Real Life. Really.

My mother called me from the hospital in the middle of the night last night wanting me to come up. She was concerned that "they" were trying to kill her. After I threw on some clothes and was on my way there, I wondered if "they" could use my help in that endeavor.

Considering the number of times, and the different groups of hospital personnel over the last three and a half months who have been out to get my mother, I wonder that nobody has succeeded by now. She assures me she isn't hallucinating.

I didn't make it past the security desk at the hospital, which, considering the lateness of the hour, isn't surprising. The guard called the nursing desk on my mother's floor and they said she was asleep, which was certainly not true, since she called me again just as I got to my car. When I told her I hadn't brought Daddy with me - I figured he needed the sleep more than she needed both of us to come - she decided it was just as well I hadn't gotten into the hospital, since it wouldn't have been safe for me alone. All I can figure is that she's had horror-movie kinds of dreams, or is remembering the so-called "Angel of Mercy" who was euthanizing elderly patients over in Glendale a few years ago.

She's due to get sent back to my house tomorrow, and I am, justifiably, I think, nervous. When I saw her this morning, she was awaiting a new IV so she could get intravenous morphine. She ended up in the hospital this time because her pain got out of control, so I hope we'll have something more effective to use than Vicodin when we get her out. She has an appointment with a pain specialist tomorrow afternoon; maybe he can work miracles.