My office a few days this week is Mom and Dad's house. It's quiet and spacious smells like home.
But in the same house with the same smells, furniture, and people, there is an unmistakable sense of business and urgency, which is rather foreign and frankly not all that Hooverlike. It's impossible to miss the neat stacks of forms, bills, and reminders to call various 800 numbers covering the kitchen counter. "Clinic." "Anesthesiologist." "Medical foundation." "Financial counselor." On the end table next to the recliner: more stacks. On pads on the computer desk: more phone numbers. It's a project.
Dad comes home for lunch but only manages to get down half a cup of mac and cheese (now laced with eggs for extra protein) before abruptly stopping to mix a baking soda water chaser and dispose the remaining contents of his plate. He bounces back to work with a chilled chocolate Boost in hand for later. A couple weeks ago he was eating ribs, but there seems to be less room now. It is time for treatment.
No comments:
Post a Comment