Fever Dreams

It's been a lousy few days at Pope-pourri. But Ma will always make the crazy downright bizarre, and this stretch of days was no exception.

Thursday was not fun, so by Friday afternoon I was looking forward to settling in with a glass of Diego Red and a lava cake. A woman of my age is only deterred from wine and chocolate by her children or her mother, and Friday night it was my mother.

With a temperature of 102.5, she couldn't breathe and was being loaded into an ambulance. My dad loves my mom. He would do anything to save her. If he's the medical proxy, I may just have a series of bad decisions to undo later. As the medical person, my parents wanted me to make the decisions.

So, Husband bundled me off to the ER while I mourned my booze and debated the timetable for Starbucks. I arrived (sans trenta caffeination) to find Ma breathless and pale. An hour long breathing treatment was deemed necessary, so I settled in for an evening of keeping the folks entertained.

Around 58 minutes later I'm running out of material. I launch into a story about Son. Son is notorious for refusing to wear underpants. I have told him that if he gets caught in public without underwear, I will go to prison. But apparently the freedom of his junk is more important than the freedom of his mother. He frequently goes commando, and I caught him red-handed at swimming last week.

"Ugh," Mother grunts. "That is such a guy thing." And to emphasize her belief, she jerks a thumb at my dad.

Now, it's close to midnight, and the poor dude has been dozing in his chair. But this brings him semi-awake enough to ask, "Who?"

"Well, not you, but men," Ma intones. "Like everyone wants to see their penis."

Fortunately, my mom is a public speaker, so she said "penis" loud enough for an audience of 200 to hear. Just as fortunately, the doctor chose that moment to appear. She was going home, and not because she was loudly gesticulating about men' s packages. She was better, so she was free. As free as men's genitals, apparently.

Twenty-four hours later, I was again fantasizing about the nirvana from Buckingham Vineyards when my phone rang. It seems Mother's blood work from Friday had grown bacteria.

Once again, Husband packed me off to the ER. This time, I hit Starbucks for some liquid fortification. When I arrived, the doctor stopped by to explain that the bacteremia is most likely from a primary infection in the urine.

Mother is a medical person too. She points out that she's a very good girl when she wipes. "I wipe the right way," she argues.

"Make sure that's in her history," I quip.

"All over it," the doctor shoots back.

After he leaves, I'm treated to a detailed itinerary of Mom's bathroom habits. Detailed. I have two family members in the hospital and a zero blood alcohol level. How is this the conversation?

Visiting on Sunday, she confesses that perhaps she could do better, and I'm again treated to a rundown of what goes in the bathroom at my parent's house. Maybe she thinks it's something every medical proxy should know.

After Mom was home, I called to check in. "Well," she says, "I had to have a talk with the cat. He's constipated...."

Oh, good. More bathroom habits.

NEW! Pope-pourri's Binge of the Week!
This week's recommendation is the FX series Justified. When federal marshall Raylan Givens ("Think The Fugitive," he tells us) is busted from Miami back to his hometown in Kentucky, he has to deal with his small-time crook father, his big-time crook bestie, and more than a few pretty girls (read: lots of sex). A dose of dry wit and the totally adorable Timothy Olyphant make for a fun, fast binge. Warning: You'll want a whiskey with every episode. And I don't even drink whiskey.