Unlike Hosni Mubarak, I can tell that I've overstayed my welcome. Not by much, a day or two at most. There haven't been any protests or yelling or anything. Yet. So it's all for the best that I'm leaving tomorrow.
Truth be told, ever since my mother regained her super powers at the hair salon the other day, she hasn't needed much, if any, assistance from me. The only purpose I serve now is transportation.
My father hasn't driven in years, for good reason. When the call first came down three weeks ago, the only prospect as frightening as my mother's surgery was the idea of my father back behind the wheel. My mother isn't all that much better, but she hasn't hit anything lately. As far as I know. But for better or worse, she's been the wheels behind this operation for the past 10 years.
From the start, the doctors and surgeons warned her she wouldn't be able to drive for 5 or 6 weeks. It isn't because she isn't physically able to, it's a safety precaution. To perform the heart surgery, they had to saw through her breast bone, or "crack her open like a lobster" as one nurse tactfully put it. That takes at least 5 weeks to heal and until then they don't want her driving. Even a minor fender bender, something my mother knows all to well, could deploy the airbags and without the protection of a fully healed breastbone, it could conceivably kill her.
We explored various options, since me staying here 6 weeks isn't feasible. My parents are both too proud to apply for the disability access program, so we finally settled on a combination of friends, neighbors and cabs.
But then on Thursday, her surgeon spilled the beans and she finally realized she that, technically, she was able to drive, it just wasn't wise or safe, two things she's never let stand in her way.
They both swear to me they won't drive once I leave, but I know better. By the time I get home to Bako I'm guessing they'll already have a couple of trips under their belts.
