On Monday evening on my drive home from work, I got the phone call from my brother--my mother had fallen at the nursing home and had broken her leg. It was two hours later before I was able to get any information from the hospital and the news wasn't good: it was, in fact, a broken hip, it would require surgery, and her chances of survival weren't good. By Tuesday morning, as I was throwing on my clothes, I decided that I should pack a few things in the trunk of my car, just in case I decided to go to Charlotte instead of work. Because I did end up driving to Charlotte, I was thankful that I had had enough foresight to have grabbed a Diet Coke and a handful of Kashi bars, yet I had, indeed, forgotten a few items necessary for achieving a socially acceptable level of personal hygiene. Thus, for the next few days, I used my brother's Right Guard spray and my nephew's alligator toothbrush and Spiderman toothpaste. As if I weren't feeling conflicted enough already.

* * * * * * * * * * *  

By the time I got to Charlotte that evening, I knew that the election results would be all over the networks. When I got to the hospital, however, I surmised that being bombarded with numbers and names on the television screen would only confuse my mother, so I told myself I'd have to wait, that I'd have to savor the predicted victory later in the evening.

My brother and I asked my mom if she knew what day it was. She shook her head. "It's election day," we said in unison.

"Ah--it's Tuesday," she added confidently. 

"It's also Dad's birthday."

"It's November 7th. He'd be happy about today," and she settled back into her pillows with a grin.

After my brother left the room, I asked Momma what she thought my dad would have to say about Dubya. "He'd hate him," she said quickly.

"But Momma, he loved the Republican Party so much."

"He loved his brain more, Ann. You can't love your brain AND love Dubya, now can you?," and we giggled in that conspiratorial way as my brother walked back into the room.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Wednesday, I dressed hurriedly in my favorite pair of jeans, jeans that are now held up by a belt that has become more of a necessity than an accessory. Yes, my favorite jeans, I love them even more now that there is a bit of room in the waist. It seems that a diet of stress and adrenaline is an effective weight-maintenance plan for those with whiplash and whose exercise is therefore limited to the occasional stomping of the brakes.

When I got to the hospital, Momma was awake and alert, so we turned on CNN. The Democrats had taken control of The House as we'd expected, but the breaking news was that Donald Rumsfeld had resigned.

"I hate to see him go," my mother sighed.

"Huh?" I knew she was well-informed about our invasion of Iraq so her comment came as an utter shock.

"Ann, for us old biddies, Rummy's easy on the eyes. Plus I am really going to miss his sense of humor."

"His sense of humor? Momma, what in the hell are you talking about?"

She shook her hair back from her forehead then laid her open hand across her chest and said, with mock Southern sincerity, "All those times he told us how great we were doing in Iraq--those were just bad attempts at humor, right? You gotta love a man who can laugh about people dying...."

My wry, sly mother...

* * * * * * * * * * *

As the delay of my mother's surgery was approaching the two hour mark, a nurse walked in and asked if there was anything she could get for her to make her more comfortable.

"I'd love something to eat. A big, heaping plate of anything would do."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Coyle, but you know you can't eat before surgery."

"Ok," my mom negotiated. "I'll take coffee and a cigarette then."

The nurse tilted her head slightly, as if by gaining a different angle she would be better able to discern if my mother were fucking with her or if my mom was simply fucking crazy.

My mother licked her lips. "How about a big glass of ice cold water?"

The nurse smiled, not sure of what to say. 

"Alright then," Momma bargained, "I'll take an ice-cold beer." The nurse left laughing which, I suspect was partially my mom's goal...although I bet she would've gladly downed a brew.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The nurse reappeared to give us an update--the doctor was closing up on his other patient, my mother would be wheeled back to surgery in less than an hour. "By the way, how long have you smoked?"

"Not long enough," my mother replied tartly. "And when I got here to this...this...this place...with a broken hip, mind you...they put a pamphlet on my tray that was meant to inform me of all of the ill-effects smoking has on your bones."

The nurse shook her head in disbelief. "That seems cruel--they should've been more sensitive. Anyway, as long as you've smoked, you should've told them to kiss your you-know-what!"

My mother smiled and said, "Oh no, I wasn't raised like that. I did respond, but I could never tell them something like that..."

The gullible nurse plodded on with, "Well just how did you respond then?"

The nurse left the room squealing with delight when my terminally ill mom raised her frail little hand with her middle finger fully extended.

* * * * * * * * * * *  

My brother and I have a long and perhaps unfortunate history of assigning nicknames to family members based upon their maladies. Yes, we named our incredibly short, hunchbacked grandmother with the voice made raspy from her 60 year loyalty to Pall Malls "Yoda." She remained "Yoda" until her hearing diminished to the extent that she became seemingly unaware of her own audible flatulence as she shuffled about--she then became known as "Jet Propelled." Of course, on the very night that she fell asleep smoking a cigarette while wearing an oxygen mask, we renamed her "Torch." Not so coincidentally, my father, on that same night, became known as "The Human Fire Extinguisher." "That shit's not funny," he screamed at us as he, perhaps as proof, held up his two bandages hands...something which, of course, made us laugh even harder.

But now that our mother has had a successful hemi-hip replacement, which of us will be the first to call her "Dodge"?