And It Just Keeps Coming

Mom's bad day is a blood clot on her lung.  Not unexpected, but, well, hell.

I walked with her bed down to the CT.

She was a little groggy. 

But she had enough wit to see the guy transporting her bed, a long-haired slender young guy named Scott.

She pointed at him and whispered something.

I bent down and heard her croak through her throat tube as she pointed over her shoulder at Scott: "Legolas."

Now she's back in bed, holding to her pain-button. 

I can hear her breathing.