Take Your Pick

“Son, if you think you can get away with not cleaning the litter box, forget it. I’ll be watching your every move. Once I’m dead, I don’t have to sleep. And that’s what you kids are waiting for. For me to fall asleep. Forever!”

“Mom, stop it. For heaven’s sake. Sleeping is what the doctor said you need to do more of. Rest! You need rest. And you need to calm down so you won’t have another stroke. Besides, we don’t have to clean the litter box anymore. We taught the cats to do it. Pressi the Persian holds the bag. Leggi the Manx does the scooping and Super Cot the ball-less multiple personality ties the knot and dumps the bag in the garbage.”

“Well, you must think I’m crazy if you think I believe that. I had a stroke, but I’m not crazy.”

“Leggi thinks you’re a control freak.”

“I’m just worried that once I’m dead nothing will get done around here.”

“Things will get done. Things are getting done as we speak.”

“Burning my breakfast is what’s getting done. My nose is being singed by smoke from the toast your sister’s charring. I don’t want her eggs either. Put in a walkway with those yellow pavers.”

“Now you’ve done it. Sis heard you and here she comes. You might want to run for it.”

“Well, Mariah! My breakfasts are not good enough for you?”

“You don’t call me Mariah! I am your mother!”

“What you want to remember is that you taught me to cook. Beginning with that lumpy cream-of-wheat you made me choke down every morning before school. Always yelling ‘Shut up and eat it!’ You never did care that I was on the verge of throwing up.”

“You don’t call me Mariah!”

“Sis, you’re getting her all riled up. Just finish fixing breakfast. Bring it in here. Never mind. I’ll do it.”

“Now that your favorite man-child is out of the room, Mariah, let me give you a piece of advice. Keep your mouth shut. Quit telling us what to do. We're all grown up now and you are on your way out. We will take care of you, but don’t tell us how to do it. Just because you’re old and sick doesn’t mean you’re any less the witch that raised us.”

“You don’t call me Mariah!”

“Okay, Mariah. Here comes your boy. I’ll leave you two alone.”

“You don’t call me Mariah!”

“Thanks for keeping Mom company, Sis. Nice job. Meet you later in front of the TV. Lakers® game.”

“Where’s the food I cooked?”

“Trashed it.”

“Okay, Mom. I found frozen pancakes and some wieners. Microwave food.”

“She better stop calling me Mariah. Mom. That’s who I am. I’m mom. She says I’m on my way out. Why did she say that?”

“Okay. Well . . . we can talk about that while you eat. Before the food gets cold.”

“Hmmm.”

“You like Doctor Limburger. Right? I mean he’s a nice guy and all. A good doctor. You trust him. Right?”

“I guess.”

“You see Doctor Limburger has some concerns about your condition. He thinks it’s a good idea to consider hospice.”

“Hospice?”

“Yeah. You know how you keep saying you’ll be watching our every move from heaven? Basically, hospice is a chance for you to decide, when push comes to shove, whether you want to go to heaven or to the hospital.”