Hibernation Fever
I’m in rehab or as I like to call it Connecticut. I’m staying with my mother through the holidays. It’s just me, her, Clancy the 200 pound golden retriever, and Tango that orange and white alley cat that likes to hide underneath my bed despite the fact that I’m allergic to her.
My mother shattered her shoulder and now she can’t open water bottles and brush her teeth without assistance.
It’s three degrees outside. Which means that during the day there’s nothing to do but to stay inside and stare out the window and guess if the mailman is going to be able to make it up the snow covered hill to her house.
Now I’m in the rec room where my mother and I gather every night after dinner and watch Jeopardy. Neither of us can answer the questions. So the conversation inevitably turns to my childhood, my mother’s three divorces, and the loss of her inner child.
And there we spend the night, two patients in our own self inflicted family therapy. She on one couch. I’m on the other. Both waiting for the big breakthrough that we know will never come.
