A Call for Help
Last night at 12:30 AM we were awakened by a phone call. My husband answered and turned to me with the phone. “It’s for you,” he said. Still groggy from sleep, I hardly had time to speculate, but late night phone calls were rarely good. The last time I had dreaded receiving them was when my kids were teens and hadn’t come home yet. Now they both had families of their own and I wasn’t prone to worry. No, it wasn’t my kids this time. “This is Maria, at Atria,” the caller said, “I am sorry to bother you, but it’s your mother. She’s very confused. She just called the sheriff’s department and they called me.” It seems she thought she was in the hospital and couldn’t reach any nurses so she dialed 911! Oh no, I thought. “We have her calmed down now and are checking on her every half hour,” Maria said. So I wouldn’t have to go over there. As I handed my husband the phone I explained to him what had happened. “Your poor mother. Thank God her last name is different from ours,” was his only reply as he fell back to sleep.
I noticed today, when I went over to see her, (she was fine of course and had no memory of the previous night) someone had placed a large sign above her phone with the phone number of the front desk written in large black letters.