December
December is one of those months that never seem's quite real until you're in the middle of it; and the fact that in my family, people begin making their Christmas lists in November makes it even more anticlimactic.
Hannukah arrived early. I can't quite remember the last time it occured the first day of the month. The little menorah looked a little lonely on the side table in the reception area at work.
The mild weather continues; I've barely needed a scarf or any layers under my parka, even while waiting on the line for the bus for the nursing home. I found myslef looking forward to visitng Mom as Friday approached. There's something so appropriate with ending a busy work week with a visit with your Mom. Mom has turned into the perfect co-counselor: she doesn't say a whole lot. And, when she hears you, you never have to worry about having her complete attention. You are the only person that matters for those few seconds.
I found her in the dining room, in the middle of dinner. She had cleaned about three-quarters of her plate and the brawny African-American gentleman who was feeding her was well into dessert, a cup of apricot sauce. I was was pleasantly surprised by the evidence that they still fed her supper. This was the first time in weeks I'd actually seen a plate of food in front of her at that hour.
In fact, the aide was a little reluctant to let me take over. "She's had quite a bit already. I wouldn't feed her any more." I knew what he meant. On at least two occasions, I've arrived in time to watch Mom as she slowly spit food back up. I'd been warned by, of all people, Maria her roommate, that it could happen if I wasn't careful. And, when it finally did I wasn't alarmed by it. I just held a napkin under her mouth until she was finished.
Nevertheless, on this occasion, I took charge of the tray and marched it back to her room, surprising Maria in the process. "Looks like I have company.", she said as she looked up from her ever present newspaper. "Yes, you do.", I replied, "And, I'll be right back with the rest of my party."
Margaret, the floor attendant, met me half-way down the hall with Mom's barco lounger. And, though I'd been there a full ten minutes, I still hadn't the foggiest idea how she was doing.
She was just a pair of arms and hands in a sea of bedding for all I tell.
Finally, after maneuvering the barco lounger next to her bed ("You're not much of a driver, are you?", Maria observed drily) I could sit down and take a look at her. "Watch out. She's been in a foul mood all day." I'd heard from some of the aides how Mom doesn't like being awakened at the crack of dawn to have her bandages changed. More than six months after her aborted angioplasty, she is still being treated for the bed sores the surgery was meant to abate.
"Hello, how are you?", I began as usual. This time, for the first time in months, Mom's eyes opened wide, so much that I could be forgiven for thinking she might actually see me. "Who is that?" she asked in a strong voice. "It's Ronnie." "Ronnie?" "Yes, Ma'am."
"Where's Jimmy?"
"Jimmy went home.", I said, before I thought it better not to go down that road.
"Jimmy went out." I corrected myself.
"Where's Reva?"
"Reva's Down South."
"Reva's where?"
"Down South."
"Oh, Reva's Down South. That's right."
It was the most she had spoken in months, probably not since her birthday. "Boy, she's really talking up a storm.", observed Maria. "She's taking after you.", I joked."
I'm lucky I can joke with Maria like that. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor. "No, I don't mind talking to her in the daytime. It's when she starts talking in her sleep that drives me nuts. And, last night she tried to get out of bed." It seems that as Mom grows stronger and the pain in her feet subside, she begins to want to explore her surroundings. It's not entirely clear that she knows where she is, which is why I try to avoid the subject for as long as I can.
I looked at the cold, greasy food in her plate. It didn't look at all appetizing and I felt guilty not listening to the Afican-American man's advice.
"Would you like something to eat?"
"What?"
"Would you like something to eat?"
"Would I like something to eat?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"No, I don't think so. Is it time to eat breakfast?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Would you like some potatos?"
"Do I want to sit at the table?"
"Do you want potatos?"
"Do I want potatos?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I don't think so. Are you eating?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Am I at the table?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Are you at the table?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Just whenever you're ready to eat."
I took that to mean a yes. I looked at the food in her plate again and Maria read my thoughts. "That food is cold. It's too bad you can't reheat it." I agreed and took the one thing that still looked edible -- the apricot sauce.
Mom makes terrible faces whenever you feed her something tart or sweet. That doesn't mean she doesn't like it; it's almost a defensive reaction to something which is at once too much and too good to last. It is rather like these first few days of December, when the rain, when it comes, is still warm and the wind makes umbrellas useless and we thank our lucky stars that it isn't snow.
