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This is a stock photo. In reality, Ma Schmidt threatened us with a wooden stool. |
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Help me! Help me!"
We tried to get her to take her anxiety medication: well, she swallowed one pill but refused two more. Then she started calling for the police to come save her from us! There was a wooden stool sitting by her hospital bed. It was pretty uncomfortable, but I had used it to sit on whenever Schmidt was using the chair on the other side of her (and vice versa). Ma picked up the stool and brandished it as a shield or a weapon. So Schmidt and I backed away slowly, and let her rave until she ran down.
When she was exhausted, we helped her back into her normal recumbent position on the bed. By then she was puzzled and genuinely spooked by what had happened to her. "What was that about? Am I crazy?" Schmidt told her she had had a bad dream, and she said, "It was worse than that!" Finally she drifted back into sleep.
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