It's Good to be Right

Sitting in her hospital bed yesterday evening, my mother finally conceded that I had been right all along about her going to the doctor.
"I DON'T FEEL LIKE GOING TO THE DOCTOR!" she had screamed at me Monday morning when I told her it was no longer an option.
Fighting back tears while wondering why everything has to be such a struggle, I told her, "Well, that's the point. People go to the doctor when they don't feel well." The fight continued at the doctor's office. "I don't want to go to the hospital," she said in more of a restrained voice to the doctor and his nurse. While doc waivered and conceded that antibiotics and bed rest at home might help, the nurse wouldn't back down. Thank God for Joan, who finally told her, "Imagine how Kerri would feel if you went home and something happened to you. Imagine how we all would feel." Joan finally reached her.
Last night, after her diagnosis of pnemonia, a day of antibiotics, fluids and breathing treatments, we were able to laugh about the previous day.
"Heart attacks and pnemonia are two things that can't be cured at home," I told her, referring to the time three years ago she waited hours before telling me of the pain that consumed her whole left side. "You know you've given me legal custody of your care. I won't wait next time."
She replied with the same amount of banter, "You aren't the boss of me."
We were smiling, but I wasn't kidding.
I'm weary.
I love my mom unconditionally and it is hard enough to accept the unevitable of her growing even more ill and weak as her chronic illness and age advances.
The fight shouldn't be between us, but against the next crisis that surely will come.