Today meant another visit to DHS to deliver paperwork. I got a speeding ticket on the way, which ate half an hour of my lunch and adds to my to-do list Friday. But most frustrating, it meant I didn't get to see my mom today.
She's doing better, so present and aware. When I saw her yesterday, she kept telling me to sit, visit, breathe. She didn't fuss, just gently held my hand and asked me to feed her. Her plate contained pumpkin, turkey, stuffing, gingerbread, with a medicinal shot glass of a lime green applesauce goo. She said it tasted like it looked; I told her to breathe through her nose and swallow carefully.
I remember in another life, my lip curling when people talked about what their loved ones ate, or if they did, when they did. It presented as a cry for sentimentality, like the person needed something from me I couldn't relate to or care to understand.
I have become one of those people.
My thoughts, especially unkind to new parents whose worldviews narrowed solely to the wonders of baby bodily fluids and overly cheerful comparisons of helpful/educational toys, echo ironically in my head now as I recall meetings with the dietitian and trying to figure out the logistics of moving Mom from her wheelchair to her bed most safely and quickly.
It's not sentimentality which drives the need to share; it's clinging to a thin light against dark. If Mom's eating, she's not buried in the quicksands of depression. Asking for help means awareness of a need and a cognizance others await the chance to assist. Missing me means she's awake, aware; means she knows time has passed.
It's little things which cast the grandest light now. Last week, for instance, I knew she was getting better when she took three steps by herself. Three.
Something new and necessary on the list of things learned is the logistics of maneuvering from wheelchair to bed. We've worked out a system: Mom can raise her arms, put them around my neck; I wrap my arms around her, under the ribs towards the small of her back, and brace/adjust as I turn. Her shuffles move her, with enough momentum and a bit of force on my part. Et voila! She's on the bed.
It doesn't seem like much, but it's taken months to work that process out.
Last week, rather than me having to hold and move her all at the same time, she shuffled her feet all by herself.
The home team shoots. They score. The crowd (in my head) GOES WILD!!!!
It was a good Friday. And although my family is small, and breaking, it is still so, very good.
She's doing better, so present and aware. When I saw her yesterday, she kept telling me to sit, visit, breathe. She didn't fuss, just gently held my hand and asked me to feed her. Her plate contained pumpkin, turkey, stuffing, gingerbread, with a medicinal shot glass of a lime green applesauce goo. She said it tasted like it looked; I told her to breathe through her nose and swallow carefully.
I remember in another life, my lip curling when people talked about what their loved ones ate, or if they did, when they did. It presented as a cry for sentimentality, like the person needed something from me I couldn't relate to or care to understand.
I have become one of those people.
My thoughts, especially unkind to new parents whose worldviews narrowed solely to the wonders of baby bodily fluids and overly cheerful comparisons of helpful/educational toys, echo ironically in my head now as I recall meetings with the dietitian and trying to figure out the logistics of moving Mom from her wheelchair to her bed most safely and quickly.
It's little things which cast the grandest light now. Last week, for instance, I knew she was getting better when she took three steps by herself. Three.
Something new and necessary on the list of things learned is the logistics of maneuvering from wheelchair to bed. We've worked out a system: Mom can raise her arms, put them around my neck; I wrap my arms around her, under the ribs towards the small of her back, and brace/adjust as I turn. Her shuffles move her, with enough momentum and a bit of force on my part. Et voila! She's on the bed.
It doesn't seem like much, but it's taken months to work that process out.
Last week, rather than me having to hold and move her all at the same time, she shuffled her feet all by herself.
The home team shoots. They score. The crowd (in my head) GOES WILD!!!!
It was a good Friday. And although my family is small, and breaking, it is still so, very good.
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