HOW TO SURVIVE A PARENT’S UNEXPECTED HOSPITALIZATION

Take two small bags and comfortable shoes.
Talk to Perry, who’s been here for three weeks ---
He knows things: what floors have the best
vending, which rooms the longest couches.
You’ll get better with practice, though each day
will be a new question you didn’t know to ask.

Don’t worry about the jargon. Listen to the nurses
give report at shift change every twelve hours
for a couple of weeks, and words you could not
spell or pronounce with confidence before
such as myclonic, subarachnoid, intubate, extubate,
and tracheostomy will roll off your tongue.

You may find you stop wearing a watch or earrings.
Perhaps you drive until the gas light comes on.
Keep an empty gas can in the car. If your cat
leaves a turd on the rug in the bedroom floor,
it is only a reminder to clean the litter box.
Ask her for patience given the situation.

Eventually, even the kind gestures will become
a burden: one more thank you card to write,
an hour to pretend you care about anything
other than the mountains and valleys of vitals
scrolling across the screen. Still, you need these
ministrations more than you realize. Receive them.

You will want to blame someone. Try and resist
this urge. And yet acknowledge that your anger
nearly possesses you, comes close to turning you
into a rabid animal, and that your cries, when
they emerge, are the cries of the wounded,
sounds you didn’t know your throat could make.

Valerie Gilreath lives in north Georgia with her wife and four cats. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Chaffin Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Rio Grande Review, Main Street Rag, Crosswinds, and Arnazella, among others. She has a MFA from Georgia State University. She and her wife run a bookmobile program in their community.