Once upon a time, my mom snored. She would wake farm animals; she was invited to Girl Scout camp - once. She said it was the best sleep ever, but she was asked never to return as she slept soundly and no one else did. In the entire camp.
She had her own cabin during church ladies' retreats. Every year.
Once upon a time, my mom was a one-person office working for a landscaper. The office itself lived a former life as a house, so her desk was downstairs with a couch and communal coffeepot. Upstairs, the bathroom, offices, and most of the storage filled the the space. She'd walk up and down the old, slick carpeted stairs with the empty coffeepot; then back down with paperwork, office supplies in one hand and a water-filled glass pot in the other.
Once upon a time, she missed the last step. The pot fell, shattered. Water coated the tile at the base of the stairs, and she slipped across the entry into the closed front door.
She broke her nose, looked like a Southern white lady version of Rocket for a good while. She never snored again.
Once upon a time, she got sick and it took many, many doctors to help her. One doctor requested one of her other doctors provide a fresh set of specific tests, in case of possible future concerns.
Yesterday, we visited the vampires' lab. They pricked her arms, the back of her hand, drawing 5 vials for tests. Leaving, mom felt weak and I promised her a cookie for doing so well. Instead, though, she had a mini-stroke, dropped her feet, and tumbled from her wheelchair.
She broke a tooth, blackened an eye, has a poofy, discolored knee, a bit of road rash, and scraped knuckles. The ER doc told her to make up a story about how the concrete looks worse. Because it looks like she was in a fight, but won.
She's been more present, even on the painkillers, since the fall; even made the comment the knock to her head cleared her mind. She's a tough, non-snoring cookie, my mom. Now and once upon a time.
She had her own cabin during church ladies' retreats. Every year.
Once upon a time, my mom was a one-person office working for a landscaper. The office itself lived a former life as a house, so her desk was downstairs with a couch and communal coffeepot. Upstairs, the bathroom, offices, and most of the storage filled the the space. She'd walk up and down the old, slick carpeted stairs with the empty coffeepot; then back down with paperwork, office supplies in one hand and a water-filled glass pot in the other.
Once upon a time, she missed the last step. The pot fell, shattered. Water coated the tile at the base of the stairs, and she slipped across the entry into the closed front door.
She broke her nose, looked like a Southern white lady version of Rocket for a good while. She never snored again.
Once upon a time, she got sick and it took many, many doctors to help her. One doctor requested one of her other doctors provide a fresh set of specific tests, in case of possible future concerns.
Yesterday, we visited the vampires' lab. They pricked her arms, the back of her hand, drawing 5 vials for tests. Leaving, mom felt weak and I promised her a cookie for doing so well. Instead, though, she had a mini-stroke, dropped her feet, and tumbled from her wheelchair.
She broke a tooth, blackened an eye, has a poofy, discolored knee, a bit of road rash, and scraped knuckles. The ER doc told her to make up a story about how the concrete looks worse. Because it looks like she was in a fight, but won.
She's been more present, even on the painkillers, since the fall; even made the comment the knock to her head cleared her mind. She's a tough, non-snoring cookie, my mom. Now and once upon a time.
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