Mom had a doctor's appointment Friday morning in Ardmore, OK to talk about what her seizures have meant, and how they've affected her quality of life. Brian, her psychiatrist, had kind eyes and and Tribal features, fitting the idea of a modern, authentic Oklahoman.
Ardmore's a dot on the map up the interstate, and the highlight for us going is always the slower pace.
It's a different world.
Almost everyone everywhere subtly radiates the kind of traditionally held values and faith reserved for Norman Rockwell pictures or John Wayne movies. Few cuss in the presence of ladies; everything's shut down on Sunday morning because the entire town's in church. The hot topics of conversation at the local Starbuck's are the War wrapping up (since the population will roughly increase 20% when everyone comes home), and the price of gas ($3.09 at a gas station on the highway. I fueled up in Texas for $3.25).
Speaking of the green mermaid spot, there's only one. Next to the highway. But there are five Baptist churches in the middle of town, with a Methodist, and 2 non-denom's within walking distance. Priorities here are just different.
And so I am a different person here. Life seems more innocent, more possible. Smiles are easier, and I feel closer to beautiful, to normal. There's a soft comfort in the air, and somehow, it's more OK to admit how much it really hurts to watch my mom be helpless.
She's taking her second nap right now, after sleeping a full 10 or so hours last night. And she's taken all the painkillers and sleep-helpers she can - as of 2 in the afternoon.
Her color was better yesterday, but I worry she wore herself out dealing with just everyday settling-in things. We had car problems, too, but as it's the weekend, we have to wait until Monday for the mechanics to be open again. She just worried and fretted after we had called and had a plan in place, reminding me several times before I left to check the car.
I'm scared.
She seems to have better days, and then unexpectedly worse ones. She's present and seemingly whole, then she's as emotional as anyone I know because the pain's so consuming. It's like having a 13 yr. old in a 60 something body, who can't always stand by herself. And then, a dial is turned, a button clicked, and she's a functional adult. For half an hour. Before she has to sleep again.
I miss my mom.
She gets winded if she talks for too long. But then if she wakes alone, her loneliness hangs in the air like stale perfume. She talks to strangers here, her brown eyes luminous as she speaks of Jesus and her church. And I hate that my first thought is, please, Momma, save your energy. If you keep talking and gesturing, you'll wear yourself out.
I don't know what to do.
Praying, and talking doesn't give her any more health, or take away her pain. And now, 8 months into this, I don't really know what to pray for. Is there a lesson here? A way I'm supposed to grow? A lesson for her? Something she's supposed to learn?
Maybe this is just a progression in a beautiful, textured life, and I should accept that she'll be called to a far greater country soon. If that's the case, do I pray her passing is as painless as possible? Or do I ask that she is healed?
I want to be strong enough to pray God's will be done, to be that clean and bright a christian. To have faith there's a plan and a hope, even when it's overcast and unclear.
But I'm scared.
I miss my mom.
I don't know what to do.
We'll leave Ardmore tomorrow, after the car's repaired. The big city will welcome us back, with its Starbucks (or two) on every city block, and diversities of faith and politics and beliefs. The pace will speed back up. Life will return to its regular schedule.
Today, I talk to God in silently frustrated tones, in a town of slower rhythms, giving thanks that my mom rests. And for the hope that tomorrow will be brighter.
Ardmore's a dot on the map up the interstate, and the highlight for us going is always the slower pace.
It's a different world.
Almost everyone everywhere subtly radiates the kind of traditionally held values and faith reserved for Norman Rockwell pictures or John Wayne movies. Few cuss in the presence of ladies; everything's shut down on Sunday morning because the entire town's in church. The hot topics of conversation at the local Starbuck's are the War wrapping up (since the population will roughly increase 20% when everyone comes home), and the price of gas ($3.09 at a gas station on the highway. I fueled up in Texas for $3.25).
Speaking of the green mermaid spot, there's only one. Next to the highway. But there are five Baptist churches in the middle of town, with a Methodist, and 2 non-denom's within walking distance. Priorities here are just different.
And so I am a different person here. Life seems more innocent, more possible. Smiles are easier, and I feel closer to beautiful, to normal. There's a soft comfort in the air, and somehow, it's more OK to admit how much it really hurts to watch my mom be helpless.
She's taking her second nap right now, after sleeping a full 10 or so hours last night. And she's taken all the painkillers and sleep-helpers she can - as of 2 in the afternoon.
Her color was better yesterday, but I worry she wore herself out dealing with just everyday settling-in things. We had car problems, too, but as it's the weekend, we have to wait until Monday for the mechanics to be open again. She just worried and fretted after we had called and had a plan in place, reminding me several times before I left to check the car.
I'm scared.
She seems to have better days, and then unexpectedly worse ones. She's present and seemingly whole, then she's as emotional as anyone I know because the pain's so consuming. It's like having a 13 yr. old in a 60 something body, who can't always stand by herself. And then, a dial is turned, a button clicked, and she's a functional adult. For half an hour. Before she has to sleep again.
I miss my mom.
She gets winded if she talks for too long. But then if she wakes alone, her loneliness hangs in the air like stale perfume. She talks to strangers here, her brown eyes luminous as she speaks of Jesus and her church. And I hate that my first thought is, please, Momma, save your energy. If you keep talking and gesturing, you'll wear yourself out.
I don't know what to do.
Praying, and talking doesn't give her any more health, or take away her pain. And now, 8 months into this, I don't really know what to pray for. Is there a lesson here? A way I'm supposed to grow? A lesson for her? Something she's supposed to learn?
Maybe this is just a progression in a beautiful, textured life, and I should accept that she'll be called to a far greater country soon. If that's the case, do I pray her passing is as painless as possible? Or do I ask that she is healed?
I want to be strong enough to pray God's will be done, to be that clean and bright a christian. To have faith there's a plan and a hope, even when it's overcast and unclear.
But I'm scared.
I miss my mom.
I don't know what to do.
We'll leave Ardmore tomorrow, after the car's repaired. The big city will welcome us back, with its Starbucks (or two) on every city block, and diversities of faith and politics and beliefs. The pace will speed back up. Life will return to its regular schedule.
Today, I talk to God in silently frustrated tones, in a town of slower rhythms, giving thanks that my mom rests. And for the hope that tomorrow will be brighter.
No comments:
Post a Comment