A couple of weeks before my mom passed away, she was taken to the hospital in the middle of the night with a very low oxygen level. Her vitals were not good and she was unresponsive. We didn’t think she was going to survive the night. She rallied and the next day was alert, although very confused, and in good spirits.
She knew who we were and was having no problem keeping a conversation going. She was telling stories. Now, these stories made perfect sense to her, but to us? Not so much. We think she was partly reaching back into her past and partly recalling dreams she had had.
Anyhow, I kept asking her questions. She would talk about certain people and I would ask who they were. She would talk about places and I would want to know if they were from her growing up years or ours. She started getting annoyed at me. She was talking about going to a certain house and I asked, “Which house?” She replied, “The FIRST house!” That’s kind of how the conversations were going. I was careful not to correct her. If she was in her childhood, or early adulthood, that was fine. I just wanted to find out more about those times.
I guess I asked one too many questions and she turned her head away from me, rolled her eyes and said, “If I lose my mind, it will be Laura’s fault!”
We laughed and laughed. It was a really good day.