I receive the call and it's bad. My Mom has suffered a stroke. In my case, I take the last flight out of Nashville to Chicago. It's a short flight, and under the circumstances of swirling thoughts and feelings, it's even shorter. The drive from the airport to the hospital is long, not longer than the flight, but it seems longer as the night blurs to streetlights and lane markers.
She is in coma. If she were my mother, I'd give it a day or two is the opening stanza spoken by the neurologist. I don't hear the words firsthand. They're relayed from a brother to me. It's hard not to believe the words when you see your mother with a tube stuck down her throat. It's hard not to believe when you look at the monitor and her heart rate is 120. I don't know if she'll make it through the night.
And it's a difficult night, a fast night. I give all the support I can give. It's all I can do now.
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