Member-only story
The Nine Lives of Ida
May she live forever
My dear Mother is ninety-two years young. She happily lives in an assisted living facility with wonderful caretakers; their angelic wings, only visible to me. Lovingly, they call her “Miss Ida.” She hates it. She thinks it puts her status above theirs, when in fact, she chooses to place them above her.
Over the past several months, she’s been rushed to the hospital more times than I care to count with failing health. Each time, my mind flashes back to our last visit.
Did I say what needed to be said? Did I answer her questions with love and care? Was she happy with me? Did I tell her I love her? Will I ever see her again?
I now dread the ring of my phone; fore I think it could be — that call, you know, the one no one wants to get.
I rush to the hospital each time, only to be told I’m not allowed to see her. Fucking Covid. Will she live? Will she make it through the night? Will I get to see her one more time?
I’ve become somewhat of an expert in ways to get past the hospital’s Covid rules to visit my dear Mom. A kind word to a nurse here, a stern word there, a well-timed phone call, and voila, I’m in, standing by her side.
Somehow, someway, she always recovers. She has nine lives, hopefully more.
Her eyes sparkle, mine cloud over with tears as she recognizes me, mask and all. She smiles — my lip quivers. She speaks softly, so I draw near. I dare not yet speak; the lump in my throat, like a rough stone, would only allow a rusty-hinged squeak.
Her complaints about the hospital food bring music to my ears. The sound of her struggling voice rings a motherly comfort to my fragile being.
My Mom is alive.
