Last week was kind of a crazy week for me. Leave aside the rising Covid rates. Leave aside the increasingly dangerous warning signs that the White House is abandoning democracy in favor of dictatorship. Leave aside the fact that US citizens must once again protest the death of an unarmed African American. And that, in some cities, bad people took advantage of the protests to systematically loot businesses. Or that other bad people took advantage of the distracted police to burn – or otherwise abuse – African American communities. That was bad enough.

And then my mother fell again. She got up in the middle of the night (which we have asked her not to do), started to walk to the living room without her walker (which we have asked her not to do), tripped over a corner of the carpet under her bed, and landed on her face. Luckily she was wearing her pendant (a battle in and of itself). My sister arrived just as the EMS did, they scraped her off the floor, and back to the emergency room again, where she was checked in yet again.

When my sister went by to talk to the doctor, he didn’t even introduce himself, he basically just said: this is the one, she’s not going to last the weekend. Ah, bedside manner. Luckily she hadn’t broken anything, not even her overly hard head, which is – I kid you not – black and white now, from the bruises. Literally black.

In the hospital, she fell into her usual hospital depression, comprised of lack of sleep, too many perky nurses poking her with things and inserting tubes in places you don’t want tubes, and a surety that she would die in the hospital.

Usually I would take time off, hop on a plane, and fly out there to help. But this time, that wasn’t an option. New York is still too risky to travel. Airlines are still to risky to travel. So my sister in CA drove up – her fiancee loaned her his shiny new sportscar, so I guess it’s true love – and I spent a weekend day calling elderly relatives and filling them in.

On Tuesday, Mom went home and her health immediately started to improve, again. The doctor was wrong, again. But she also said she wanted to start hospice care. So now my sister officially has access to mom’s bank account (vs. reviewing the bills, writing the checks, and having mom sign them). My other sister is clearing out the little office next to mom’s room so we can put a bed for a night-nurse there. And we’ve arranged for 24/7 care for mom in her home, as she wishes.

I’m sorry I can’t be there to help. It sounds like my sisters are doing ok without me.

Oh, when will this end?