A mother's cure for loneliness
Two generations of hospital stays and the power of being there during illness
Last weekend I was lucky enough to have my mother travel to me for Mother’s Day, during which I spent our time together kindly poking and prodding her for something post-worthy. Below is the result. She is in many ways the origins of Good Marrow— so happy belated Mother’s Day to everyone reading!
Some time around 1970, a ten-year-old girl named Lynda Andorfer came down with a bad cough. Despite its growing severity, it did not dissuade her from continuing to jump on her bed with her sister, Michelle, who shared a room with her. As in all youthful endeavors, sickness was an afterthought.
But after some persistence, her mother (my grandmother) finally took Lynda to the doctor, who promptly diagnosed her with pneumonia— and sent her directly to the hospital for treatment. Upon arriving at St. Mary’s Hospital in Racine, Wisconsin, Lynda’s prickling worries were momentarily assuaged when she saw two beds in her room— just like her bedroom back home with her sister.
But hopes of having fellow company were quickly whisked away when an oxygen tent was placed over her and she was told she would be in solitary quarantine. There would be no jumping on the bed, alone or with a friend. The hours stretched into eternity as she tried to pass the time, unable to leave her room, with her only human contact being the nurses in their pressed white dresses and small white hats who occasionally checked on her.
Loneliness became her most trying symptom. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, she felt abandoned by the world. Her worried mother had her sick sister (who managed to slip away with only bronchitis) and a newly born brother to look after, so any limited visitation was left up to her dad (my grandfather). He came by after work, suit on and books in hand, bringing anything to help the poor young girl pass the time as he shrugged his shoulders and apologized— doctor’s orders, she couldn’t come home yet.
At the time, antibiotics were administered via intramuscular injection every four hours (maybe we can fact check this, but my mom was adamant). This left poor Lynda with a rather painful behind and after a couple days of torture, her parents delivered a soft, round cushion for her to sit on to ease her suffering.
As her coughing fits subsided, each day she passionately volleyed her father with requests to leave, and when the answer was still “not yet”, he finally relented and got her a rented television for the room (a luxury add-on to the hospital stay). Her lonely room-for-one was then at least filled with whatever broadcasts she could snatch from the local airwaves.
One day, young Lynda awoke in a perfectly made bed and was shocked to find a nun kneeling by her side, praying over her. Momentarily fearing that she had somehow taken a dramatic turn for the worse— the nun simply asked if she would like to take communion from the priest who was rounding that day. All was well, it was just a devoutly Catholic hospital doing its Sunday diligence. Still, she figured she’d better.
After an un-rememberable number of days, Lynda was allowed to return home. School was in and she returned to class expecting some acknowledgement of her disappearance. But barring one friend, the memory remained that barely anyone asked her where she had been or what had happened— her strange, mildly traumatic detour to a hospital room was left strangely unquestioned.
But soon life returned to normal. Her sister welcomed her back to their shared bedroom and Lynda was no longer alone. She was finally cured of that most silent of afflictions that a hospital can conjure up— a bout of loneliness.
In 2018, Lynda (now) San, now fifty-nine years old, would find herself once again staying overnight in a hospital. She now had three sons, each of which had brought her to the hospital for short stays to bring them into this world, but now she would notch a much longer long stay after her middle child underwent his second stem-cell transplant for a persistent leukemia diagnosis.
It would mean that he would not be alone in the hospital— and neither would she. Joined by her husband (a Chinese guy from Hong Kong, probably another real twist of fate for ten-year old Lynda from Racine), they would sleep in a room next door to him. Their son’s status as a frequent-flyer at the cancer center paid off in the strange dividend of knowing enough people to get them the coveted VIP room for family members that was directly attached to a patient’s room.
Separated by only a door, Lynda could peer in on her son at any time of day. While not the homiest of homes, it did have its own bathroom, shower, sitting area, and low-wattage microwave. But best of all, was the location.
Her and her husband had become well acquainted to the rhythms of a hospital and in previous bouts, had rushed from their temporary home in order to catch the doctor rounding each morning, hellbent on hearing every single update as they played a game of chicken with each physician’s variable rounding schedules.
Like her son, on this second go-around with cancer, Lynda would go to sleep and wake up in a hospital, having no direct path to sunlight without first passing through halogen lit hallways, a buzz of scrub-wearing nurses, sleep-deprived residents of the ward, an elevator ride, and finally, a front yard view of asphalt, concrete, and some mountains off in the distance.
Forty-nine years removed from being the young girl who had been overcome with loneliness during her own hospital stay, she was doing her motherly duties to perhaps make sure that her own child didn’t feel the same.
She wore masks and plastic gowns and plastic gloves and learned all sorts of things about cellular counts and words much longer and more nefarious than “pneumonia”, all in an attempt to try and stay one step ahead of sickness. She crocheted hats for his bald head and invited him over to play cards when he was feeling up for it and braved Los Angeles traffic to drive to and from his apartment to cook meals for him.
Together, her and her husband spent hundreds of hours moving between that single door, from his hospital room to the hospital room that was their home, sitting in different chairs separated by a wall, passing the long hours staring at the same ceiling as their son until he got better.
And in typical fashion, I don’t think I ever heard her complain once.
We meet our mothers in a hospital. And I think there is a certain dread to anyone seeing their own mother in a hospital. It is a place that imbues images of beginning and end, harboring complicated feelings and so many things left unsaid, much like many people and their relationship with their mother.
I also know that oftentimes with cancer the roles are reversed and a child must look on as illness takes from the top down, the circle of life never fully preparing us for when our parents get sick, or simetimes worse— just a little bit older.
But in drawing out the parallels between my mom’s sickness and mine, I was struck by some of the similarities (though my hospital TV came with the room). Illness is a lonely affliction, and whether mother, spouse, friend, or acquaintence— having someone to share the silence with can do wonders for your health.
Sensory Activation: Things I Was Into This Week
The Coronomatic 2200
My mom gave me a gift as well this weekend, and it came in the form of a $10 bargain buy from one of her many garage sale finds. This is the Smith-Corona Coronamatic 2200 electric typewriter and it sounds glorious.
While I can’t say I’ll be hammering out any Substack posts on it anytime soon, there is a certain tactile weight to the writing of the words that just feels good. I don’t know, maybe hit me up in the inbox if you want a handwritten letter or something— will give me a good excuse to pull it out (of it’s massive, heavy carrying case).
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed what you read, please Like, Comment, or Share— it helps boost visibility of the newsletter and is a nice acknowledgement from the void. But most of all, I would love to hear from whoever is reading.
I am so glad you were together for mother's day. This was my first away from my only child, 21 yr old son who has moved out of the state-- and even though the day itself doesn't really matter (I was at work, anyway) when there have been many many days together, as loved ones, we always hope for another.
A fitting Mother’s Day tribute to your Supermom…surely you have seen her cape hanging in her closet! May the Lord continue to bless her; a gifted woman.