(Reading Part 1 isn’t required to understand this post, but it’ll help. Here’s the link: https://awonderlandofwords.com/maydays-part-i/)

Part 2, Triangles

“We have some news,” the doctor said after pulling the white privacy curtain around my mum’s quarter of the room. “There is a small, benign tumor pressing on your spinal column. It is the reason for your immobility and the reason for the infection. The tumor is slow-growing but we don’t know how slow. It’s possible that the irreversible paralysis will stop at your legs and just as possible it will creep into your arms and beyond.”

The analog time and day clock on the wall of my mum’s hospital room was 12 hours behind and said it was yesterday until noon. I couldn’t have imagined a more appropriate analogy for the perplexity of time and space in a hospital.

It was my third morning in England after my first night staying alone in my mum’s flat in Histon. Somehow the impact of hospital visits had outmaneuvered my jetlag or dispersed it randomly anyway and I woke up feeling rested. I showered, got dressed out of my suitcase on the floor, and walked the block and a half to the bus stop. I would have an hour-long, 2-bus ride to become the calm and empathic person I wanted to show up for my mum. I had not spoken with her since the day before and had no idea what to expect after a night of thinking about being paralyzed for the rest of her life. 

When she was first rushed to the ICU and I decided to fly from Portland to the UK, I set an intention to be open for whatever happened. I walked through our neighborhood at home and then PDX airport with my arms low and extended, palms open, almost asking for a hug from strangers. And it felt terrifying to be so physically vulnerable – even though it was my choice to be that. Hands open, palms revealed. I will stay available for this experience. I will not hide from it.

I sat on the bus to Addenbrooke’s Hospital and stared at my hands, clenched into tight little fists. I thought, I am not afraid of hospitals, I am afraid of my mum. Afraid that she will be scared, and I won’t know how to help. Afraid that she will be furious with life, and I will say the wrong thing. Afraid that she will act indifferently, and we’ll have to pretend that this isn’t a big deal.

All my personalities wanted to get involved– the overachiever, the tantrumming child, the most reliable person in the world, the comedienne, the organizer, the mess– everyone wanted to star in this drama. Everyone but the chef.

I brushed my jeans with my palms, pulled my light wool jacket in to hug my t-shirt, and got off the bus. It’s about a 7-minute walk from the bus stop to my mum’s ward on the 6^th floor. I took the stairs to get my heart pumping and some of my steps in, but that left me gasping for air when I opened the door and was hit with that smell. Dear lord, there’s really nothing like it. I feel like we could save a lot of lives if we just canned that odor and threatened to diffuse it over our enemies. Conflict resolved, no bullets necessary.

I had arrived right in the middle of breakfast too, so the bouquet of hospital eggs blended with the ripe fog of eldercare and the sharp sting of disinfectant. This is an odiferous combination platter I would experience 3 times a day.

No, Alison, put a smile on your face. Happy, optimistic personality starts… now!

I pumped my arms to shake myself back to life and rounded the corner into my mum’s room.

“There she is!!!” she exclaimed, eyes bright and cheery.

“Phew” I said silently. “Good morning!” I gave her the awkward hospital hug—the only hug you can give over the bed bars and rolly table. “Nice to see you so happy today!” I could have danced I was so relieved.

“Well, it’s been a great morning! I’ve had a lovely breakfast,” she pointed proudly to her empty plate as I tried not to gag. “And a quick visit from a doctor who said a team of doctors would be coming to discuss my condition and treatment.”

This was big news compared to yesterday’s doctor dropping the “irreversible paralysis” bomb and not much more. The word “treatment” sounded promising.

So began “doctor time”, the erratic and arbitrary time portal where patients wait for important news or actions.  It seemed to be somewhere between 20 minutes and 4,000 years. I looked at the clock and it was still yesterday.

You unknowingly board an adrenaline rollercoaster when you enter a hospital. Something big is going to happen, but you have no control over when. My energy spiked with every human wearing a stethoscope that happened to walk by my mum’s room and then I’d crash almost unconscious for hours. I searched for control within this wasteland of empty moments and finally found departure was my only option.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Love you, mum.”

She smiled sleepily and said she loved me too.

That night I went to the Co-op to commit to this reality. Milk, cornflakes, mushrooms broccolini, asparagus, lettuce, garlic, lemons. I felt disinterested in cooking a big meaty meal and reached for the green veggies with the swagger of a lifetime vegan—as if I were someone who could handle a rough day by eating healthily. But of course, that didn’t last long.

