5:45 am: Is my site name that arcane?

When I woke up today, my flight itinerary had not arrived by e-mail. I called to find out the problem and to get my flight numbers. The agent looked it up and said that the e-mail had bounced back to them as an invalid e-mail address. Curious, I asked her to read my e-mail address back to me from her screen. The answer?

Never underestimate the power of illiteracy.

7:50 am: Never underestimate the power of cramps, either. I'm on an 11:20 flight now. If I missed the 8:20 shuttle because of cramps, do I still get credit for having gotten up at 5:30 for it?

I just spoke with a nurse in the ICU. She said that my mother has been improving steadily all night. I'm so grateful I could cry.

5:30 pm, DC: I went straight from the airport to the hospital. The surgeon said that she's doing really well. She went into the OR with a temperature of 103.5 degrees and is now back around normal. The surgery was fine, no complications, her vital signs are strong, and she's just been resting, drifting in and out of sleep.

I thought I was prepared to see my mother in an ICU, but apparently not. I hope the shock didn't register on my face when I found her. It's scary to see someone you love covered with tubes and wires and IVs. Her stomach is distended like a basketball and the rest of her has shrunk, sort of. Maybe it's just the odd feeling of standing over my mother with my hand on her forehead.

Usually, when I come to DC, my mother is here. In the house. The clean house. She even leaves a book and some chocolate on my bed (I'm serious; isn't that amazing?). But she was sick and alone for days before she went to the hospital, so the house is (comparatively) a mess. Mail and papers are piled on the table, her bed is unmade, the cat boxes need to be cleaned. It's sort of eerie.

Don't for a minute think that I'm judging my mother on this. She might have died if she'd waited even six hours longer to get to the hospital; they bumped everyone out of the operating room for her emergency surgery. Of course the house is a mess. It's just so strange.

I fed the cats. It's comforting to hear their tags jingling. Griffin gave me her usual effusive greeting, which made me smile. She's so vocal and enthusiastic. Fontaine is more reserved, but he was the one to meet me at the door when I arrived. When I talked to my father tonight, he mentioned that it must feel strange to be alone in the house. But I'm not alone. Griffy and Fontaine are here.

And my mother won't be out of the hospital for another week. In the meanwhile, I'll run the dishwasher (what a luxury!), vacuum the second floor, put fresh sheets on her bed. I'll feel better when the house is clean; it will feel like my house again, the house where I grew up.

I love you, Mom.