All Better Now

The jarring phone woke me this morning. I didn't have to open my eyes to check the call display. I knew who it was.

"Good morning, Mom. How are you?"

"No good. I'm dying. I need to go to hospital." Her weak voice convinces me there might be some truth to this.

"What's the matter Mom?" (I can't call her Used to Be Mother to her face.)

"My arm is hot and red and hurts. I have never had pain like this."

I'm not patient. "Mom, you're just having a reaction to the flu and pneumonia shot you had yesterday. You don't need to see a doctor and you will be just fine."

"No, I'm dying." Her insistance reassures me she certainly is not. Her once stoic constitution has been replaced with drama and whimpering. And just to make sure I am really sympathetic, she says "My ankle is so sore. I haven't slept all night."

I tell her I'll be by after my class. When I arrive she is lying on the couch. Her hair is uncombed. She looks grey and older and more withered. I look at her arm. Indeed it is inflamed and hot and red just like she reported. She doesn't know what to do.

I gather her up and tell her to come to my house. When we arrive, I settle her in on the couch off the kitchen. I put an ice pack on her arm, put some ointment on her ankle, fluff up her pillows, cover her with that lovely Pottery Barn spread that looks like fur and give her a kiss. "You'll be better in a little while Mom. Go to sleep now."

Obediently she falls asleep within seconds. She snores gently and for the next few hours her sweet sounds remind me how fragile she has become.

When she awakes, she feels so much better. She can't believe how magical that ice pack and ointment have worked.

I take her to Great Clips and have her hair shampooed and cut. She buys some blue shampoo for her yellowing hair. She goes back to her apartment happy and relieved. "I guess I am not dying after all."

When we go into her complex, they are signing up people for a stargazing outing next week. Mom is thrilled. Despite our numerous explanations about light pollution, she insists there are no more stars in the sky. But now this outing will clearly show her that there are. But they are to wear their pyjamas for the outing. She announces to anyone who is listening "But I don't wear pyjamas." A few of the older men glance up to see what wanton woman could be making such a statement. "I only wear nightgowns."

Tomorrow we are going pyjama shopping. She's forgotten about her arm. Forgotten about her dying.
"Bye sweetie, thanks for the lovely day."