I was awoken a few days ago by a 6am call on my house phone. Yes, I still have a land line in my house. It is the crazy person in me that feels like I need it as a safeguard. Anyway, I know it is something serious when I get a call so early on my home phone. I bolted downstairs waiting to hear that my mother, who has heart problems, was in the hospital again. Instead, it was my mother-in-law’s phone number that appeared on the caller ID. She lives alone, so I knew it had to be her. From our conversation from the day before, I knew that she had thrown her back out and was in pain. Well, she told me that the pain was excruciating and that she couldn’t walk. She hadn’t gotten any sleep and was utterly miserable. She asked me to take her to the emergency room to make sure that she hadn’t caused serious damage to herself.
My first thought, after being relieved, was that I could bring my laptop and get some writing done. I was blessed to have a few hours to myself to work on my second novella.
My immediate thinking was that I could work on my story while my poor mother-in-law was laid up, in pain, in a fluorescent ridden, impersonal, cold emergency room. She was suffering and all I could think about was having some quiet time to work on my story. Who thinks that way? A writer of course. I felt a little guilty about it. I got over it.