Grabbing the aide bar in the passenger seat of the Ford
Explorer, she heaved herself in with the help of her daughter. Her hair was
done up nicely in a refined, quiet up-do, her shirt an off-brand of “Simply
Southern.” We pulled the seat back, giving her more room to breathe. I
had been waiting a month for a notification from my intern coordinator as to
whether or not I would be shadowing a midwife during my summer in the mountains.
Cell reception was not granted, and though I attempted to gain it, it was
pretty useless to try. I gave up. Instead of driving the three hours to the
city not knowing whether or not I would be shadowing, I decided to do something
entirely different.
The
Ford was on good terms with the mountains. It hugged the roads and weathered
the climbs, and as we pulled away from the trailer and down a steep decline,
she gripped the bar while I hoped I wasn’t in trouble. Part of me didn’t even
care. I was supposed to be helping people. Shadowing? I didn’t see that helping
anyone anytime soon. Instead I drove, listened to the drawl of stories, and
sometimes shouting, actively assisting the sound waves across the hearing aids.
We were on a quest for a
second series of shots for osteoarthritis therapy. The knees were inflamed
again and “Mamma,” as we called her, was in too much pain to skip any
appointments. The more I sat, watched, and listened to her humor, the more
adamant I became about providing care for her. Yes, I was merely
transportation, but when mountain people go through the stress and trauma of
finally setting up and having all insurances ‘go through’ to cover their
procedure, only to be met with a transportation problem, it is devastating. The
stigma against people in the ‘mountain dew belt’ may be somewhat true, but
people are still in pain from various ailments. Mamma sure was. But she never
complained. Her spunky spirit was like a fog to my ship attempting to discern
what lay ahead.
“Christy?” Finally
having service I called my coordinator to explain my absence at the midwifery
clinic. Passively - but audibly upset - she told me she’d have to ‘sort
everything out’ and tell the clinic I wasn’t bothering to come in. Hiding my
emotions, I cringed inside. But the cringing wouldn’t go away. I brought Mamma
and her daughter somewhere we could eat. I sat quietly. Half of me
convincing myself I had been terrible in not following my coordinator’s wishes
to the letter and half of me stubborn, believing I did something that was
meaningful. Mamma looked over her sandwich at me.
“You’re
a sight.” She looked at me, then shifted her gaze to the
pretty lilies at our table. “She’s a lovely thing...isn’t she, Angel?” He daughter
just smiled, wistfully. I complemented Mamma on her shirt, mostly because I
wanted to shift the conversation, but also because there was a bejeweled Eiffel tower gracing it. After bringing her home, she gave me a small, framed print of the tower. Her recollection was
perfection.
After
the appointment I was still a bit shaken, and though Mamma and her spunk had
been quiet, she was happy. We drove home in the twilight on the Hal Rogers
Parkway listening to sounds quite forgotten by today’s culture: A sound of raw
spirit and vulnerability, sounds of quiet and stillness; communication without
words. Commune itself. Mamma never thanked me, and I’m almost glad she didn’t.
