NETTY

My mom was sick for a long time. I was her primary caretaker, so I experienced a lot of strange, depressing shit fit for a mid 1980's horror movie. One thing that always lived up to this billing was my mom's roommates.

BOOMER:

A lot of my mom's roommates were mute for various reasons. The ones that could talk were fairly entertaining. One of her first roommates was this chain smoking lady. I don't remember her name, but I call her Boomer. She earned this because she would chain smoke right in her hospital bed. She required oxygen. One day a nurse walked in and took note of Boomer's bed. The curtains were all drawn for max privacy. The only thing you could see was the thin plumes of cigarette smoke wafting towards the ceiling. She asked my mom's roomie, "Do you know what'll happen if any sparks hit your oxygen tank?" Her reply? She took a long drag of her square, spread her arms, and said, "Boom!" And that's how she earned that nickname.

LIFE CHECK:

A lot of technology these days involves making devices smaller. You can hold the world in the palm of your hand. I mean, you have access to Wikipedia and PornHub at the same time (It's a tired joke, but remains a sober reality). This has extended itself to medicine, as well. If you have a blockage in your heart, a common procedure is to use a balloon to smash the plaque to the sides of your arteries and install a stent to keep them open. That stent is coated in blood thinners. You're good to go after that. Just don't fucking cut yourself. Because blood thinners.

But, some machines are still too big to be handheld. It could be that the nursing home never had the resources to buy a newer model. Perhaps there are other, newer machines that combine functions. Or, maybe, just maybe, the machine is something that should have been outlawed by the CDC.

I went to visit my mom with a friend. She had been into a new room. When we walked in, my mom was in the bed closest to the door. Her new roommate was by the window. I don't remember her name. She looked like she was a few hours into rigor mortis. There was no color to her skin. She was sort of spooning the tubes emanating from this giant fucking machine that straight up looked like a central air conditioning unit. Like, the big thing that sits outside of the house. Me and my friend walked over to her first. Did they shovel my mom into a room with someone waiting to be picked up by a funeral home?! Then it happened. There was a click from the machine. It sounded like an engine with a few rusty turbines spun to life. The tubes filled with air. So did the person in her bed. Her eyes came open. Real. Fucking. Wide. Her chest was clearly inflating with air. Her arms spread a little bit. There was the faintest smile forming on her face. She looked like a nursing home version of one of those air dancers that you see in front of car dealerships and gas stations.

There were no words spoken between any of us. My mom was not fully lucid at this point, me and my friend were too stunned to say anything, and the lady had life forcing air tubes down her throat. After 35-40 seconds or so of this, the machine clicked off. The lady's smile faded. Her arms shrank back down to her sides. Her chest deflated. Her eyes slowly closed. It was like closing time for sky dancer. My friend was the first person in the room who was able to speak. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I guess that was a life check." And that's how that roommate earned her nickname.

NETTY:

My mom had caught lung cancer from smoking for 54 years. She had also needed one of those heart stents I mentioned. That stent kept her alive and also doomed her. She had a constant supply of blood thinners coursing through her veins. That's not the best condition to cut a person open and remove a bunch of tumors. So, one night around 1:15 AM, while I was playing online poker with make believe chips and researching whether or not I should upgrade to Windows Vista, I got the call. The nursing home was on the other end telling me that it didn't look like my mom would last the night. My mom was cancer ridden, dementia stricken, and literally out of it. Still. She fought it. She lasted almost 5 days. And that's how I met her most memorable roommate: Netty.

I'd seen Netty a few times before my mom's extinction event. She was odd in a sad way. Netty actually had a phone installed. This was not a common perk among residents. There were a lot of people with dementia who would otherwise call any and everybody. There were people without dementia who would have called any and everybody begging to get away from the people with dementia. Netty would moan about people not calling her. Then the phone would ring. She would stare it for a couple rings. Look away from it for a couple rings. Crouch down in her bed to get away from it for a couple of rings. Then she would pull the covers over her head and hide from it for a couple rings. When it would stop ringing, Netty would pick up the phone, sheepishly say, "Hello," and then hang up. Sullen, but satisfied.

When I got to the nursing home that night, I nervously went to my mom's room. I didn't know she was going to stick it out for 5 days. I was scared she would be dead when I got there. She was alive. When I walked in, nurses greeted me. They were really nice. Way more than ever before and my mom had been there for roughly 6 months. I looked at her. My mom's heart started to fail. You start to swell up really bad when that happens. My mom retained so much water that thin, longitudinal, bloodless paper cuts were forming on her arms and legs. Fluid was leaking out of her. She looked dead, but I knew she was still breathing because she had the death rattle. When you retain that much water, your lungs are continually congested. You sound like you're clearing your throat with every breath. Every so often it would sound like Life Check's machine coming to life.

