Iris Underwood: Life’s reversals
In winter 1977, I awoke to the whimper of my third-born daughter in the bassinette beside my bed. Alarmed, I leapt to my feet and lifted her cold body into my arms. Shaken, I flipped the switch to my bedroom light and saw the ashen face of my three-month old.
“Call 911!” I snapped to my husband as he sat up in bed. He ran from our bedroom to the kitchen wall and placed the call. He then held our baby while I phoned a neighbor, explained our emergency, and requested her immediate help. My husband and I dressed. Our neighbor arrived just before the ambulance.
A series of setbacks unfolded as doctors and nurses practiced the oath they pledged to their profession. “I can’t get blood out of this kid,” a young doctor said. My husband looked at him. “Then someone else will!”
I sat for two weeks by her hospital bed, observed children survive and thrive, a little 2-year-old boy remained in a coma from a drowning accident. Oh, the agony of losses; the unspeakable joy when life prevails!
Various tests revealed an undeveloped urinary tract as the cause of our baby’s illness.
Giving time for her organs to better develop, two years and several infections later, surgery followed. She grew into a strong child, young woman, athlete, and artist who recently joined her older sister and brother-in-law in California’s Bay Area.
A lover of adventure, she drove solo across the United States (again) with her black lab, Lily.
As seasons of life inevitably bring change to our human predicament without our consent, I fell ill last week, woke from a sound sleep before daybreak to the room spinning. This induced violent nausea. Thankfully, my cellphone lay handy. My sister Patty called from her home in
Kentucky. I managed to answer. “What’s wrong, Iris?” she asked. “Vertigo,” I groaned between heaves. “I’ll call 911,” she replied.
Within minutes, a knock rapped on the front door. I rolled out of bed, crawled from my bedroom to the top of the steps. The EMT team of young men stood below with a stretcher at the door.
They proceeded with their list of questions, the first being, “Can you tell us your name and age?”
I did. “Your symptoms?” “Spinning room. Vomiting.” Once secure in the ambulance, a young man asked, “Where do you want us to take you?”
I was surprised to have an option, thus spoke my preference. The driver delivered me to the hospital emergency entrance within minutes. Later, my youngest daughter stood by my bedside, her beautiful smile the best medicine on this planet.
She took notes of doctors’ reports, encouraged me to drink water (the hundredth time), and asked the doctors questions until satisfied with their reply.
Dear Reader, I remember the reversal of roles with my mother, who didn’t appreciate her five daughters telling her what to do. Thus, with God’s grace, I attempt to consider the benefit of my daughters’ recommendations before I reply. The option is not productive.
— Iris Underwood is a past president of Detroit Working Writers (2003-2005), writer in residence for the former Borders Bookstores (1997-2009) and the Troy Public Library, Troy, Michigan (1998-2013).
