Hubby and I watch the boys every Thursday evening while our daughter goes to night class at the community college. Tonight, we were knee-deep in homework (i hate homework!) and the phone rang. It was my mother, sounding frantic and asking me to come over and take her to the hospital. I asked her where her husband was, and she said he couldn’t take her because he was sick himself. What was wrong with her? She was having muscle spasms all over she said. Immediately my irritated sensor kicked in. She’s been sick with stomach virus a couple days, and I would bet every single penny I own to my name that she took something to try to stop and when it didn’t work she took more until she’d taken too much. It’s her habit to do this, so I know from whence I speak on this matter.
Anyway, after I hung up, fully intending to head over there, Dave stepped in and said he’d go, since I needed to be here with the boys. Out the door he goes. I call mama’s house to let them know he’s on his way to take her. By the time he got there, she had already called an ambulance, and the paramedics were working on her. Hubby followed the ambulance to the hospital and is there even as I write this. He said he’d let me know whether I need to go over as soon as they see a doctor. He also mentioned she might have taken too much medicine and that she’s doing a lot of complaining about the folks who are trying to help her. Hmmmm.
I sigh. It’s part of the season of life we are in, I know. The Sandwich Generation season. Little ones needing us, and older parents needing us. Most days it’s not a problem. Some days it’s almost too much.
Life is what it is. You either roll with it, or you lose your mind. You know?