I was trying to decide which pot of mums to bring to the hospital, somehow feeling my mother involved in the decision, when a hawk burst out of the wisteria and swooped past on its way north. Eye level. Ten feet away. A passerine in its clutches.
If I was looking for a sign, I could hardly have designed a better one (what if it had been flying to the left, she asks).
The well-practiced packing drills had gotten rusty. I ran up and down the stairs like a crazy person trying to remember everything: mouth guard, heating pad, etui, a jar to pee in (that’s new!)
My brother had a stroke yesterday. He managed to call 911 himself and is now in the ICU at the hospital in Stonybrook, Long Island, where he works. He comprehends things but cannot talk. He can’t move his right side.
I’m learning things, like the word hemorrhagic and the fact that once you have one stroke you’re more inclined to have another. Rehab can take 12 months but timetables vary widely.
His partner flew in from California last night. Friends coming from all directions. We’re on the Turnpike now, heading toward the Bridgeport Ferry. Rain spatters the windshield. Red and yellow trees abound after Worcester.
I guess I don’t need to point out how surreal it is to go from having groceries delivered to planning a stay in a hotel and visiting a hospital.
The alternative was unthinkable.
PS We were lucky to snag the Handsome Dog Walker (remember him?) to house sit and take care of Finn.
PPS A just the facts approach is helping me keep it together.