This was some really fucked up shit. I'll just state that so anyone thinking it doesn't feel bad. The other thing I noticed immediately was Netty. She was in 4th-phone-ring-position: clutching at her covers. She was looking at my mom. She looked at me and said, "I'm afraid of death!" Then she ducked under the covers. I started crying. I told her something about how I know you're scared, I am too, you'll be fine.

I did feel bad for Netty. Four days in, Netty fell into a deep sleep. It was so deep that her new nurse-in-training thought she was dead. She'd pulled the covers up over her head. I do that. It makes me feel safe. She was probably looking for safety in that place. It was creepy and my mom was a constant reminder of mortality for her. when that newbie nurse came in, she violated all confidentiality and starting telling other staff that this was THE patient. The one who came in for rehab and had her hip shattered in a fall incident during the said rehab. It was like everyone knew she was there because the staff had fucked up. Why didn't her family move her out of there? Scary, sad question. She stayed under that cover hiding from it all. The nurse wanted to pronounce her dead. I could see her chest moving up and down, which is generally considered a positive, concrete sign of life. The nursing staff eventually figured it out, too. 

By the end of that night, I was drained. People told me I was strong. I looked strong. I was strong. I was also a nervous wreck. At one point my mom's pulse slowed to 35 beats per minute. It was skipping beats. It was changing speeds. I thought this was it. I didn't know if my mom could hear me, but if she could, I wanted to let her know I kept my promise to be there when she died. Yup. That was our family dynamic.

Luke: Mom. I love you. You were a great mom. I'll miss you, but you can let go now. It's ok. I love you. You can let go, mom. You'll be fine.

Netty: Hell! We all go to hell!

Luke: No...No. Mom, you're fine. You're ok. You were a good person. You're not going to hell.

Netty: I was good, too. Look where I am. Hell!

Luke: Mom. I love you. I love you mom. You're not going to hell.

Netty: You're going to hell, too. Just you wait!

At this point I at looked at my mom incredulously. She couldn't see me. I was still like, look! You smoked for 54 years. Look what you got us into here! Then, I tore into Netty.

Luke: Netty! Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I'll take that pillow, Netty. I'll just take that pillow and...

From here on, I don't remember exactly what I said. I know I threatened to kill Netty. It was likely by taking the pillow, dropping it on her face, and just walking away. I may have taunted her by asking her if she had the guts to save herself and pick it up off of her face.

When you threaten to kill someone, it has an effect on you. Some people think it's the best idea in the world. A calm comes over them. I just felt horrible. I was breaking down mentally and emotionally. I checked my mom's pulse again. It had gone up to around 50 beats per minute. A lot of things could have lead to this. I didn't care. I remember thinking, "I thought she was finally going to die." That in itself is enough, but coming off of just threatening someone, I totally lost everything I had. How could I say that about my mom? About anyone? I went into the room's little bathroom. I cried so hard, I was dry heaving and punching the wall. I felt like a horrible, worthless, villain. The kind no-one cheers for in movies. The kind that everyone wants to see suffer before they get their comeuppance. I was suffering pretty bad. I must've looked it, too. When I came back out of that bathroom, Netty just looked at me. Then she looked away. She didn't hide. She was afraid. But we kind of coexisted. It was a three bed room. That night, I just couldn't get into any kind of sleeping position in the chairs. You can only trick your body into that for so long. I slept in that middle bed. There were curtains. I knew it probably scared Netty. I felt bad, but didn't care.

My mom died the next morning. I was awake and by her side. It was at 8:17 AM. The death certificate says 8:20 AM. It took 3 minutes for me to catch the attention of a nurse. I didn't want to leave my mom. Before I left I kind of waved at Netty. I told her she would be safe. That scared her. I felt bad, but was like, fuck it.

The next day when I came to collect my mom's stuff, I saw Netty. She was staring at the empty bed where my mom was. It was another blatant reminder of mortality. I kind of sheepishly waved at her and said goodbye. She didn't seem as scared, but she still was.

I've told this story before as a 5 minute stand-up set. I try to make it funnier just explaining the crazy facts. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's horrifying. It just it was it is.