When Mom got home she was pretty much resigned to the fact that her driving days were over. Thankfully, she admitted it. As a Social Worker in nursing homes I had experience with older adults who steadfastly refused to hand over the keys. A doctor would then need to get involved, and it wasn't pretty.
I totally understood the reluctance. Driving was such a big part of being and feeling independent. It's a pain having to depend on others for a ride ( which I knew so well). It's like a red flag that the end is in sight.
Mom seemed almost relieved to give it up. I guess she had a few close calls in town, even when she was well, and decided it wasn't worth risking her own health or someone else's welfare. But it was a bummer to her, and that kind of started the snowball rolling downhill.
She soon asked that we "get rid of the car." The light green vehicle sitting lonely in the driveway made her feel bad. When we couldn't sell it ( the car ran surprisingly well for being twenty-five years old) we donated it.
Mom did well at home. The visiting nurse came and continued her therapy. Her right foot looked great. The Wound nurse at the Geriatric Center did a nice job keeping it free from anymore sores. . Mom kept it clean, dry and wrapped.
She was almost back to her old self, puttering around the kitchen, able to make herself toast and coffee in the morning. Family and neighbors dropped by during the day to help her out and keep an eye on her. An angel from our church named Laurel ( she knew Mom from church, sitting together in the last pew) came over once a week to help with cleaning and laundry. I was able to go to work feeling much relieved that everything was going to work out fine.
Several months passed and the visiting nurses stopped coming. Insurance wouldn't pay for them any longer.. Despite that, Mom seemed to be doing well. We had a regular routine with our meals, keeping things nutritious but simple, with soups, salads, sandwiches and dinners we could easily pop into the microwave.
Surprisingly, the problems began at night when I was there. Mom rolled out of bed two nights in a row in her sleep. I couldn't get her up so one time family came over and the next time the ambulance guys helped out.
During the day she seemed more unsteady on her feet. She remained sitting a lot so I wouldn't see just how shaky and wobbly she really was. It turned out her feet- both this time- were getting bad again. She tried to hide that from everyone, especially since the visiting nurses no longer came.
She had regular doctor appointments but this came as a big surprise. This time the infection was even travelling up her lower leg.
The new side-rails on her bed weren't enough. She couldn't stand for long, let alone walk. When she couldn't get out of bed one morning I called 911. She was evaulauted and admitted. Mom was destined to return to the Geriatric Center, this time most likely for good.
I heard the expected "I-told-you-so" remarks from the family. I didn't care. Mom deserved a shot to come home. It wasn't her fault. Just like driving, she had to prove to herself that she couldn't do it any longer.
This time she was more depressed than ever at the nursing home. Therapy was picking her up again, but for maintenance as the goal not rehab. Their recommendation was to stay for good.
The worst part was that Mom wouldn't eat. We brought her favorites from home- cheese steaks, candy, donuts, anything she was allowed to have. She was losing hope.
I tried to encourage her. This time I used a tactic I never used before- me.
I know how much she worried about me. I did fine during the times she was away. But in order to give her some motivation not to give up I told her the truth- I needed her to stick around.
"There's always hope, like last time, that you might come home," I pleaded.
"I'm never coming home again," she would sigh softly, sitting in her room in a wheelchair. She didn't want to participate in Bingo anymore or go outside in the beautiful garden area. We had to encourage her to watch television and keep up with her soap operas. They wheeled her down to church, sometimes more than once a week. She started going to services of all denominations, not just Catholic. I was glad she attended church but it was a red flag when she didn't care for Bingo any more.
All she wanted to do was sleep. The Psychologist began to visit her and prescribed an antidepressant.
We made a deal, approved at Care Conference: If she started to eat and went to therapy and did her exercises, she may be able to come home for lunch on weekends. She could see Louie, spend time in her own home, away from the other residents and the hectic ,sad atmosphere of the unit she was now on, and she could spend a quiet few hours in the home she loved so much.
She agreed. Some family members still didn't think it was such a great idea. What if she doesn't want to go back? Mom knew the rules. She wasn't in a prison. She needed a ray of hope to keep herself alive. Don't take away all her freedom and independence.
That didn't go over too well with most of my siblings, and there was a rift between us over Mom's care for a while. Mom had final say and she had appointed me Power of Attorney so we won in the end but it caused hard feelings that should not have been.
"Don't bring up the 'gping home bullshit again," one brother said during a family meeting back at home. "Look what happened last time."
"I know," I replied. "But you can't take away all her hope. Why not let her come home for lunch once in a while? It will give her something to look forward to."
Let's do what is best for Mom," I said, trying to reason with the crew.
"What's best for Mom now is not giving her false hope," someone else said.
We had lots of those family meetings during that period of time. Usually most ended in shouting and bitterness.True feelings came out, which in the long run I suppose was good, and resentment was voiced over my disability and being the "favorite" and now being appointed POA
I didn't need that hassle, and Mom didn't either, so we kept the friction form her. She was smart enough to know there were icy relations from then on. That made her feel worse, thinking she was the cause. 'I wish you would all get along,' she would say.
