Last weekend, my grandmother (mama’s mama) had another stroke. She is miraculously recovering from it very well, and I’m very thankful, as it was not looking good initially. I think it was Friday that this happened (as an aside, Mama’s brother was at Granny’s house with mama as they waited on the ambulance to arrive, and he also had some sort of a stroke episode and had to be taken off in another ambulance.) Getting old sucks, folks.
Darling and I joked that Mama wasn’t about to let anyone else have the sickness spotlight and took bets on how long it would be before Mama checked herself in. (As Darling said, “I bet they’re getting her usual suite ready.”)
And, sure as a puppy will piddle on your favorite rug, the call came a few days later that Mama was being admitted with her usual litany of vague symptoms. It’s either a kidney infection, or a bladder malady, or a strangulated testicle. (If we knew which commercials she was watching before her admittance to the ER, we could probably narrow it down further.)
Despite complaints that the nurses were not “giving her her medication” (read: she wasn’t able to swallow her normal fistful of horse tranquilizers), she was chatty.
“I think I’ve figured out why I’m bi-polar.” (one of her many dubious diagnosis.)
“When I was little, I got a “Hedda Get Bedda” doll for Christmas, and my brothers threw it on the roof.”
“And that made you bipolar?”
“Well, it had three or four faces you could turn around. One was happy. One was sad, and one had the measles I think.”
“So a three faced doll made you bipolar?”
“Well, children work with what they’re given. Don’t you think that’s possible?”
“You’d really better ask a psychiatrist about that.” A friend of mine and I once threw one of my sister’s Barbie’s in the road, and buried it’s smashed corpse after a car ran over it. I suppose if she’d lived, she might have become an undertaker from that experience.
Anyway, while I was trying to wrap my head around this theory, she was going on about how she was aghast that she had not been named medical power of attorney for her mother. (Why she thinks she would be a good candidate to take care of someone else’s affairs when she can’t handle her own could probably serve as a doctoral thesis topic.) Anxious not to have that conversation for the dozenth time, I told her I was considering taking a new job.
“Will you be makin’ more money?”
I told her I thought the potential was there to make a good bit more.
“Oh good. You can get me outta West Virginia.”
“You can get yourself out of West Virginia.”
“What am I supposed to do? Hitchhike?”
“You know how to drive.”
She hung up. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and say maybe her call was dropped. I’m nice like that.