I was asleep, not even in that half-dreamy-sleep-wake state that happens when my body knows the alarm is about to sound.

My phone clanged with a call. My arm reached, eyes and head thick with foggy dreams. Too late.

When I called back—the hospital closest to where my mom lives—they said they had no record of her.

This is how it goes. You are worried and what should be one phone call turns into four. After 8AM, when the phones at my mom’s community are answered by a human, I hear the handset handed to another, who says with the phone not held to her mouth, “Oh, you’re here,” and hands it to another.

This is when I fear the news may be that she has died.

But she has not died; she has broken her hip. Her surgery, at 1PM, goes well, as reported by the orthopedic surgeon who sounds pleased, and maybe relieved, since the patient is 96.

Later, I talk to mom, enabled by the nurse or aid or someone who puts the handset in her hand. She has not been able to—physically or mentally?—answer the phone ringing by her bed. Mom sounds happy and surprised to be where she is.

I text my brother and ask him to call her, but wait half an hour because her dinner just came.

I call again later. She answers (!) and complains: “They didn’t fix it. It still hurts.” Ah, yes. The surgical anesthetic has worn off, and the pain meds aren’t quite at the threshold.

Blathering detail.

What’s really going on is mortality. I am suddenly acutely aware of mortality—hers and mine.

My dad used to tell me the United States should kill its citizens at age 65, “because they are a drain on the economy.” When he turned 65, I asked, “Are you going to kill yourself now?” (I can be snotty.)

He modified his philosophy: medical care should be withheld from anyone aged 65 or older, especially treatment for cancer. He was emphatic about this. In his late 70s, when he got cancer, he accepted both radiation and chemotherapy.

My point is, for most of us, even if we’ve had thoughts of leaving early, we’d really rather live forever.

 Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for you, because I can write what’s on my mind and that’s okay.