He’s leaving Friday evening for Holland. Margrit’s had a series of neurological incidents of some sort: they aren’t TIAs exactly (Transient Ischemic Attacks) because she has lasting effects that aren’t transient; they don’t seem to be strokes, because her condition is variable, improving and and worsening from day to day; and it doesn’t seem to be her heart, because they’ve done all the tests. (This is third or fourth hand, of course, and has gone through at least one translation. So I am assuming a certain amount of the broken telephone phenomenon.)
But whatever they are, they are getting worse and more frequent. Up from a yearly fainting spell to attacks of paralysis every other day. Compared to yesterday, today her leg is the same, her arm is worse but her speech is better; last week she was speaking just fine and walking with a cane, and had bought tickets to come visit us in Montreal.
Anyway, Mark is off. Mixed feelings. Not wanting to assume the worst, or to give the impression that he is, or to have his mental image of his mother replaced with a sick person, or to get her so excited she has a heart attack, or to become impatient for her to die and get the suspense over with. But feeling that this is an important time and that he should be there.