Mom has a little orange bag. It's cute. It has Snoopy on it. Mom uses it to tote her radio and headphones, bell, cell phone, and miscellaneous other items. Mom is very attached to the bag. She takes it everywhere with her. Going to sit by the window? Take the bag. Going for a nap? Take the bag. Going outside? Take the bag. Going to watch your program? Take the bag. You get the idea.
Mom has a crusty growth on her arm. It is not cute. It is the kind of thing that makes little children afraid of old people. It has sort of a circular area about 1/2 inch around, and out of that sticks a cone shaped growth about 1/4 inch high. I'm saying it's nasty. In her days of getting out and about, Mom had the doctor cut it off. It grew back. So now, Mom picks at it. As she sits by the window or lies in bed, she squeezes the raised part and twists it. It gives me the shivers, but what can I do?
Today after her morning nap, Mom showed me her arm and said, "Hey, Gwen. It's gone." Sure enough, the cone-shaped growth was gone. Mom said, "It just fell off." Uh, no. I countered with, "It didn't fall off! You picked at it until it came off." Mom said, "Well, it was falling off. I just helped it along." And she's very optimistic about it. "When the doc cut it off, it came back. I don't think it will come back this time." All well and good.
Then it occurred to me to ask, "Where is it now?"
And Mom answered, "I believe it's in my bag."
Cue the horror movie music.
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