She’s alive. She’s alive. That’s my mantra as I (finally!) get to Mt. Olive and (finally!) find a parking space. Something in the universe has shifted. I sense it, that the blissful era I took for granted in which my mother was resilient and healthy is forever gone. More than ever I need to be in control and calm. I need to show everyone—including Dad and especially Mom—that this is no big deal. People recover from strokes all the time and go on to lead productive lives. “Betty Mueller. I’m not seeing her on my sheet.” An ancient volunteer at the patient inquiry desk runs a finger down a list of names. Don’t they have computers for this? “Are you sure she’s been admitted?” A dart of panic surges through me. Nonsense. There’ll be none of that mom-is-dying thinking, I tell myself, asking the snow white-haired man if perhaps my mother is under Elizabeth Mueller, only to find that he thought I’d said Nooler. (A first. Never have I or anyone in my family been confused for “Noolers.”) “Intensive care,”
