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the skunks of los feliz
Okay, I'm back. Two months to the day since my last post. 60 days, or so. What happened? I got one of those late night phone calls from the East Coast that you just fucking know is not good news, and it wasn't. The first words out of my sister's mouth: Don't freak out. The first words out of my mouth: Which one?
My mother. She had suffered a massive heart attack, but she was alive, being stabilized, and scheduled to move to a hospital in Atlanta. I hung up the phone, freaked out, calmed down, called C, hung up, and freaked out again. C pulled me together, booked me a flight to Atlanta, and by 1:15 in the morning I was winging my way east. What can you say about a 4 hour flight in which you're cut off from your cell phone, uncertain whether your mother will be amongst the living when you land?
Fucking limbo.
I called in as soon as my feet hit the slate gray carpet of the concourse. She was in Atlanta now, still stable. I grabbed a train into the city, and sat in a jet lagged stupor, staring out the window, watching as south Atlanta's rust and kudzu gave way to the northside's glass towers and clogged streets.
The hospital was less than a block from the train station. Within minutes I was in the Cardiac ICU waiting room with the rest of the slack-faced, blank-eyed unfortunates waiting for a thumbs up or down from the maddeningly elusive doctors who furtively dashed by, eyes glued to their feet.
As soon as visiting hours started, I went in to see her, tired, fried, and jagged on coffee. She looked like shit, but she never looked better to me. She had made it through a massive attack that had left 80% of her heart's surface scarred from lack of oxygen. Lucky to be alive. I kissed her forehead and cried.
People, call your Mom and tell her you love her.....


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