After your mother threw me out, I went into a funk. I was drinking a lot. But I was still writing, some of my best work (more about that later). We didn’t talk much. She had a favorite TV show that was always on when I visited her of an evening. Murder She Wrote. She couldn’t follow the plots. We exchanged pleasantries. I didn’t usually have to help her off the toilet. But when she needed it I did that too.
But God has always been tapping on my shoulder. He did again that night. I woke up suddenly. There was no electricity. No reason for me to know that. My bedroom had no lights, along with no sheets or other niceties. But there was no sound from the street, no light. My customary silence and darkness had roused me. I ran downstairs.
Her breathing apparatus was not functioning. I removed the ones that weren’t working. I found an oxygen bottle and attached it directly to her face mask. She continued breathing. Then I went back to bed. Then she started boasting I’d saved her life. I was pissed off because everybody found out I was living with my mother. Snickers all round.
I was always the caretaker. I took care of Howard, George, Mark, Dave, Skip, Rob, Susie, dad, mother, your mother, you, and Pat, and the consensus always was and has been that I was only in it for myself.
Not true.
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