I had been down this road before as mediator between families but never as one of the quarreling family members. I felt like walking away from my duties and allowing someone else take over but everytime I considered that possibility I thought of Mom and how she would say she "needed me' now. How could I ever let her down?
So I was walking a tightrope between Mom and the family, trying to keep the peace yet being her advocate. I never had anything personal against my family and still don't. We simply had a difference of opinion.
Mom started improving. She ate better and started coming out of her room to the dining room with her friends. Therapy got her walking again with the walker.She needed assistance with her bathing and dressing so she was transferred across the building to a more independence unit, a step-up and a sign she was making progress.
The West building where she resided now was almost an apartment-like setting. There were nurses and aides on duty, like elsewhere in the facility, but the residents were expected to do much more for themselves to stay on this assisted living-type atmosphere.
Mom thrived. She started attending the Craft Room weekly, and her favorite project was stringing beads to make bracelets. She ultimately gave these cute trinkets to her granddaughters or to staff, especially the girls who took care of her every day. I often would spy her in the Craft Room during my journeys and stop in to say hello. She was smiling more and looked forward to coming back each week to finish a bracelet or start a new one with different colors.
She was easy to spot in a long row of residents sitting at a busy table. She inevitably would be the shortest lady there, barely able to see her in the crowd.
She returned to Bingo, and when I could, I stopped oin to root her on. "I only need one number," she would whisper and point, and I would be a first-hand witness to her Bingo expertis, cheering her victories and groaning at her defeats.
"That woman over there, " she siad in a hushed tone," won four times already today. She's lucky." So was Mom, who had a stack of silver quarters piled next to her Bingo cards on the table..
We often sat together outside her room, like sitting on the front porch at home, watching the flow of traffic at the nearby nurses station and who was coming and going in the hallways.
Mom would clue me in on her neighbors. "That one wouldn't eat her supper last night," she indicated in a low voice. '"That guy over there complains too much."
She would see an unfortunate resident who might be suffering from Dementia, confused, and babbling nonsensical words, or a gentleman stretched out in a lounge chair, mouth wide open and asleep, and she would say to me, " Poor souls! God forgive me, I don't want to get like that. I would rather die."
There was a reason those poor souls were still here, we both agreed. Quality of life was important to Mom. She felt pity and sorrow for those around her. It did her good to come home on weekends just to get a break form all that sadness.
Everyday when it was time for me to leave Mom walked me to the elevator. "See you tomorrow," I said as she bent over and kissed me on the cheek." Call me if you need anything."
"I hate that you are going home and nobody is there. Make sure you get something to eat and lock the doors at night.'
"I will, don't worry," I said, holding back the tears, looking down. If she saw me cry it would make it worse.
"Give Louie a pet for me,' she said.
Every day the elevator door closed and she would stand there, one hand holding onto her walker, the other hand clutching a crumpled white tissue, dabbing her tired, soft blue eyes.
"I love you,"she would say.
"I love you too," I replied, the door closing I pressed the down button, and slumped in my chair. We had begun to tell each other 'I love you" and it was nice yet hurt at the same time. Once the elevator hit the first floor and I wheeled out to meet my van, the tears would be streaming down my face. It was all right to cry now.
Mom's visits home were something to look forward to for both of us. Usually Mark would pick her up and drop her off. Rarely would he come inside. He was on the fence about the weekend visits. I guess he didn't want to take sides either way. We were civil to each other. He was my little brother and I was his Best Man at his wedding. Why didn't we get along now? It was stupid.
Other than seeing Louie, who loved the attention and missed being spoiled by Mom, we had a casual, long lunch. It would be her choice, something she couldn't get at the Center, something like Kentucky Fried Chicken or a hoagie. Then we would talk, Mom sitting in her favorite living room chair. Sometimes she wanted to take a nap in her old bed. I worried she may not be able to transfer but she did it like a champ. She rested for an hour and Louie jumped up with her, like the old days.
One thing Mom always did during her visits, no matter if she had an hour or four hours, she would slowly walk around the house and do a silent "inspection." She may straighten a curtain she felt just wasn't right, or fix a bedspread. "Keep watering my plants!" she reminded me.
I wondered what she thought about during her tours of the house. Sure, she was on duty, the Mom of old, but I'm also sure the memories flooded inside her heart when she wearily gazed into each room. I stayed quiet in the living room until she returned, sat back down, and proclaimed that her home "looked nice."
"This will always be your home, Mom," I told her. "No matter what."
That was our life for close to three years. I wanted her home full-time but I accepted that she needed the care I couldn't give. She talked of "coming home for good" but then settled back into the routine of her life now. I was glad she liked the nursing home. It would've killed me to see her hate it. Actually, she was content, neither liking it or hating it.
Then one weekend it all changed.
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