"Dad just called to tell me that Mom's not doing very well at all," she said. "She's not eating, her abdomen is distended and she's sleeping all of the time. He keeps saying it's the cancer."
I wasn't planning on going back up to Georgetown until Wednesday morning. With interviews and other things on my calendar for Monday and Tuesday, it seemed a practical choice at the time.
"I'm just going back up there today, I said, grabbing my car keys. "I already have my suitcase packed from the last time I was there, so I just need to throw a few things in the car and go. I can do my Monday morning phone interview from there as easily as I can do it anywhere. I'll call you when I get there tonight."
Dad called not long after. "Your mother's not doing well at all...she's not eating, and she's constipated. Her stomach is swollen, and she's delirious," he started.
I reminded him this was exactly what happened last February, when after days of urging, a CAT scan showed a large blockage in the colon.
"But she's had stool softeners, and she's had lots of fluids," he protested. "I'm not going to try to diagnose..."
"Dad, she had stool softeners, enemas -- everything -- the last time, and it still wasn't enough to loosen that blockage. It was high up in the colon, and they had to do some pretty interesting things to go in there to get it."
He was silent for a moment. "I guess your mother was in and out of the hospital several times during those weeks. The details of each visit are a little fuzzy to me now."
"Dad, I'm just going to drive up tonight," I said. "I'll be there after dinner, and we'll talk then."
He sounded surprised, and relieved. His voice told me that he was in no mood to be alone right now, and that his mind was replaying the events of just a few months ago, when he was certain she was too ill to survive.
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