I can't sleep like this. Before I can think better of it, I call Kim.

"Margret?" he says. He doesn't sound like he was sleeping. Thank goodness.

"Hey. Do you have to time to talk?"

"Sure," he says. "What's up?"

"Well." I don't know where to start; I don't even know how much I should tell him.

"Let me guess," he says when I've been silent for too long. "It's your mother, right?"

"Yeah," I mumble.

"Talk to me. Tell me what's on your mind."

I smile despite myself.

"So--"

I don't tell him about my mother's diagnosis, but I tell him everything else. The episodes she has with her nurses. My worry that she'll never get better. I even tell him how lost I am about what to do. For a moment, I feel like I'm back in college, working the internship that reunited us. In high school, he was everyone's friend. In college, he was my support. Even though we had different schedules and we went to different colleges, he was always there for me when I was stressed out. I could talk for hours and he would listen. Just like now.

"Feel a little better?" he says after I finish speaking.

"A little."

"Good. Will you listen to what I have to say?"

"That depends," I say, "are you gonna tell me I'm a bad daughter?"

"Put yourself in your mother's shoes."

"So you are saying I'm a bad daughter."

"No, Margret." He sighs. "Listen to me. She lost her job. The one thing--besides you--that made her happy. Of course she's depressed, but she's probably also lonely."

"The nurses are there and I make sure to call."

"That's not enough," he says. I can picture him shaking his head. "Try spending more time with her. Maybe it'll help."

"Hmm," I mumble. I don't want to talk any more. I feel like if I do, I won't be able to keep my mother's diagnosis to myself.

"I'm serious, Margret. Now, get some sleep. I know you probably spent most of the day working."

He knows me too well.

"Thanks, Kim."

"Anytime."

I flop back onto my pillow and stare at the ceiling. Maybe my mother is lonely. Guilt coils inside my chest when I remember all the times I refused to listen to her stories. It's not my fault; I'm too old for her stories. I'm not one of the kids from the library she use to read to. As soon as I have that thought, I remember how I looked forward to her stories every night as a kid. I sigh. Maybe I should listen to her more. I glance at the time. It's almost twelve. Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow, I'll make time to see her.