My mom is in the hospital, again.
She called a few days after Mother’s Day talking mad gibberish: the year was 1924 no, 1904 or the year was Obama. The can was full, can I see it?
In a panic, I called 911 and broke some speeding laws to get to my mother’s house. An officer was interviewing my mom who looked confused and continued to give the year as Obama. I accompanied her in the ambulance, expecting a wild ride through the Township; alas disappointed that all I received was a chat about the presidential election as we drove at a maddeningly slow pace. The Mister, when he saw my haphazardly parked car likened it to the scene in Forrest Gump when the dispatcher tells Forrest his Momma is sick and without hesitation, Forrest dives into the river to swim to her.
Mom is semi stable now. She’s much better, being feisty in her arguments with the nursing staff, her insistence that we bring her Pepsi, and sending me on a wild hunt for pizza.
I get it. Hospital food is not my first choice when I’m hungry. By Queenie being on a Renal Diet, her food is a step above tasteless. and Like hospital food, hospital TV is hit or miss. The patient is subject to the