The Patron Saint of Helicopters

“I told them they should call your Uncle
Constantine. He’s a helicopter
pilot. He’ll be able to tell them what to
do.”

My mother was recounting the events of the night before. The night of her stroke.

She had been at home, trying to compose a letter to Billy Mahoney, when it happened. She had reached down from her keyboard to pet her dog, Mitzy and noticed her arm was going numb. Thankfully she realized that her first instinct which would have been to call us, her children, would have been a drastic mistake. She needed to call 911 and she did so just in time. Seconds later she had fallen, when her leg gave way, requiring the paramedics to force entry into her house upon their arrival.

She was taken to a local hospital where it was quickly determined she was experiencing a cerebral hemorrhage and would require transfer to a specialty hospital where emergency surgery could be performed, if necessary, to save her life. The transfer was to take place via helicopter.

“It was pretty windy and I was worried about them being able to take off. I told them they should call your Uncle Constantine. He’s a helicopter pilot. He’ll be able to tell them what to do.”

Coming from anyone else, you might chalk this up as confusion, the chaos of the moment, or just a cute comment from an old lady who had somehow not given the paramedics credit for being very well versed in air ambulance transfers. But this wasn’t coming from anyone else. This was coming from my mother. And she wasn’t old. She was just 63, beating my grandfather’s first stroke by one year. She really did want them to call my uncle.

We have someone in my family for every need. And if that someone happens to be dead, so much the better because they have great powers, being patron saints and all. Have a sick cat? Pray to my grandmother Ruth. She always liked cats. Considering becoming a chef? Pray to my great grandmother Demetria. They owned a restaurant. I’ll never forget the look of disappointment when I told her that the “LY” on the license plate of the limo that had escorted me to the airport for a vacation was standard, short for livery. She had been certain that, being my initials, the LY was a sign from my grandfather, who loved to work on cars, that I would have a fortuitous trip.

“I was nervous about the helicopter, but they made it okay. They were so nice to me.”

“So how are you now? Are you having any pain?”

“No, no pain. Really tired though. I’ve still got feeling everywhere.”

“How about movement? Can you move that left side at all?”

She appears to make some attempt at movement, although there is no sign of effort in her face. She looks up at us, mildly surprised.

“I hadn’t realized I couldn't move it.”

She does not appear distressed and we aren’t sure how much we should be focusing her on what is so obvious to us. My mother has had a serious stroke and life as she knew it 12 hours ago simply doesn’t exist anymore.

For any of us.