My mother is in room 3563 and it is 3:00 pm.
I am winding my way through hospital corridors
heading to the first floor dining room for lunch.

I am very hungry.

I am worn out.

My mother is very old and frail. I see that clearly
now. It is shocking.

The dining room’s food selections are depleted.

My mother’s care options are depleted.

The grill is closed. (Oh, they had baked chicken!)

The salad bar is also depleted and unappealing as well.

Every medical person refers to my mother’s “baseline,”
and the need to return to it. They don’t know what her
baseline was, though. They pelt me with such questions
as: “Does she recognize you?”

“Yes!” I proudly respond.

By the way, two of the doctors were so extraordinarily
good looking, it provided a welcome distraction.

Like a song, the expression “mother’s baseline”
reverberates on a mental loop. This provides me with a
continual source of amusement and befuddlement.

I make my food choice: a large slice of pepperoni pizza
with a side order of six single-stuffed Oreo cookies.

Despite the poor quality of the pizza, (and as a Chicago
native, I know a lot about pizza), I relish it. It fills me up.
The cookies are okay, too. I break them open and eat just
one cream-covered side.

Fortified by carbs and high fructose corn syrup, I retrace
my steps along the landscape-laden corridors and return to
room 3563, to my mother, who still knows me.