I talked to my mom today. She's dying. Again. This time it's a serious heart condition. The test results come in on Wednesday. When I was talking to her I couldn't help but be a bit afraid. But before I allowed myself to cry, I remembered a story. A story that changed my life. It's called The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf. Most of you know it. And if you don't, then your childhood was more abnormal than mine. But in either case, let's recap.
The little boy is in charge of a bunch of sheep. But watching sheep is boring. He thinks and one of the only ways to get the attention of the towns people is to yell out a warning of a wolf attack. "Crying wolf" would immediately evoke the sympathy and support of the towns people who would rush up the hill to his aide to help kill/scare away the wolf and rescue the sheep and the little boy. So, to gain attention (and a good laugh) he cried wolf. The towns people rush in, the boy laughs, and the towns people scold him as they leave. False alarm. Very upsetting. Again, the boy cries wolf. Another rush of people, another good laugh, more scolding and the crowd departs. Again, the boy cries wolf with the same results. (Remember that in all good stories everything happens in threes.) But then something interesting happens. A wolf comes. One sheep down. "Wolf! Wolf!" The boy cries for help. But this time nobody comes. His sheep are dropping like flies while all the others scatter. "Wolf! Wolf!" Nothing. Before he knows it, the sheep are devoured, he's in a lot of trouble with his father and all the towns people who also had sheep (or other investments) in the flock, and he's barely escaped with his life. And why did nobody come to his aid? Because he had falsely cried wolf so many times that nobody believed him anymore. He had misused the power of alarm, took advantage of their sympathy and good will and then when he needed it most, it was gone.
But let's get back to my mother. This isn't the first time she's claimed to be dying. This isn't the first time she's had a "major disease." And quite frankly, it won't be her last. (Unless, of course, it is. Then I'd feel really bad.) But every time she "cries wolf" I can't help but rush to her. I'm the stupid towns person. The one who runs to the rescue every time (unarmed because 1) I'm scared of guns and 2) I'm not smart enough to think about preparing myself to actually defend the sheep), gets laughed at and then, when the alarm isn't false, gets mauled by the wolf while the stupid boy hides behind a rock. But I can't help it. Even as I'm running up the hill, I know what's going to happen. I know how the story ends. But I can't turn around. I can't ignore the cry. Why? Why? I guess I love the stubborn boy. I'd rather get mocked. I'd rather let the boy poke me with his shepherding staff than risk hearing later that the wolf did come and that the sheep and maybe even the boy are gone. I'd rather go there, even if I'm unarmed and risk being mauled than live without trying to help. I'm a fool. Don't the other towns people care? Where are they? Where?? Throw me a bone here!! I can't be the only town idiot...