Page 22 of Moms of Mayhem
So, I stayed seated, my hands gripping the edge of the chair to keep them still.
“Don’t make me laugh,” she said once she was settled. “My ribs hurt like a little bitch. And don’t you dare say anything about my language. I’m hurt.”
I waved a hand over my bum leg and the crutches. “But I don’t get a pass?”
Her head tipped to the side, giving me that same stare that had gotten me to confess many wrongdoings over the years. “You’re my son. Can’t have anyone thinking your terrible behavior is a reflection of my parenting skills.”
“Even when I’m 37?”
“Even when you’re 87, I’ll still be your mother.”
I nodded, my lips pulling up in a smile. “Missed you, Mom.”
She reached forward, her trembling hand brushing my long hair off my face. “Not as much as I’ve missed you, my boy.”
“Knock knock,” someone said from the doorway.
A short woman in a white lab coat stepped in, clipboard in hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense clip,and her expression matched—sharp, efficient, like she didn’t waste time or words. As far as doctors went, she looked about as trustworthy as they came.
“Oh, good. You must be one of the sons.” She extended a hand. “I’m Dr. Miriam Navarro, head of Neurology.”
I stood awkwardly, crutches balanced under one arm, and shook her hand. Firm grip, calm eyes. I didn’t miss the quick glance she gave my leg brace before turning her attention to my mom.
“Lori, how are we feeling this morning?”
“Better now that Beckett’s here.” My mom beamed at me like nothing was wrong. Like this was a routine check-up and not a damn hospital room filled with machines and bruises. “Ready to break out of here.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dr. Navarro flipped through her notes. “Concussion protocol is complete, and your CT scans came back clear—no brain bleed, which is exactly what I wanted to see. Any changes in memory or mobility?”
“Other than this cast, no.” Mom held up her arm, the tremor in her fingers impossible to miss.
It wasn’t subtle. Wasn’t occasional. It was constant now.
My throat tightened.
I’d noticed it when she came down to Denver this summer—a shaky hand when she poured tea, a slight stiffness when she walked—but I brushed it off. Told myself it was age, maybe arthritis. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to see it.
“Good. And how are your ribs this morning?”
Mom tilted her head, wincing slightly. “Sore, but I’m okay. Ready to move.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve got orders for inpatient rehab for the next week. Slow and steady is the goal,”the doctor said, then turned her attention to me. “And what is your plan for her care after she’s discharged?”
I leaned forward, trying to shift the weight off my hip. “Well… she’ll go back home, right?”
Dr. Navarro pressed the clipboard to her chest and looked at me the way you look at someone who’s about to get a dose of reality they didn’t ask for.
“She’ll go home, yes. But that house needs to be retrofitted from top to bottom to make it safe. No stairs, no rugs, grab bars in the bathroom, cleared walkways, lighting upgrades—the works. And more importantly, I can’t recommend her living alone anymore. Or driving.”
“Well, I’m notthat?—”
“Lori,” Dr. Navarro said, holding up a hand, and somehow, miraculously, my mother went quiet.
“Don’t get me wrong—you’re still sharp as ever. But you’re also one of my most stubborn patients, and it’s time for a serious conversation. Your Parkinson’s is progressing. Right now, I’d say we’re at Stage 2, possibly even Stage 3 if this fall is to be taken seriously, which I very much think it should be. Living alone in a big ranch house miles outside the nearest town and almost an hour from the closest hospital is not advisable long term. You need home health, if not a full-time caregiver.”
My mom inhaled slowly, eyes falling to her lap, her fingers curling slightly as they trembled in her cast. “I hear you,” she murmured.
But I didn’t.
