I’m Not Staying Here, Take Me Home

          Wow.  What a day. 

          Mom was discharged with a great bill of health.  Great . . .  

          The paper work had not yet been processed for the assisted living.  Mom didn’t have to go to a rehab center as had been speculated earlier.  She was discharged.  And it was up to me to drive her away from the hospital.
          It was disheartening as I watched the nurses wheel her to the curb and load her into my car.  Less than nine years before, I had given birth to Jenna.  And it was mom who was driving while the nurses wheeled me out and loaded me up.  It still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it.  I absolutely HATE this role reversal thing.

          So I take her to the house where she has lived for the last fifty years (and she has not lived anywhere else during that time) and we actually have trouble getting in the door (I don’t think my key got cut all the way) and have to really work at getting in.

          She doesn’t have a problem until we have walked through the door.  She sits down and checks HER MAIL – mail addressed to the house where I had taken her.  I say I am fixing lunch.  She says she is not hungry.  I still fix her lunch.  She childish refuses to eat.

          I tell her to take off her coat. 

          “I don’t want to stay here!”

          “Where do you want to be?”

          “Home.  My home.”

          “Do you have an address?”

          She was irate – thinking I was just playing games with her.  I guess I was.  But not to be funny. But it’s just better to give in to her reality than to argue.  But her reality doesn’t have an address. 

          But she doesn’t want to stay in the house where we are because it’s boring!  So I ask what makes it boring.  What makes her other replica house more exciting?

          She said it’s not the house itself – but the location.  Her other house is in the city.  And there is a store on every corner!  She doesn’t want to live in this boring house in the “country”.

          I cover my mouth and hope that she doesn’t see the laughter in my eyes.  Mom’s house may not be downtown city – but it is definitely NOT the country. I’ll admit that the location was on a bit the desolate side 50 years ago – but the city has built its way around her house.  There are at least thirty eating places that can be walked to.

          A former neighbor from across the street knocks at the door.  He came to talk to Nate.  Mom told him that Nate didn't live there.  Then she practically ordered the neighbor in to explore her “weird house” with her.  He seemed to provide more comforting words than I did.  She still wasn’t convinced, but he seemed to calm her nerves.  And he helped to lighten my load. 

          I had to go get Jenna from school.  Mom was ready to go at 2:30.  Jenna’s school doesn’t let out until 3:20.  Her school is only ten minutes away.  I wasn’t planning on leaving and told mom hang tight for another 30 minutes.  We played Taboo.

          Both Kayla and Sunny offered to sit while I went and got Jenna – but I knew that mom was anxious to leave and so I told both that it would be an hour less that each of them would have to deal with if I were to take her and have Nate come pick her up from where I currently reside.

          So after I picked up Jenna, I brought mom to my home.  She hasn’t been here often, but hasn’t ever been comfortable with being here.  I don’t blame her though.  I’m not all that comfortable myself.

          But yesterday she was content.  She finally ate something and watched one sitcom while we waited for Nate to come get her.  For in her mind, Nate and Ellen live in her new house.  So even though I couldn’t remember her new address, Nate would know where to take her.

          Poor mom.  I hope that when we are able to move her into assisted living – which hopefully will be soon this week – she may “recognize it” as somewhere she’s been before and will feel more at home there than she does in the house where she actually does live but doesn’t want to anymore.

          I’m certain that once she gets going, she will be comfortable in the community and know that she is not alone.  She will be on a consistent schedule and she’ll have peers that will share in her limited time frame.  Of course we will all continue to visit her – but as her children and not her primary care givers.  And that will be a blessing to ALL of us.

If He’s Just Going to Die Anyway . . .

My dad had had a series of strokes later in life.  Some of them were so “small” that they went undetected.  The first one I remember had temporarily paralyzed the left side of his jaw.  Not realizing the magnitude of what was happening, we made jokes about it.

Because he was such a quiet man, we commented that his jaw was sliding off his face as he never used it. It eventually returned to his normal appearance.  It wasn’t until later on that we learned his downward jaw had been the result of one of the strokes he had had.

Dad started keeping odd hours.  He’d be awake while the rest of us were asleep and vise-versa.  He was in need of care 24-7 and it became too overwhelming at times.  We were told that the insurance he had would not cover a live-in aide – but they did have a list of nursing homes.  We did our best to avoid it, but it finally got to the point that we needed assistance.  I don’t know how we ended up with the facility that we did.  It was depressing.

He actually had strength left in his hands as he would hang on for dear life to any person who would assist him in walking out to the car or whatever.  We called it “the death grip”.  I would always stop in our tracks and tell him, “If you would like to continue moving, you will have to ease up on your grip because you are hurting me!” 

He’d laugh and his juices would come out and he’d start to drool. It was painful watching him go downhill.

We took my dad to therapy.  He was a favorite patient as he was very cooperative to do everything he was told. Except for one time when my mom took him out of bed and tried walking with him and decided to put him back before someone came in and caught them doing something that they weren’t supposed to do.

Mom would push on one side and race around the bed to pull him.  He laughed while she frantically moved from one side to the other saying, “Someone is coming. I don’t even know if we were suppose to get you out of bed”

Mom had done therapy with him.  They were both quite worn out when an orderly came in and brightly asked, “Are you ready for physical therapy?”

Mom looked at dad and nodded “yes” while he shook his head “No”.

Because the muscles in his mouth weren’t working the way they should, it became difficult to swallow anything.  We started out with thick juices and nectars to a no liquid restriction. He was given wet sponges to suck on in order to quench his thirst.

