Mother

My mom had a transient ischemic attack (TIA) early Sunday morning. After a battery of tests, they released her from the hospital today. She seems fine, though tired, and a little frustrated that they can't point to an x-ray and say "here, this is what happened to you." Apparently, what happened to her is related to her thalamus, which rests deep in the forebrain. No tests can measure changes in the thalamus, other than tests for blood irregularities and the like. She's resting comfortably now on a mattress that is not covered with plastic -- she didn't really sleep in the hospital because she can't sleep on plastic ("it makes me so HOT") and she can't stand to have a messy bed--she couldn't get up to fix it because of various tubes that were connected to her arm and went up her nose, and my mother is notorious for remaking the bed in the middle of the night when the covers get "out of whack." Perhaps it's not the covers that are out of whack...but that's another story.

TIA's most often precede a full-blown stroke. My mother had one more than a decade ago, which caused her to slow down and learn to take naps, and to pay attention to similar symptoms should they reappear, which they did on Sunday, waking her from a dead sleep at 5:00 a.m. Her entire left side was tingling and her head was pounding. She felt, as my mother is apt to say "queer." Without hesitation, my father took her to the ER. They admitted her immediately.

I found out about the episode around 1 pm on Sunday, after (ironically), S. and I had gone to brunch with some friends of my parents who were in Denver for the Thanksgiving holiday. My sister texted me that mom was in the hospital-- you can't use cell phones in hospitals so...the text. I called the room and got my Mom, who sounded groggy. It was good to hear her voice, and to hear it clearly, without any slurring of speech. It also catapluted me into this space of "What the hell am I thinking? I HAVE to go back east for the holiday. What if..."

Ah, the What If Monster. Ugly fucker. He likes to mess with my head at all the wrong times. Like here we were, S. and I, running errands as a light snow fell on Denver, the first real snow fall of the season, and we were aglow with Christmas cheer and shopping for little randoms to give to those we love. We were both so relieved to be staying put for Christmas, with no huge plans on the horizon and no planes to board (meaning no valium darts for Meege, thank the Lord). We were talking about when we would get our tree, and where we would put it, and I was looking at ornaments because S. and I always buy each other a special one every year and have for a decade now. That's 20 ornaments! Yowza.

And then the call, and the ensuing worry, which still hangs over me like a heavy fog. My mom is okay now, but what about next month? In three months? What would I do if something happened to her and I had to live with the fact that I didn't go to Ohio for Christmas? As if seeing her again would soften the blow of her loss, permanently. I don't like to think about it. I am not ready to be in this world without my mother. As much as she makes me crazy sometimes, I love her beyond reason, beyond words.

I am finding myself depleted by this close call, and full of questions that no one but me can answer. I want to eat the side of a cow, with turkey gravy and a side of spiral sliced ham. Bring it on.

No. Don't.