When I have spent the evening holding my mother's hand (oh, and fishing her dentures out of a bag of vomit-stained tissues and cleaning them up - eugh!) and talking to paramedics and seeing her off in the ambulance to hospital, and have been told by said paramedics that I'll probably get a phone call at 2am to collect her again, and have rung you (her other daughter) up to update you - at 11.20pm, after all that lot, I really don't want to hear (a) how much better you'd look after her if she had moved near you, rather than near me, nor (b) how nice your new car is. I want to sleep. Surely somewhere in between "sorry - I need to pay the taxi" and "sorry - just trying to find my door keys" and similar you might just think of ringing off? Apparently not.
[It turns out to have been a mild infection, which caused dehydration, which caused confusion - all sorted by an overnight stay and two bags of saline drip. So no early hours call out and not life-threatening. And the NHS were, as ever, marvellous, though in a marginally shambolic way.]