Mother's Rumor Mill

I was in the printing office when I got a phone call from home. My wife was desperately trying to reach me. “You’d better come home right away,” she said. “Your mother’s died. They found her lying in her bed.”

One day when I was in the middle of a lecture, Marie, the secretary in the Registrar’s office, called me out of the classroom. “You’d better come downstairs right away,” she said.

Dr. Custer was waiting for me at the foot of the long staircase, a worried look on his face. I knew what was coming. “Blaine, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this. We got word a few minutes ago that—your mother has—passed on.”

I was taking a shower last Wednesday when the phone rang. It was Lottie, our cleaning lady at Mother’s house. I thought for a time she was laughing; her voice sounded like that. “Oh dear, Blaine, Mother’s gone. Come quick. She’s lying here by her chair. Come quick--!”

Mother has died so many times, I’ve lost count. She keeps dying almost every day. Whenever I’m busy doing anything at all, wherever I go, she up and dies again. If she keeps it up, I’m afraid it’s going to endanger her health. I’ve told her about it several times, but to no avail. “Mother,” I’ve said, “you’ve just got to stop killing yourself.”