May 24: My Mother, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

My mother was taken by ambulance to the hospital this evening.

Today started out normally.  Church in the morning.  I played in the band.  I sang with the choir.  Celebrated Pentecost Sunday.  There was cake after the service in honor of the church's high school graduates.  It was a good time.  Lots of smiles and photographs.

This afternoon, I cut up a watermelon for a barbecue at my parents' house.  My sister grilled some bratwursts and hot dogs.  Dinner was on the table.  My mother got out of her chair, grabbed her walker, and headed toward the dining room.

The next thing I heard was my wife yelling, "She's going down, she's going down!"  I turned around, and my mother was on the floor, unresponsive.  After a few moments, she started talking, but her speech was slurred.  She kept saying that all she wanted to do was go to sleep.

I called 911.  My mother was combative and confused when the EMS guys started helping her.  Eventually, they got her out of the house and to the ambulance.  Her blood pressure was 80 over 40, and she kept saying, "I just want to sleep."

I'm home now.  My son is in bed.  The doctors are still running tests on my mother.  They don't know what's wrong.  She could be dehydrated.  She could have had a stroke.  I'm waiting for the phone to ring with some news.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired on a Memorial Day weekend two years ago.

May 25, 2013:  Beatnik Saturday, New Poem, "Extreme Unction," New Cartoon

This Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, I'm looking forward to three days of relaxation.  Well, I'll relax as much as I can relax.  I still have to play the pipe organ for two church services (one tonight, one tomorrow morning).  I still have to write some blog posts, and I have a book I want to finish reading this weekend.  That's my definition of relaxation.

I have a new poem for you today.  This one's been sitting and percolating in my head for a couple of weeks, slowly taking shape.

Saint Marty can't wait to have some barbecue this weekend.

Extreme Unction

Swaddled by AIDS in hospital bed.
Unlimbed by bombs in Afghanistan.
Unhinged by helix in mind.
Stunned by stroke, macheted by Hutu.
Unbreasted by cancer, unvoiced by dictator.
Addicted by birth, unmemoried by age.
Jack Kennedy at Parkland Memorial,
wide-eyed on the stretcher,
Jackie staring into his wrecked face.
Twenty six at Sandy Hook,
taken on a sunny December morning
just before Christmas break.
My father sits with them all,
the wounded, ruined, helpless,
waits for the priest's prayer and oil.
To the man in black, he whispers,
This is for my wife, accepts it,
carries it home on his forehead,
cupped in his palms, like winter
run-off.  He gives it to my mother,
pours it over her feet, legs, hands, head.
He hopes she will jump out of her chair
and start cooking him liver and onions
the way she did when they were first
married, standing in front of the stove,
singing a Doris Day song, hair wrapped
in a blue kerchief, hips swaying,
looking as if she will live forever.

Confessions of Saint Marty