I got a text message this morning. My mom fell over her dog, shattered her shoulder, and she’s in the hospital.

I read the text once. I read it again. And then I went and walked my dog. I should have called right away. Maybe I didn’t because I wasn’t awake enough to deal with an emergency. Or maybe it was that I just didn’t know how to respond.

The thought of my mother in a hospital, with doctors running around, and my mom in a gurney and gown with a sling wrapped around her shoulder didn’t seem nearly as disturbing as the thought of her alone in a house that no one else lives in, sprawled out on her bedroom floor, in pain, and no one to help her. The thought was so sad and horrific, that I didn’t know how to react. So for an hour, I did nothing.

I pretended it hadn’t happened.

That she wasn’t injured. That she didn’t live alone. That she was still the young mother that I remembered her to be.

But when the fantasy faded and the truth was to real to ignore, I picked up the phone and called.

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