My 64-year-old mother packed her weekend bag and boarded a train to visit my twin sister. My twin is an actress living in Oslo. The train journey is a nice two-hour trip through the beautiful Norwegian countryside. Drinking coffee, smoking, and reading, it is a privilege.
On the second Monday, when she returned home, my mom called me. I live in New York, but we talk on the phone at least once a week. She introduced me to her weekend in Oslo. Besides enjoying family and her little grandson, my mother also met interesting people, visited the theater, and enjoyed fine dining.
At the end of our phone conversation, she added another story.
She told me that in Oslo, when my twin was out on errands, she experienced a brief episode and felt like she had failed. Her balance was gone, her vision was blurry, and she had difficulty speaking. She said that when she tried to make a call, her right hand felt numb.
I listened as my mom told the story.
Thankful that the symptomatic episode was brief, we both felt relieved that she was feeling much better now and her bodily functions had returned to normal.
By the end of the same week, another sister, a nurse living in another town, called me. She said as calmly as possible that mom was in the hospital. She had suffered a stroke. My sister said that although she couldn't speak and was paralyzed on her right side and unable to walk, her mind was clear. She added, "And she is in good spirits."
On the other side of the Atlantic, my life was busy. I was in my 30s, with three kids, a part-time nursing student, and a weekend tour guide in New York City. My husband worked in Manhattan and commuted four hours daily back and forth from Long Island where we lived.
Immediately, I began to skip hoops to rearrange my daily activities. My husband, kids, and everyone else had to manage without me. My mom needed me.
Less than two days later, I was sitting in Norway, by my mother's bedside. That was the same hospital where I had a family.