A Triggering Town

 My friends and I, all proudly anti-woke, love to make fun of the term "triggering." Whenever someone says something the other doesn't like, the faux plea is "Stop triggering me!"

If there is a place in South Florida that DOES trigger me, though, it's Delray Beach, particularly the western part of it. And yesterday I went up to Delray Hospital to be with close friends dealing with a very sick Mom.

I took the Turnpike, and exited Atlantic Avenue. As I drove East, I looked for the Publix in what used to be called the Oriole Shopping Plaza. Sure enough, there it was. The barber shop down one of the perpendicular sides of the Plaza was where my Dad died, in my arms, in July of 1982. Strike One.

I made my way down Jog Road to Delray Hospital, and three incidents there came flowing back from memory. The first was probably 1989 -- my Mom was with her friend Rose, and had some type of attack -- she forgot to take down her pants on the toilet, and couldn't recall how to use a spoon to eat yogurt. Rose called 911. They got me late in the office, and I drove up -- to find my Mom completely confused -- she thought FDR was president. I thought that was it -- she was just 70 or so, and I was convinced that was the end.

After a few days there, no one had any clues about her condition, so I signed her out against medical advice and took her back to Miami, and a visit to a neurologist my firm worked with, Alan Wagshul. Wifey took Mom to the visit -- I was at work -- and Alan said it was just a TIA, or transient ischemic attack. He was a Brooklyn boy, and told Mom she was just vermished, Yiddish for confused. And she in fact recovered completely -- but Delray Hospital was a bad experience.

Fast forward to 2009. D1 and her friend Lindsey drove from UF in a surprise visit. D1 lost control of her Volvo and smashed into the concrete barrier in the median. I got a call from D1's cell, and it wasn't her -- it was a panicked Lindsey -- she had already called 911. Lindsey was fine, and I did a quick triage about D1 -- she was able to move all toes and fingers, wasn't bleeding, and hadn't passed out. 

I calmly left the office -- later Mirta was shocked at how sanguine I appeared -- I tend to do well in crises. By then, our dear friend Eric was a senior doc at the hospital, and I called him and he met us in the ED. D1 had a broken hand, and the ortho who saw her said she'd need surgery when the swelling subsided. She was about to be discharged, and they called her back -- she also had a cracked vertebrae.

Turned out she did NOT need surgery, our hand surgeon friend Lew casted her and said she'd be fine with PT -- Wifey accompanied her back to UF and moved in with D1 and her roomies, the Laurens, on account that both were Lauren. Comical episodes ensued, as one of the Laurens was OCD, and Wifey kept undoing her OCD things, like opening or closing blinds. Thankfully D1 recovered -- but again -- a negative Delray memory.

The final one was in May of 2012 -- Mom was taken there after another fall. Eric said she was starving to death. I flew to UF, and drove back with D2 -- with a plan to drive Mom to Miami Jewish, her final home. We loaded her into the front seat, and D2 got in the back, working on her lap top. As we got on I-95, Mom slumped over. I was sure she was dead. Great -- I had now visited misery upon my daughter like I had -- a 3 county car ride with a corpse. There was nothing to do but push on -- I figured when we got to Little Haiti, the staff would deal with the aborted admission.

Around Hollywood she woke up. Ah -- gracias to the Big Man! D2 was none the wiser, and in fact we got her grandma settled in to Miami Jewish, where she lived her final 11 months.

Anyway, I steeled myself and spent several hours with my people -- sure enough -- Mom was to be transferred and WAS transferred today to a Boca rehab hospital, and then either home or to their nursing home. 

After the tensosity filled day, we went to an Italian place on Jog, and I came to a realization. Eric and Barry and I have been there for each other for the loss of just about all of our parents. Barry's Mom and Dana's Dad are the only survivors among the three couples' prior generation.

We toasted them, and realized how lucky we were to have the love and support of each other as the parents decline and pass away. The circle of life.

If I don't have to go to Delray any more, I won't be very sad. Too many ghosts there for me.