As I mentioned in Part 1, I often enlist my good friend, sugar, as an aid in processing trauma so I tossed some dark chocolate McVities biscuits into my basket.

They were my favorite as a child when my mum and I visited England, and she would always bring me a sleeve when she went home for the holidays. Just inside my mum’s flat I ripped the package open with my teeth, slid a cookie into my mouth, and waited. Alas, my reliable sugar salve was healing nothing. This was odd. Another! Still nothing. I felt lonely for the quick fix, isolated from my desire. The Alison that used to eat her way through stress was suddenly meh to all things comestible.

The next day we eagerly waited for the team of doctors. I sat next to the large window, stripey notebook in hand, thrilled to have something to focus on as my mum dictated her needs. She would have to sell her flat and move into the permanent eldercare facility where she had been parked for the week between when her legs stopped working and the infection spread. At her request, I had taken pictures of all her things in the flat and we went through designating, “move, gift, goodwill, trash”. 

And then it was lunchtime.

“My compliments to the chef!” My mum brought her fingers together and kissed them open as the middle-aged, white-haired, smiling attendant slid the tray onto her bed table.
He locked eyes with mine with a facial expression that said, “Oh boy, your mum must be really sick to like this slop” and I shrugged and rolled my eyes a bit.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said perkily to my mum. “I’ve never heard that before. Most patients are pretty angry about the food. I’ve had more than one person throw the plate right back at me. One hit my head!”

“Oh my god, you poor thing!” I replied, laughing with him. He shrugged with a grin that proved to me he was the right man for his job. He didn’t let the patient’s moods affect his day and I was grateful to stand in the breadth of his compassion.

“Yum, yum, yum!” my mum continued scooping the creamy chicken casserole into her mouth, enthusiastic beyond belief.

While I was dumbfounded by this turn of events, I don’t know what I would have done if she’d hated the food, which I suspect she would have been just as eager to convey to the staff. This was a blessing, odd though it may be.

When I was a little girl in New York, I would sometimes take an Amtrack to DC to see my mum. I always found train travel to be extremely boring, except for the triangle ham and cheese sandwiches from the bar car. The bread was so sugary white that it could easily be used to make dental impressions. I would press my bite halfway down, take the sandwich out of my mouth to inspect my teeth imprints like a dentist, then reload the sandwich and press my jaws together for the smooth compression of white teeth into white food. Easy to chew, easy to swallow, easy to play with, distractions abounding.

The Marks and Spencer’s cafeteria on the main floor of Addenbrooke’s Hospital has a wall of triangle sandwiches in all flavors and I instinctively reached for the ham and cheese. I sat in the little hospital dining area feeling my less white teeth press through that white bread with the satisfaction of a correct memory. Though the epicurean thrill was nonexistent, these triangles became a lifeline as my interest in food continued to wane.

I never stayed too long in the cafeteria for fear of missing the “team of doctors”. That Wednesday they were a no-show. Same with Thursday. On Friday I sat with my mum until 3:30 when I realized I was weak with hunger. I scampered down for a triangle and when I returned a gorgeous Indian doctor stood proudly in front of his team and was halfway through his talk.

“Oh wait, my daughter’s finally here! Will you start from the beginning please?” my mum asked breathlessly.

The doctor didn’t shift his weight or change his tone at all.

“No ma’am, I cannot.”

Which I actually thought was a joke. But he didn’t stop. He continued on with his confidence and his well-tailored shirt as his manicured fingernails and if he’d been an American I might have thought he was a pompous ass, but he was absolutely charming.

“Ma’am,” he held my mum’s gaze and I could see she was as taken with him as all of the women people in the room were. “I am confident that we can perform surgery to remove your tumor and that you will regain the ability to walk. This is not guaranteed and of course, any surgery is a risk, but the chance of you never walking again without the surgery is 100%.”

The group of doctors behind him, some in lab coats, others in nice dresses nodded and smiled.

“Wait”, my mum said with cautious optimism. “You mean there’s a chance I’ll be ok?”

“Put it this way; don’t sell your flat!” the nurse next to my mum declared with a big toothy smile—which was hilarious because that was exactly what we had been prepping to do all week.

We yipped and hooted as much as you’re allowed to in a hospital in the UK, which is decidedly less than we would have in America.

But then we reentered, “doctor time”, waiting for the surgery theatre and surgeons to have a slot.

I know that time passed, and I know that I couldn’t account for any of it. It slogged and sprang and oozed onward. My interest in food was only for survival.

“I ate broccoli and cornflakes for dinner tonight,” I confessed to my husband on the phone while in my jammies at my mum’s dining room table. I was looking for atonement.

