I’ve been spending a lot of time at the McDonald’s drive-thru lately.
My mom recently developed a habit of ingesting one double-cheeseburger a day. Here’s the thing to remember should you ever find yourself in the position of assisting my mother with her home hospice care:
She likes her double-cheeseburgers PLAIN.
“Make sure you tell them that you mean no sauce and no pickles and no lettuce or anything. Nothing except the burger, the bun, and the cheese. And promise me you’ll check them before you leave the McDonald’s. Okay, Mary? Okay??
And with that, I give you…. last night’s dream (pictured above) in which I was driven through the McD’s take-out window by police escort. I was threatened by an angry mob to my right, and the female cops didn’t want to shut the doors or windows on that side of their squad car.
I traded in my Southern California digs for this- to spend some quality time with my mom in chilly, Trump-lovin’ South Jersey. She’s now in stage four of, um… of the conditions that now qualify her for the large hospital bed sitting in the middle of her tiny living room, and a wonderful nurse’s aid that visits every weekday for an hour or so.
My daughterly duties involve a lot of wrapping and unwrapping lonnnnng bandages on her pain-filled legs.
Other than that, I mostly shuffle between her house and a Walmart that has its own zip code, a medium-sized McDonald’s, a ShopRite more sprawling than Los Angeles county, a Phriendly Pharmacy and the SuperWaWa™ (a must-have for any self-respecting, scrapple-eatin’ South Jersey community.) After that it’s home again to my mom to sport some “Ultra Latex Super Gloves” and change Mommy back into a Mummy.
This is my “home hospice hiatus” ya might say- administering morphine, hydrocodone, Xanax and other assorted, highly-prized, controlled-candy-substances.
That’s all for now. I’ll figure out what the dream “means” later. The mummy calls.