Wednesday, August 17, 2005


My mother is home and called last night. She talked in frantic circles for over an hour, raging against the doctors she has seen, the nurses they want to send to look after her, the pills they have given her to take, and the tests that have been abandoned at the lab. She recounted overheard threats; vague collusions between the hospital staff, her neighbours and my father; notes that have mysteriously appeared with instructions to take her house away from her. She says that she is still weak, still dizzy, still in pain, but she insists that she is better.

She doesn’t remember when she was admitted to hospital or how long she was there. I don’t think she knows what day it is now.

I haven’t heard from the doctor who treated her, and I don’t think I will. A nurse I spoke to in the emergency room gave me her office number and encouraged me to call, but so far my messages remain unanswered. All I know is that the doctor is an endocrinologist, and that she had advised my mother to remain in hospital. Beyond this, I have no concrete information about her condition, or what to expect in the days and weeks ahead.

My father called last night as well and we discussed what will happen when my mother dies. Shaking slightly, I told him that I cannot deal with this alone, and he assured me that he will meet me in Toronto when the time comes. But not before. He also announced that he is coming to Montreal to see me this weekend, and that he will be accompanied by his girlfriend.

I am, frankly, reeling from it all, and I find myself suddenly wondering if my father isn’t slightly mad as well.

Faced with preparing my apartment for unexpected houseguests and a small mountain of unfinished work, I decided to see a film tonight. It was a relief to disappear for a couple of hours, and it made me realize how much I have missed going to the movies. I remain on the fence about the film in question—Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers—although I suspect it may deserve a second, less distracted viewing.

Oh god, I hope they don’t have sex in my bed.

1 comment:

g_pi said...

Aw, yuk.

(Sorry. That was reflexive.)

Pauvre toi. Jesus H. on a stick. When it rains, it pours, it seems....