Hannukah arrived early. I can't quite remember the last time it occured the first day of the month. The little menorah looked a little lonely on the side table in the reception area at work.
The mild weather continues; I've barely needed a scarf or any layers under my parka, even while waiting on the line for the bus for the nursing home. I found myslef looking forward to visitng Mom as Friday approached. There's something so appropriate with ending a busy work week with a visit with your Mom. Mom has turned into the perfect co-counselor: she doesn't say a whole lot. And, when she hears you, you never have to worry about having her complete attention. You are the only person that matters for those few seconds.
I found her in the dining room, in the middle of dinner. She had cleaned about three-quarters of her plate and the brawny African-American gentleman who was feeding her was well into dessert, a cup of apricot sauce. I was was pleasantly surprised by the evidence that they still fed her supper. This was the first time in weeks I'd actually seen a plate of food in front of her at that hour.
In fact, the aide was a little reluctant to let me take over. "She's had quite a bit already. I wouldn't feed her any more." I knew what he meant. On at least two occasions, I've arrived in time to watch Mom as she slowly spit food back up. I'd been warned by, of all people, Maria her roommate, that it could happen if I wasn't careful. And, when it finally did I wasn't alarmed by it. I just held a napkin under her mouth until she was finished.
Nevertheless, on this occasion, I took charge of the tray and marched it back to her room, surprising Maria in the process. "Looks like I have company.", she said as she looked up from her ever present newspaper. "Yes, you do.", I replied, "And, I'll be right back with the rest of my party."
Margaret, the floor attendant, met me half-way down the hall with Mom's barco lounger. And, though I'd been there a full ten minutes, I still hadn't the foggiest idea how she was doing.
She was just a pair of arms and hands in a sea of bedding for all I tell.
Finally, after maneuvering the barco lounger next to her bed ("You're not much of a driver, are you?", Maria observed drily) I could sit down and take a look at her. "Watch out. She's been in a foul mood all day." I'd heard from some of the aides how Mom doesn't like being awakened at the crack of dawn to have her bandages changed. More than six months after her aborted angioplasty, she is still being treated for the bed sores the surgery was meant to abate.
"Hello, how are you?", I began as usual. This time, for the first time in months, Mom's eyes opened wide, so much that I could be forgiven for thinking she might actually see me. "Who is that?" she asked in a strong voice. "It's Ronnie." "Ronnie?" "Yes, Ma'am."
"Where's Jimmy?"
"Jimmy went home.", I said, before I thought it better not to go down that road.
"Jimmy went out." I corrected myself.
"Where's Reva?"
"Reva's Down South."
"Reva's where?"
"Down South."
"Oh, Reva's Down South. That's right."
It was the most she had spoken in months, probably not since her birthday. "Boy, she's really talking up a storm.", observed Maria. "She's taking after you.", I joked."
I'm lucky I can joke with Maria like that. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor. "No, I don't mind talking to her in the daytime. It's when she starts talking in her sleep that drives me nuts. And, last night she tried to get out of bed." It seems that as Mom grows stronger and the pain in her feet subside, she begins to want to explore her surroundings. It's not entirely clear that she knows where she is, which is why I try to avoid the subject for as long as I can.
I looked at the cold, greasy food in her plate. It didn't look at all appetizing and I felt guilty not listening to the Afican-American man's advice.
"Would you like something to eat?"
"What?"
"Would you like something to eat?"
"Would I like something to eat?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"No, I don't think so. Is it time to eat breakfast?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Would you like some potatos?"
"Do I want to sit at the table?"
"Do you want potatos?"
"Do I want potatos?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I don't think so. Are you eating?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Am I at the table?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Are you at the table?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Just whenever you're ready to eat."
I took that to mean a yes. I looked at the food in her plate again and Maria read my thoughts. "That food is cold. It's too bad you can't reheat it." I agreed and took the one thing that still looked edible -- the apricot sauce.
Mom makes terrible faces whenever you feed her something tart or sweet. That doesn't mean she doesn't like it; it's almost a defensive reaction to something which is at once too much and too good to last. It is rather like these first few days of December, when the rain, when it comes, is still warm and the wind makes umbrellas useless and we thank our lucky stars that it isn't snow.