My mother is more disoriented on foggy mornings than sunny ones. My sister reminded me that this is also true in the dark of night. I think sunshine and daylight help keep us clearheaded.
Today I delivered my parents' breakfast after early-morning thunderstorms. The gray seeped in through the windows.
"We have blood tests this morning, so we can't eat breakfast yet," my mom announced as I set her morning tray on the table.
"As I understand it, your doctors say we don't need to worry about tests for now," I said, guiding her back toward the here and now. "Staying put is the most health-conscious thing you can do during the pandemic."
Just then my dad came out of the bedroom, so she turned to him. "We have lab tests today," she said.
My dad deals with my mom's confusion more than I do. He's usually patient, but this morning he was blunt: "We don't have blood tests today. We're in Atlantic. With Alli."
"But I told you they called," my mom argued, "and you said all right."
"I was sleeping," he said.
Within a few minutes, they were seated at their table, and my dad sipped coffee and ate his banana. I thought I had coddled them over the rocky start to their day. But my mother had not yet lifted her spoon. "If we eat this now," she said, "who will eat the breakfast they bring after our tests?"
I assured her we could handle any difficulty that comes our way. "If anyone brings you breakfast," I said, "They'll have to come in through the front door, in which case I'LL answer the door, and I'LL eat the breakfast!"
My mother laughed and picked up her spoon.
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Twenty minutes later I adjusted the laptop and logged onto Zoom so my parents could participate in Sunday School class with their Ft. Dodge friends. We've done this weekly, and we've also used Zoom for a couple of family events. I didn't realize I needed to re-explain the program's synchronous nature.
"Good morning," their teacher Jim said.
"Good morning," my dad answered.
"Jim has blood on his ear!" my mother said cheerfully--and loudly.
She was right. He did have blood on his ear. Maybe he nicked himself while shaving.
I reached over and hit the mute button. I didn't want to embarrass her, but I also needed to prevent my mom from saying things while thinking others couldn't hear.
"When I turn on this button," I said, "Everyone on the screen will be able to hear what you say."
My parents nodded blithely, so I hit "unmute" then dashed upstairs so I wouldn't have to hear what happened next.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
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