So Sunday night I didn't answer the phone.
No surprise to anyone, really, because I didn't really talk to anyone all during Thanksgiving Break.
Maybe I was still dealing with Beth's suicide, maybe I was tired, who knows.
I just know I sat still in a shadow, unreachable.
I didn't answer the phone when my brother called.
He and I love each other alot. Very much.
We love each other in the "only need to talk once or twice a year" kind of way.
The last time we spoke on the phone was when my dad was in the hospital back in June.
I didn't answer the phone because I just knew it was something not so good.
Finally someone got through to me.
Abuela was in the hospital.
Cardiac ICU.
No, don't come down yet.
Just stay in Tallahassee, wait.
Great. So I did stay here.
And I made up my own rules.
If I couldn't go down there, then no one could call me with bad news.
Not until after 5pm, after teaching, after lecturing, after I was a grownup all day.
Then, of course, I'd be ready to handle it.
On Monday I threw on my lucky airport dress, and taught my AMH 2020 class then took a field trip to FSU to lecture on Teaching College History.
On my way home, I called my mom and talked to Abuela.
She sounded tired and distracted.
Of course, she's a celebrity in that hospital, probably getting foot rubs and extra morphine.
Lucky her.
I told her I loved her and that I'd see her when I drive down with the kids on December 18.
She laughed and told me I'd better bring down the keys, soon. She's ready to drive.
I think -- although I don't want to -- that I understood her, completely.
