About a week ago, I spent almost an hour sitting at the foot of a hospital bed while its occupant slept.
During the time, I was reminded of a time when I, as a 6-year old, spent four nights in the hospital for some surgery. Every morning, when I awoke, at the foot of the bed, sitting in a chair, was my mother. I really don’t recall a whole lot about the days there in the hospital, but I also don’t recall any of them in which she wasn’t right there in the room with me.
As that recent hour drew toward an end, the phone in the room rang. I got up and answered it, and as I talked briefly, my mother turned toward the phone and said, “Mike!” having assumed that the person sitting in the chair was my dad.
