When we last tuned in, I had just come from a fruitless week in West Virginia, where I attempted to sweep out my crazy mama’s hovel so that she could once again use it as a home instead of a storage locker.
What’s happened since then? Not much. Mama has not set foot back in to do any cleaning. She’s made no attempt to replace her lost driver’s license, has failed to pay the paltry payment on her leased land, and had left Granny to fend for herself while she went back to Kenny and the trailer court life.
Then about two weeks ago Mama called, she had the same stomach flu that Darling and I were stricken with a month or so back. She reckoned she would need to go to the ER (aka, the white trash country club.). Despite telling her that there was probably nothing they could do, Mama nonetheless called an ambulance (aka the Medicaid Taxi) and headed for the hospital, as she tends to do anytime she stubs her toe or wakes up with a tickle in her throat.
Two days later, she was still there, though now it was supposedly for high blood pressure. The next day, it was a urinary tract infection. A week into her stay, I asked why on earth they would keep someone in the hospital for that long with something that a strong antibiotic should clear up. “I think its sepsis.” She said. I smelled bullshit.
Another week goes by, and family reports come in that she’s really in the psych ward. Goes to reason…it had been at least six months since she’d taken one of her taxpayer funded vacations at the nut house. I tried to call moms cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried calling the hospital and they said she wasn’t there. (My uncle tried to visit her and got a similar run around.)
Now here’s where things get weird. (well…weird for most people, but par for the course for Mama) You might recall that Mama’s trailer house has been burgled a few times…and the last time they made off with the washer/dryer/stove/and refrigerator. Mama apparently called Granny and tried to get her to wrangle the family into contributing to a new set of appliances, even suggested that Granny might ask her church to chip in. (Because, you know, we should all open our checkbooks to re-outfit a house she hasn’t lived in for years.) Naturally, mama’s request went nowhere. So then mama’s therapist called one of my uncles, and in a rather odd bit of professional conduct, asked if the family was, in fact, chipping in on appliances. He told her we weren’t, and the next call made was from mama to granny, claiming that the hospital would not release her until she had a new set of General Electrics.
She can make herself comfortable there as far as Im concerned.
Then she left me a voicemail letting me know she was still in the hospital and wanted to know where her flowers were. Oy vey.
As darling said, “If you sent flowers every time she went to the hospital, we’d have to buy stock in FTD.”