Real life is like a Kurt Vonnegut novel. You know, you are going along living your life, and suddenly you get popped over into another life. I’m out in California, spending the week with my mother, who in February found herself invalid, on oxygen and very weak, needing a walker to get around the house. She has pulmonary fibrosis and the prognosis is unclear. She was hit with an infection that laid her low, and she might be able to get back to relative independence. And she might not. A year ago she was still taking several international trips a year, and six months ago she was still running around and taking domestic trips. For me, it’s being transported from the world where I am way behind in my writing, have papers to grade and still don’t have the taxes done to another place where there isn’t really that much to do, just hang out and be ready to offer occasional assistance.