So my mother nearly decapitated herself.
She had me go to her apartment when she called from the hospital. I sat there all day, waiting to hear any news from her. When she called to say that the doctors deemed her well enough to go home but that the nurses had suggested that the extreme bruising on her legs might warrant an X-ray just to be sure, I told her that she must get a letter from an attending physician to the effect that she would be unable to travel. We had purchased cancellation insurance and would need such a letter to recoup some costs: at least for the airline tickets.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t gutted. I was. I didn’t know when such a trip would be possible again. It was really the perfect time for me. In-between jobs, just finished a course, and with money in the bank, saved from a small bequest when my father had died a few years ago, and scraps from scrupulous saving. But what could we do? I couldn’t go on my own because we had gone out of our way to find at least one off-the-beaten-path location and even the place we’d booked in Edinburgh was way outside the city centre. It would require someone who could drive. And she had wanted to show me Scotland where she’d been born.
All of which makes me sound like a selfish asshole. I know. But I did my darnedest not to let it show. When my mother said, “we’re still going to try to go,” I told her that was the shock talking and that it was preposterous to consider going. When she later determined that we would go, I suggested that she take me out of the equation: would she really go by herself in this condition? She said she would on account of the referendum. It’s a once in a lifetime occurrence, she said. She was going. And if I wanted to stay home and sulk, that was my problem.
I wasn’t expecting that.