“Well, that doesn’t sound good. It’s been a tough week.” I think Francis was nervous as to how to respond to this dinner menu. I almost defended myself as an adult who could eat whatever she damn well wanted for dinner. He was right though, it had been a tough week. Just because you can eat broccoli and cornflakes for dinner doesn’t mean you should. FYI they were not in the same bowl.

One week after the team of doctors had given her hope, my mum was wheeled into surgery. It would be 4 to 5 hours until she was out, so I took a long zombie walk through Cambridge. A small Italian store/ café unexpectedly caught my eye. The dark wooden shelves took my breath away with cans of imported San Marzano tomatoes, long-aged vinegars, boxes of chocolate truffles, and little jars of olives and briny capers. They were baking ciabatta for lunch sandwiches and the smell of freshly baked bread, rosemary, and garlic pumped out from the kitchen. It wasn’t a gourmet, bougie place. It was a little, real food/real people spot, and it shook something awake that I had forgotten. I met the chef again, the woman who wants to put the world in her mouth and then recreate those tastes for all. I met myself and I really liked me.

I turned around to see a little cart that held their housemade ice cream.

A young, darkly-tanned woman with straight hair pulled back into a long hanging pony strolled out from behind the counter. I chuckled at how she took this Shangri-La for granted.

“Can I get you some ice cream, luv?” I felt so heard, so deeply understood by this non-zombie on this unfamiliar non-hospital planet.

“I’d like a cone with one scoop of chocolate ice cream and one scoop of raspberry sorbet. Raspberry on top, please.”

She smiled deeply. “I was just going to ask which you wanted on top.”

I grinned for knowing that.

“Here you go, dear.”

I strolled through the village, weeping quietly as I let every droplet flood my tongue with flavor.

I suddenly noticed every morsel of food – in the shops and carts and restaurants, in people’s hands and mouths. It was everywhere. The lights had come back on.

I returned to the hospital to find my mum in the recovery room, stoned out of her mind… and wiggling her toes!!! The surgery had been successful. The tumor was gone, and she would walk again.

The next morning, after the attendant placed her lunch in front of her, I saw a distinct frown on her face and heard a little whisper of “yuck”. After nervously scooping the food into her mouth, she actually dry heaved it back out. I’ve never been so proud. Balance had been restored.

My mum is still in the hospital but walked for 40 minutes today. She hopes to be released next week when she will return to her flat. Back home to start the rest of her life.

I stayed in England for two days after her surgery and then left to meet Francis in Scotland…

When I eventually returned home, berry season was in full force and I knew exactly what I had to do. This sorbet is the simplest thing around and possibly the most rewarding. A lot of people start their sorbets with a simple syrup but I think that makes it too watery. This has almost no water so the impact of fresh berries in season is undeniable.

Black/Raspberry Sorbet

Makes about a quart of sorbet

Ingredients

• 2 6-ounce packs of raspberries
• 2 6-ounce packs of blackberries
• ½ cup of sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice
• ¼ cup water
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1. Place the fruit in a mesh strainer to rinse it clean. Place the damp berries, sugar, lemon juice, water, and vanilla extract into a blender and puree until smooth, about 45 seconds to a minute.
2. Strain the liquid into a bowl to remove the seeds, which will be very noticeable if you don’t.
3. Chill for an hour and then blend with an ice cream maker for about 30 minutes.

If you don’t have an ice cream maker, you can put the bowl into the freezer and remove it after 20 minutes to stir. Do this again every 20 minutes for an hour. That movement takes the crystallization down. Then let it sit in the freezer for another hour or two.

Here is a link of me making the berry sorbet on KATU’s show Afternoon Live:

And just in case you’d like some chocolate sorbet too:

Chocolate Sorbet

Ingredients

• 1 cup sugar
• 3/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa
• pinch of salt
• 1 teaspoon espresso
• 2 1/4 cup water
• 4 ounces semisweet chocolate
• 1 tablespoon vanilla

1. Heat the sugar, cocoa, salt, espresso, and water and whisk until combined.
2. Turn the heat down to medium-low and add the chocolate. Stir until melted.
3. Turn the heat off and add vanilla.
4. Let cool in the fridge for an hour and then churn in an ice cream maker for about 30 minutes. Freeze for 2 hours.

If you don’t have an ice cream maker, you can put the bowl into the freezer and remove it after 20 minutes to stir. Do this again every 20 minutes for an hour. That movement takes the crystallization down. Then let it sit in the freezer for another hour or two.