“I’m not a bat out of hell,” she protested using the exact phrase I’d just said to her. “I’m a woman on a mission.”
“I don’t care, I’m still embarrassed.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re taking ’em out to lunch.”
This was a snippet of our talking as we rushed through the hospital this afternoon to get to my 3 o’clock check-up for my esophagus on time. My caring Mom never fails to scurry through the huge hospital – after 18 years of this I describe us as rats in a maze because that’s what we must look like – careening me through the long halls in the wheelchair I use for long distances. I always warn her about not running into people, especially those wearing long white coats. I typically look down in embarrassment after she yells “BEEP! BEEP! Coming through!” whenever we pass people.
I can tell whether the floor below us is good or bad depending on the vibrating of the wheels as they race along at breakneck speed. I make sure to put on sunglasses because my Mom pushes the wheelchair so fast through the hospital halls that wind kicks up to bother my dry eyes.
And . . . ACTION!
“Wahhhhhh!” screamed my Mom as my cane flew off the front of my wheelchair within the gigantic University of Michigan Hospital. Like an action scene in the summer’s blockbuster, the cane catapulted off the wheelchair and shot out like a cannonball from underneath it as we whizzed on past.
I’ve never told her this, but now at age 31 I get a huge kick out of hearing my invaluable loving Mom (words can’t even come close to describing how incredibly & deeply immersed in my entire health situation she is & always has been) refer to my own personal health status as if the doctor’s referring to both of us:
“We’re getting better!” she shouted happily after we learned that the doctor had seen nothing more in me than regular ol’ “run-of-the-mill” ulcers a few months ago in the OR.