Face Bones

After Mom got home from rehab, a visiting nurse deduced that she might have a touch of pneumonia so we scheduled a visit with the nurse practitioner at the medical center.

We’d just settled into chairs in the waiting room when Mom spied a magazine on the table to my right.

“What’s that big thing over there?” she asked, squinting in the general direction of the end table.

“It’s a magazine,” I said as I held it up for her to see.

She stared at it for a moment and then gave it a disinterested “harumph.”

“Do you want to look at it?” I asked.

“No, I’m too old,” she replied.

“What do you mean too old?” I asked, looking at the large headline and picture on the cover.  “You know about this.  You take a pill for it every Saturday,”

“For my face?” she asked, obviously more confused that I was.

“No, for your bones,” I said.

“Oh, well, I guess my face has bones too,” she responded, looking thoughtful.

“So, do you want to look at the magazine?”

“No, my face is fine,” she answered with finality.

“Okay,” I replied, putting the “Faces of Osteoporosis” magazine back on the end table.



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