Last year about this time, my then 93 year old mother and I had a little conversation that went something like this:
Me: I've been limping around with this darned plantar fasciitis. How about you, mom? How are you doing? Does anything hurt?
Mom (after pondering a moment): No...nothing hurts.
Me: You're kidding me! I wish I could say that.
Mom: The doctor says I have a bad valve, but with these new, non-invasive surgeries, he can fix it. I asked him what that meant.
Me: So what did he say?
Mom: If I didn't have the surgery, I probably have less than a year to live. If I had the surgery, he could pretty well guarantee me another five or six years. I told him, "I can hardly see to read, I can't taste my food, I can't hear, and have trouble getting around. Why would I want five or six more years of that?"
Me: So you aren't going to have the surgery?
Mom: Nope.
That conversation was more than a year ago, and today for Thanksgiving, Linda and I drove to Churchville where she lives with my brother and sister in law. We had a wonderful dinner with her, my brother and sister in law, one of their sons with his wife and children, my sister, and one of her daughters, son in law, and their kids. Mom is mentally as sharp as ever, and for someone who can't taste her food, did pretty well with the turkey and all the trimmings. Usually we are pretty upset when the doctor gets a diagnosis wrong, but not this time. Next week, we'll go back to celebrate the Bailey Christmas. Our kids and grandkids will join us, and we will again give thanks for the 94 years mom has blessed this earth.
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