Not Quite So Worried
Wed., July 9, 09:20 AM
Let me tell you, Gloria never did call me. I went so far as to find the phone number of the closest police station, but I thought I would try one more time. I called yesterday morning — twice — and got no answer.
It’s a good thing I’m a visualizer. I figure she’s sleeping late, even later than she used to. I know she will be up before noon, because the noon church bell is the signal to say her prayers. That takes a long time, she has told me. So I allow for that, imagine she has to get some kind of lunch, and I try again a little after two.
“Hello (pant, pant).” Yes, the muggy weather is getting to her emphysema again. I identify myself, and she says, “I can’t talk now, I got the doctor here.” That means that either (1) one of her neighbors sent her own doctor downstairs or (2) she actually felt bad enough to call 911. I’m just glad there’s someone with her. “Never mind, I’ll talk to you later,” I say. “Four o’clock,” she says, and hangs up.
Swell — four o’clock. That’s when Husband is due back from day care, when I must go to the door and make sure he gets in okay. He has been known to trip over the doorsill and fall down on my poor neuropathic feet. But I shall call her, even if I have to hang up in a hurry. No problem: when I phone at four, there is no answer.
This time, it’s okay, either/or. The doctor may have simply made her comfortable and given her something to help her sleep; it wouldn’t be the best choice, but she’s so darn stubborn. Better, he may have insisted, despite her obstinacy, that she go to the hospital for observation. At least I don’t have to picture her passed out on the kitchen floor — or hanging out the window to smoke “just a few puffs because it will make me feel better.” (Heaven help us, that’s tobacco she’s still using.)
Over the years I have warned her that the day will come when they take her to a hospital and will not allow her to return home by herself. I pointed out that, while she may feel somewhat in control as long as she has her own place, if she gets that sick, she will have no control at all. (And I’m keeping the police number on her address card!) I get offensive when necessary; in my last long letter (which she never answered), I told her it was time she stopped procrastinating and made some decisions. I can hear my mother now, as she used to say, “ sh1t or get off the pot!”
I promise my next post will be more upbeat, even if I have to borrow from someone else.
