06.26.11

On July 26th, while I was at work, my mom was home, collapsed on the couch unable to move. She had her cell, so she called 911. She spent the next three days in the hospital, being poked and prodded and tested. The tests came up clean, but she is still having the spells that first put her in the place of needles and iodine.

It's been 20 days since then, and life has shifted. Sleep means less, time means more. Money is tight, tension is constant. 

But subtle things have changed for the better.  Packing up the walker for when we go out makes for a great upper arm workout. And it means she's not plugged into some machine in some building far away. Helping her out of bed or off the couch reminds me that she wouldn't let just anyone help her a few years ago, and I can give thanks for that, too.

There are different questions running through my head: how many forms do we need to fill out? How many copies do we need to request of the test results? So this form goes there, but this forms goes somewhere else? Even though it asks for the same information? How do we pay for that? What test do we need to have taken now?

There are still no answers, although we have a very rough timeline of this lasting at least six months. She can't drive, lift anything over 5 pounds, and has difficulty walking across our 900 square feet house.

The strongest, most energetic person I know wears out eating a Subway sandwich.

It has been, bar none, the hardest, most painful, most beautiful experience of my life.

I hate that she hurts - and hurts all the time. I hate that she can't speak soft words and there's always this edge of anger because she just can't take deep enough breaths. 

I despise that we just keep finding more questions, and fewer answers... and there should be a rule that the longer the word,the  less it should cost.

I wish I could rant against the drugs that fix a symptom, but don't really affect change. But they make the migraines bearable, and every little bit helps.

Most of all, though, I wish I had my mom back.