It had rained off and on every day since Marino had left for the hospital, and the little trickle of river under the bridge on the road to Gabi had swelled wider and higher. The
rain was particularly heavy that day as I watched the road anxiously for our
green Kadett. In the late afternoon I saw it splash over the little bridge and
begin the slow climb up the hill. The boys and I saw it slip on the
straight-away, slide near the vineyard, then disappear at the hairpin curve. It seemed
an age later that I saw a pale green flash as it cleared the trees below the
house. I let out my breath in relief and glanced down at the children's worried
faces. They had been watching me. A moment later we heard the car round the
corner and pull into the courtyard.
I peered down the stairs and was surprised to see
Marino walk in the front door. He was drawn and gray and had obviously lost a
lot of weight. George and Rina helped him along the hallway and into his
bedroom, then George came upstairs and explained to me all that had happened.
Still suffering from the last stages of the flu himself, he fell into bed,
exhausted, while below us I could hear my father-in-law coughing.
When I put the children to bed for the night,
George was still sleeping, so I went downstairs to check on my in-laws. Looking distraught and distracted, Rina
was walking around and around the kitchen, while through the open bedroom door I could see Marino sitting on the side of
the bed, struggling to get enough breath to cough. He looked terrible. I glanced back at Rina as she pointed at bottles
of medicine littering the kitchen table and said, “I don’t know which one is which.
They told me everything so quickly I couldn’t understand it all. What am I
going to do?”
It was odd. All of the moments she had nit-picked and
nagged and frowned in silent disapproval, seemed to fade. Suddenly she was a sick and
confused woman, not my dreaded mother-in-law. When I looked at her worried
face, I saw she was vulnerable, that she needed my help. Since my own mother
had died young, I had never known the role-reversal that was then taking place.
It was my turn to guide and advise.
I picked up the nearest bottle and looked at the
label. There was writing on the front, just like the ones I was used to, but it
was in Italian. I asked her to translate. It said to take every four hours for
cough. We picked up the next bottle and she translated the label again. Then I
noticed a sheet of paper with the doctor’s instructions. As she slowly translated
those, I helped her determine which pill was which, and when they, and the
shots, should be given. It required that she get up several times during the
night, so I showed her how to set the alarm clock to do that. Really, she
needed more help. She needed someone to take over for her. I
felt badly that I couldn't do that, but I'd already spent three wakeful nights
with the torn ligaments in my back followed by long days caring for the children. I knew I wouldn't have the stamina to haul myself out of
bed every couple of hours. I also knew that George was out for the night. He too was wiped out, and even
when in top physical condition, he could sleep soundly through babies
screaming next to his pillow. I had watched him do it many times. Besides that,
neither of us had experience with injecting medication. Since Rina had been
trained by the nurse, she was now the family “expert.” She would have to take
care of Marino, no matter the outcome.
Before I left, I went into the bedroom to see Marino.
He, too, looked vulnerable. Gone was the powerful authority figure who had forced
my husband to work clearing the land for twelve hours each day of the summer.
The face that could register kindness as quickly as anger now showed only pain
as with every cough his shoulders trembled and he leaned forward to struggle
for breath. He glanced at me briefly, and I saw a face drained of all color,
except for the almost-black circles under his eyes. When Rina brought him a
pill, I watched her help him steady the cup of water to his lips. He looked
even worse than when the doctor had ordered him to the hospital. I was sure
that he was going to die that night.
I said good night and hurried upstairs.
Deep inside I was terrified at the thought of witnessing his death as I had my
mother’s. So much for my yearning for the natural life. When it came time to
face up to the ultimate act of nature—death—I turned away.
I was awake most of the night with the pain in my
back, the sounds of pounding rain outside, and constant coughing inside.
Physically and emotionally I was completely drained.
But it would get worse.
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