A week ago my mom fell and broke her right arm and her tailbone. She was on her way over to have supper with us, a roasted cauliflower penne dish and a loaf of Italian bread in the oven, the table set with holiday plates and napkins, the so so tall Christmas tree lit, colored lights on the railing in the entryway, the dogs in their crates so that they could not get underfoot and trip her.

Accidents happen though. This wasn’t a terrible fall, but there would be no good fall for my mom. It could have been her hip. It could have been a serious concussion. She could have fallen further. Our house has no entry without stairs, perched on a small hill here in Lancaster County, no chance of flooding but also no chance of a simple walk to our main floor, not, perhaps, the house anyone could easily grow old in, assuming at some point that stairs for all of us will become a problem.

And seeing my mom on the ground, helping her up, getting her into our wheelchair, realizing we needed an ambulance and calling 911, that time, the flashing lights pulling into the driveway, the EMTs bringing the gurney to the front door, deciding on which hospital to use, all of that, those moments that I would think might wreck me, might overcome the dam put in place years ago for such emergencies.

Yet there was none of that. For five days, the long stay in the emergency room waiting for a bed, the two nights on the ortho floor, back and forth, talking to doctors and nurses and seeing mom in pain, texting my family and close friends mom’s progress and condition, all of that and not one tear. Not one moment where I felt overwhelmed, that I was not able to handle whatever came my way.

Even the first day at the nursing and rehabilitation center, I managed, I felt confident of the decisions we had made. 

And then, on Sunday morning, six days after the fall, that all collapsed, a house of get-well-soon cards. It was not about the physical pain mom was enduring, the broken arm, the pain in her right leg, the uncomfortable bed. None of that.

For my mom as well, none of that truly crushed her. Though not thriving, she endured.

It was, instead, the one thing for which none of us can truly prepare, that my mom of all people I know, who has the kindest heart and whose path through the world is designed to pass without interference with anyone’s happiness, to pass without causing any harm to person or animal or creature, so much so that she carries fear with her at almost all times of saying the wrong thing to someone, of being inconsiderate, of even notice of her someone offending others.

The term for this one thing is hard to pinpoint. Chaos. Meanness. Selfishness. Brutishness. Inconsideration. Bullying. 

Mom’s roommate from the start clearly loved to talk. I knew more about her after a half hour than I know about many of my close acquaintances. I knew where her children lived, how many great-grandchildren she had from just one son, how they sold their house to a young Amishman, how much she disliked the facility, how difficult it was to find help, and of the help that was found they were the wrong type of help she preferred. She told me about her career and her husband’s career, the beauty of her home and swimming pool, promises her husband had made that he’d kept, about her ex-husband and the fifty years she had been married now. She called and told him to bring an extra donut for tomorrow and if mom liked coffee then cream or sugar? So black, good enough, and then offered me a pen with a level and a screwdriver hidden in the end. 

The talking was so effusive that mom and I had barely a moment to chat, to talk about her cat and whether he was eating and did he seem happy. And even when we did talk the roommate would join the conversation, talk about her life, ask a question then take the answer and compare it to her world, oh she has teachers in her family too, has such high regard for teachers, and for truckers, that’s a tough life, how she became a trucker along with her husband, pulling mobile homes all across the country.

Then yesterday I entered the room with a comfortable thermal mug of coffee to find mom crying. Not just crying, cowering. Almost hiding under the covers. The curtains drawn between the beds.

“I think I upset people last night,” she said. 

“Of course you didn’t, Mom,” I said. “You don’t upset people.”

“No, people were yelling, people were talking about me, people were yelling at me.”

“Really?” I said. “I just don’t see how that could happen.”

And then, “Your mother is horrible! She is a horrible woman! You are both horrible! And you are both liars and so mean and horrible!”

“Horrible! She’s just horrible!” The word horrible used as a weapon, a bludgeon, shots fired.

The tears poured out of mom’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said. “What did I do? What did I do? I’m not a horrible person.”

My voice stayed calm, somehow. “Stop saying that now. My mom is not horrible. She’s a wonderful person.”

“No, she is horrible, she is so horrible. I mean, she is a nice person, but she is horrible. Her snoring scared me so much last night, so much I couldn’t sleep! She’s just horrible! And you are too!”

And there it was. The disconnect from decency. A contradiction so grand, both horrible and nice, such sweeping condemnation, such chaos, there was not a discussion to be had. There was only my mom to caretake, to remove from the room, to protect from the bully on the bus that is just mad, all etymology in play for that word. 

And the thought of last night, my mom alone with this woman, the room filled with screaming and condemnation, in every way too much for her, and me.

In the home’s great room I sat with my mom in a wheelchair and called my wife, who heard my tears for the first time this past week, who knew the point that had been reached and rushed over. 

A dog attacked my wife on a run several years ago, knocking her down, biting, and would have mauled her save the owner tackling his dog like a linebacker. Brutality out of thin air. More than unexpected. Unimaginable.

And so this attack was. For my mom nothing physical could be worse. 

But words leave no trace of themselves. No blood on the blankets. No marks on the walls.

Words cannot be tied to a leash. There is no fence to hold them in. 

As my mom left the room that afternoon, the roommate gaslit the room with concern for my mom’s health. That’s why she was so upset this morning, because she was worried my mom might die.

“It’s a blessing really,” I said as we left, “that she woke you last night.”

“Yes, that’s right! Of course! I only ever was worried about her. Maybe she can stop down and visit.” 

And I walked with my mom down the hall, my emotions not in check, distance between falls and monsters and hope all growing, wondering out loud why this winter isn’t colder and when will it snow again, and thank God for small blessings, however tiny, amazed that coffee in a thermal mug can stay warm for hours and hours and hours, unlike hate, which starts and ends cold but is not so easily washed down the drain.