My Old Mom.

She's almost halfway through her 96th year, so when we got an email from my brother last week saying that she was in the hospital again with a poor chance of recovering, we got on a plane immediately. Southwest, with some prodding from O, was gracious enough to let us change the tickets we had for later this month to the very next day at no upcharge. Thanks, Southwest.

When we first visited her, she was emaciated and incoherent, but her face lit up when she recognized us. She can barely talk, but she managed to ask, "How are you?"

"We're good," said O.

Mom scowled. "You're not good. You're well," she croaked, an English teacher to the last.

O and I smiled at each other and said simultaneously, "She's back!"

Phyllis Jane in happier days.

Over the few days we were there, she gradually got better, with more moments of lucidity, and a slowly improving appetite. Now, a week and a half later, she's been moved out of the hospital into rehab, where they hope to get her eating and walking again.

But it's touch and go. She still isn't eating enough to sustain herself, though her appetite is better. The doctor says she'll be in rehab for two weeks, then we'll have to make a decision about next steps. If she recovers further, she can go to a managed care facility, or even home, though that's a long shot at this point. If she continues to decline, then she'll go into hospice care--at home, we hope.

So we wait and see, wait and see.

P.