Pooched...

Pooched...

Many of my regular readers know we had little scare last night with ma mère. What to my uneducated eyes looked like stroke turns out is probably hyperthyroid. Once the diagnosis came in the early this morning a bunch of facts clicked into place like the tumblers in a combination lock. But prior to that I lived through 14 intense hours. We're waiting for final confirmation and a doc visit first thing tomorrow morning, and then we're expecting them to release her. She wondered if she should call a cab for the ride home tomorrow morning, so you can see her sense of humor, unlike her dignity, was undamaged.

All in all, things couldn't have fallen apart in a better way, if that makes any sense. As we sat through what seemed like interminable waits for tests and test results last night we kept shaking our heads. One of those trite slogans that you see on church billboards that I tend to roll my eyes at but find myself puzzling over last night is 'Coincidences are what happens when God wishes to stay anonymous.'

Cynics shake your heads. It's OK. I'm not what you would call sure.

For now I'm relieved. Pooched. Sorry I missed the company's 25th anniversary bash, but grateful it all worked out as it did. And as I write this my neighbor's dog, loose from his normal tether, keeps sidling up to me to get a scratch on the top of his tan, slobbering head. I call him 'Buddy' because I don't know Spanish.