A Crash and a Wedding and Vitamin BB

After five nights at Mummy P.'s house, where Plot didn't sleep much, mostly rolling over and over in bed every little while worrying about what comes next, he and Duck slept in their own bed last night.

Really, you shouldn't bother worrying in the middle of the night. It never accomplishes everything. The morning comes and things are never as frightening as they seemed just a few hours before. Plot thinks darkness scares us in a deeper way than we realize, and he recommends sleeping at night and worrying during the day.

Of course, it doesn't work.

Duck and he drove down to Stiletto to see Mummy P. and to hook up with PD, 5-H and BB who were coming to town for their friends Jade and Nick's wedding.

Yes, they are already married and have been for two years and have a two year old. Nevertheless.




The first night Plot had 'the talk' with his mom about how she sounded depressed and lonely these days and what she wanted to do about it (nothing). Isabella and Duck went to sleep (her folks were at the bridesmaid's and bachelor's parties that night) and Plot lay down on the living room sofa, thinking about both his mother's stubbornness and her loss of memory. He heard the crash around 2:30am.

When he flew into Mummy P.'s bathroom, he found her on her back on the floor with a nasty NASTY slice taken out of one arm, her head having hit the tile shower curb. She was not really sure who or where she was. Plot woke Duck (Isabella slept right through everything) and the two of them got Mummy P. to her feet and back into her bed. They called 911 and six firemen were there in a flash.

You know the rest, an ambulance ride, E-R craziness, Mummy P. strapped to a gurney but still needing to get up to use the facilities every half hour which entailed an enormously complicated amount of logistics each time, and x-rays and c-t scans and blood and urine tests and finally a nurse to practically glue her skin back onto her arm using steri-strips and peroxide, and permission to go back home granted at 8am.

How do people without insurance pay for this kind of treatment? Plot is sure all those tests and ambulance ride and doctors and e-r charges will run into the thousands or tens of thousands of dollars.

When she arrived at the hospital, they asked her what day it was. She didn't know. They asked her what year it was. She didn't know. Then they asked her if she smoked. She smiled. Plot said "Oh, yes." The doctor said "Well, I'd let her keep smoking. She's doing great for her age."

The patient raised herself up and said "Bwaa ha ha ha ha."



Mummy P.'s memory had been slipping before the fall, but this weekend it fell off the side of the mountain. There had been a party planned for Sunday and it went on as scheduled, but she was pretty well out of it, particularly after Plottie's brother and nephew decided to bring along their dogs, whose yapping just about drove Mummy P. around the bend.

Look, here it is: nobody wants to see your baby pictures. Nobody wants to hear your travel stories. And nobody cares how much you love your dog, if you can't make it lie down and keep quiet.

Ask any cat, he'll tell you.

Plot and Duck, and Schmeckl and Little Bear took a walk and decided what they'd do about Mummy P.'s care. This is an exercise all families are familiar with and you have to do it. But Plottie fears it is a wasted exercise, because Mummy P. will promise whatever anyone wants her to promise, and then do what she feels like later.

By the time Plottie drove her to see her doctor Monday morning she was already improved greatly. But you always get better when you're going to see your doctor. (Except for Plotnik, who turns into goo at the thought.)

The doctor looked at her arm, which is healing, and told her exactly what she needed to hear -- so she could ignore it, which she is already in the process of doing.

Aging is not like making a business deal or producing a record. You don't go from A to B. Aging is like a reed bridge suspended by vines over a dark, scary river. Some people are further along the bridge towards the other side, and the further they get the weaker they become. When anyone trips it effects everyone on the bridge. If they get up and start walking again it makes everyone on the bridge stronger. If they don't get up -- well, now you're in the lead and everyone else is behind you.

It's a blessing Plottie and Duck happened to be in the house when she fell. The obvious solution is to employ someone to be in the house 24-7 from now on. But the problem is Mummy P. doesn't want anything to do with it. She feels that once there are people in the house taking care of everything she needs, she will just slow down and stop. Right now, if she falls down, she's going to have to stand up by herself.

Plot is in the minority here, but he agrees with her. It's scary and 'way more problematic for us, but it's probably better for her.

Seeing Isabella is like no medicine available in pill or liquid form. The last two nights in Stiletto, Isabella slept in the living room in her Duck-constructed pillow fort. Mummy P. would shuffle into the living room in the evening and morning, looking and feeling like a tired old lady, and after five minutes of Vitamin BB she would be laughing and joking like her old self. Plot's kids do that for him too.

We're home and we slept like logs last night.