Crappy Thanksgiving!

It's Friday night and I get home past 11 o'clock. I'm tired and still have a couple of things to do before going to bed. There are a couple of messages on the answering machine but I don't listen to them. They're probably pollsters asking me to vote for the candidate of their party.

The next day I listen to the messages while I'm making my coffee. One is from my BIL, saying that my parent's flight was delayed. The second one was from my sister. It's barely audible, but I make out some of the words; my mother was rushed to the hospital last night.

**

It's Saturday and I'm going to see my mother at the hospital. When I reach her bed, I see her lying on her side, with her hands and arms crossed across her midsection. She's in pain and a morphine drip is attached to her arm. If it wasn't for the fact the lighting makes everyone look like death, she'd look better than she does.

She tells me what happened and that the doctors have no idea what's going on. There could be a couple of things, but no one is sure. Gotta love modern medicine. She goes on and gives me directions about what to do with my father since his head is spinning and he loses focus at times like these.

I ask her if she needs anything and she tells me she’d like some socks to keep her feet warm. I suggest some magazines to keep her from looking at the wall for hours on end. If it was possible, I’d lay down next to her and read People magazine, hoping she’d fall asleep so she wouldn’t be in pain.

**

Sunday is spent with me walking around, not sure what I'm doing. Most of the day passes by in an emotional fugue. I go grocery shopping, run errands and do a couple of household chores. When I go out later that night, I don't enjoy myself as much as I should because I keep on thinking about my mother in the hospital.

**

It’s now Thanksgiving, and I don’t have much to be thankful for. A holiday shouldn’t be spent wondering about the health of family members while they’re in the hospital, they should be spent with family members, around a large table, stuffing their faces and arguing over the fact whether the turkey is dry or if it’s just salty.

Now, everyone has to wonder what will happen to my mother: will she come home for the holiday, or will she remain in the hospital. There is no middle ground. So, now we wait for the doctors to give us the next steps of this unknown process. If we could do something to speed up the matter, we would. Alas, we can’t.

This isn’t the way I imagined I’d be spending this day. It’s a crappy Thanksgiving, indeed.