Signs
This went out yesterday as issue 23 of The Angelo Report, a weekly newsletter published every Sunday afternoon.
Sometimes, there are signs.
A month and a half back. My parents are getting on in age, and my dad needs full-time care. My mom, fiercely stubborn about being an independent senior and who’d never even think of having someone come in and clean their flat, never mind move into an assisted care facility, is suddenly convinced that it’d be a good idea to have the provincial health services come in and help with caretaking and household chores. This is good.
Four weeks back. My dad’s fallen again. This time, the ambulance has brought him to a different hospital than usual. They’re not letting him leave until he can develop the strength to move around independently. This is kinda good, kinda bad. He’s now getting the care he needs, and mom’s getting much-needed rest. She goes shopping for clothes with my sister. She’s beaming in her new outfit. It’s been a while. This is good.
Three weeks back. We visit dad in the hospital. Mom’s there. She visits him every day. She chats with my wife, and asks a weird question. “We’re friends, right?” Of course we’re okay, says my wife, puzzled. A long hug is shared. Hugs are good.
Two and a half weeks back. My dad calls, worries. Mom was supposed to be at the hospital hours ago. She can be a little forgetful. I try calling their place. Her mobile. No answer. I have a meeting coming up. I’ll try again later.
My sister calls, sobbing.
Fuck.
Mom?
Numb now. Shock. She was fine last night, this happened out of nowhere.
Still, there were signs.
Changing her mind on care services. The return of joy. Checking in on relationships. It’s almost like she knew.
Or maybe my mind is linking coincidences, trying to make sense of it all. I don’t know.
But it feels like there were signs.
(I love you, mom.)