Day 9: Fighting with us

This is a stock photo. In reality, Ma Schmidt threatened
us with a wooden stool.

Ma Schmidt slept soundly from Friday evening straight through until 1:30 this afternoon, Saturday. Then she woke up and wanted water. For an hour or so she was pretty coherent, and even had a sense of humor. Then she began to get upset and called for her mother. 

"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.