To the hospital
Timetables are useful, and so are routines. Which now include visiting the hospital most days to visit my Mum. I have driven myself there, but the difficulties of obtaining parking are almost insurmountable. (What do I do if, having reached the hospital, I can find no-where to park?) So now I get taxis and am grateful that I can relax in the back of the cab for fifteen minutes each way. If I time it right, I can avoid the worst traffic clutter and shorten the journey.
I really cannot fault my mother’s medical treatment at the Western General. Having such an apparently intriguing case on their hands, the treatment appears to be tiptoe kid gloves careful, and the staff are uniformly kind, helpful and easy to get on with. And I say that as someone who has good reason to loathe hospitals and to never want to go into one again.
Yes, I can identify with the tedium. It amuses me to hear my mother complaining of boredom and frustration, but I refrain from saying, “I do know, I do understand…” as that would only make her feel worse: without prompting from me, she remembers my hospital admissions, which she herself sanctioned, and concedes that yes, I do understand, and yes, I have been patient. That was nice to hear, today. (Increasingly, I find I can make a point by being silent and letting it speak for itself.)
So yes, I have reason to hate hospitals, but I no longer do. Which for me is not so much a turnaround as a revolution of cosmic proportions. A whole arena of paranoia that I have, apparently, let go. For which, yet again, I am immensely grateful to my Mum. Thanks be to mothers for the lessons they teach their children.