Hurricane

“To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow.”  ― Maya Angelou

My mother is not a hurricane, exactly: she is a careful, purposeful, intense yet controlled force. She is intelligent, well-read and well-traveled; and she is abundantly charming, especially to strangers. I have inherited from her a love of fancy words used perhaps excessively in ordinary conversation. She is, above all, extremely proper. She is also intensely private, and so I do not write about her often. I'll make this brief exception today. 

She had a medical issue a few weeks back which would normally be fairly easily addressed. Unfortunately she had an unusual complication, which led to a week-long stint in the hospital, followed by a very slow recovery at home, and discovery of a complication-of-the-complication yesterday which will mean another week in the hospital. None of it appears life-threatening; she is, however, not a young woman, and medical issues are more difficult with age. 

When I moved to this desert land some 22 years ago, I did not think about what would happen in the  case of such events. It is hard to watch from a distance. I have already made plans to travel the 2,000 miles to visit in a few weeks, but do not know whether I should visit earlier or hold tight to the current plans. I do not know what to do. I do not know what to say.  

Uncertainty is my foe. I always like to know what to expect.  

I have always though of my mother as eternal, never-changing, always there, like the weather. I cannot imagine otherwise. 

Get well soon, Mom.