Each stroke left him paralyzed just a little bit more. He walked with a cane.  His speech became difficult to understand.  So difficult that many didn’t realize he still had the ability to think and still had a sharp mind. 

One time my brother’s family brought to him a vase of flowers.  When he was alone in the room, he removed the flowers and drank the water from the vase.  My sister-in-law was upset.  She said she hadn’t even cleaned the vase all that well, and would have done a better job had she known.  It was dirty water.  He was desperately thirsty though.

He would get out of bed and fall and was restrained and would cry that he was being tied up.  And we would cry with him.  Sometimes we would loosen the bands and then report our deeds to the nurse. 

I really don’t remember how long he’d been there.  But the insurance company gave us a deadline for when they would no longer supply payment for keeping him there. Eleven days before the deadline he had another stroke.  An ambulance took him to the hospital that was near the house of my family.  Someone went to see him every day.

We were able to teach him some finger spelling – which of course came slow.  And if we asked a question that wasn’t a “yes” or “no” question – it became quite a game to figure out the answer.

One time my mom went up to one of the members of the Church to thank him for visiting my dad.  He was taken aback and asked sincerely, “How did you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“But when I saw him . . . I didn’t know he could . . . How did he tell you?”

Dad loved chocolate milk shakes and hamburgers.  He had been hooked up to a feeding tube.  Daddy had already lost so much weight.  His legs were thin – like arms. He still had tastable desires.

Once my mom asked, “If he’s just going to die anyway, what difference does it make whether we give him a milk shake or not.”

The comment brought on some cold hearted stares, but seeing the sadness in mom’s eyes, they knew she was right.  It was highly probable that he would not be leaving the hospital alive.  And he did get at least two milk shakes out of the deal.

My dad never returned to the nursing home.  He spent his 54^th birthday in the hospital – he was laid to rest a month later. He’d been released from his physical body.  He had endured to the end.  And he hadn’t complained.  How amazing is that?

It was a beautiful day.  The sun was shining.  My brother, Patrick, and I both gave talks. We played a recording of Corey reading his poem (as he was on his mission at the time) and my sister, Kayla sang Amy Grant’s “Father’s Eyes”  It was a really nice tribute.  I miss my dad.  I think of him quite a bit on really awesome days that take place in the fall.

My First Pregnancy

         When our boys were 12, 13, and 15 I got pregnant.  I know the exact date, too.  Memorial weekend – May 28, 2002.  Only I didn’t know I was pregnant.  And I didn’t figure out until just before my child was aborted.  I still cry about it.

          It was the 11^th of July (I believe) when I’d gone upstairs to use the only toilet in our house.  Sharp pains I’d never felt before.  I didn’t know why.  At first I tried to ignore it.  I went back downstairs to lie beside my husband.  No – I was in pain.  I went back into the bathroom – but it wasn’t a throwing up pain.  It was different.  I can’t remember what it felt like now – I had never experienced pain like that before or since.  It wasn’t until later – much later – that I learned my belly had been filling with blood

My husband shot out of bed and announced he’d take me to the hospital.  That was a little dramatic I thought – I didn’t understand until much later on why he had responded that way.  The boys’ mother had told him she hadn’t felt well.  He dismissed the idea and she lay down and never woke up.  She died of heart failure.

There’s really not too much about that night that I actually remember.  I remember checking in.  I remember receiving an ultrasound and listening to the heart beat.  I remember being told to move myself from the gurney to the operating table.  That’s actually the last thing that I remember.  Being told.  Whether I actually moved on my own or not remains a mystery. I don’t know what kind of drugs were used on me, but I was gone.  I was in and out.  I don’t even know how long I was in the hospital.  At least two or three days.  I felt like I was in a coma for two weeks.

There were needles stuck in both of my arms.  My right arm was hooked up to IV.  My left arm?  That needle wasn’t connected to anything.  It was just there.  I remember wondering why.  I would think I’d ask.  But then I would forget about it. 

Upon my release I was given a wheel chair.  I’m assuming that I somehow managed to sit in it myself – though I don’t remember.  I do remember the nurse bending down just before I was wheeled out of my room.

“Almost forgot,” he said as he bent down to remove the needle that had been pushed into my left arm.

Oh, yes.  I had forgotten about it myself – many times. 

“What’s that for anyway?”  I asked, still feeling the sensation of the drugs that were in me.

I don’t know how slurred I was or if I sounded slurred at all. He answered, “That was in case you needed a blood transfusion”

A blood transfusion?  That sounded serious.  But I was so drugged up I just let it sink in and didn’t question it any further.

I had an appointment to go back and see the doctor.  I don’t know if it was during those two weeks or if it was right after.  I was alert enough to know I shouldn’t be driving.

My sister-in-law kept asking me questions.  They were all good questions but I didn’t have answers.  I selected her to come get me and take me to the doctor and then she could ask him all the questions as I suspected he would probably have the answers – obviously more answers than I could provide.

I learned that if we had waited another hour (before going to the hospital the day of the unusual pain) that I might have bled to death.  Wow.  So that’s why I needed a transfusion.  She asked another question (actually lots of questions – that’s actually the only one I remember) My doctor turned to me and asked if I didn’t remember.

“I was kind of out of it,” I confessed – still in a fog from whatever medication was in my system.

“Yes you were!” he said matter-of-factly embarrassed about having even asked me if I remembered.

Chicken Soup for the Soul had sent me a manuscript about the mature women.  One section contained stories about older women giving birth.  I could relate to some story beginnings and wept for our unborn child.   

Roland thought we should give her/him a name.  Not knowing the sex of our unborn baby, we named her/him Tracy.