It's memorial weekend, not a great time to be in the ER, not that there's ever a good time to be in the ER. But you can tell by a feeling in the air and the dozens of gurneys lining the hallways that they are preparing for war. Not military war, but the potential fight for life.

The kind of fight for life that brings a 90 something year old grandparent in with chest pains and shortness of breath. The kind of fight for life of an expectant mother pushed through the doors atop a wheelchair in full labor.

There is guy in the parking lot who wants to give up his fight. He says he wants to kill himself and the hospital discharged him.

We're here as my mother is fighting for life against an unnamed force. One that causes weakness, dizziness, vomiting, diarrhea, and a dramatic drop in body temperature. WBC count points to infection, but the results are not in to indicate where the infection could be.

This on the heels of the news that my best friend and chosen brother has a month or less to live. On the heels of me deciding that I can't make the farewell trip to Florida, and my husband deciding that he needs to make that trip.

Jesus it's loud in this room! The constant sound of rushing air, the alarms on the patient monitors, the blood pressure cuffs inflating without human prompts. Yet she sleeps. She's exhausted. By the chills, by the vomiting, and the constant shitting. I'm glad she can finally get a little uninterrupted sleep even if it only lasts until the next time they have to take blood or vitals.

I tucked the blankets and my jacket around her as she shivers and she presses my warm hand against her cold cheek with her even colder hand. “You're taking care of me.”

You took care of me for years, I guess it's time I return the favor.