Head . . . Above . . . Water

No entry since dropping my mother on her tender little head.  I don't think there's any correlation between my absence and that horrid incident other than the fact that it meant she needed to stay with us instead of returning home after the MRI.  By its very nature, having someone live in your living room, and being the one who must do that living as such, creates controlled chaos and some degree of disruption in all lives connected to the event. Between recuperating and caring, we tried valiantly to catch up with the commercial side of Christmas as the Christ-like aspect was being exercised daily in all of us.  I must declare our attempts successful overall.  And for the first time in remembered history, my husband and children, in cahoots with my invalid mother, surprised me . . . with a sorely needed but most unexpected new digital Canon camera.

Really, this time of year does not stir a deeper faith in my soul, unless it's faith that the checkbook and our patience will hold out.  The way society now practices this particular holiday, Christians actually have to exert effort to insert Christ back into the mix.  Rather ironic though not at all surprising given the historical curve of all advanced cultures.  However,  I see His hand all year round, often in circumstances most uncommon and not likely to make it into the pages of any self-help bestsellers or onto the stage of any sold-out convention.  He works quietly, and often strangely per the human perspective, in my life.  I'm okay with that.

I spent this morning meandering my way through a late Christmas letter to stuff into my also late Christmas cards.  This is one of my favorite traditions during the holiday season.  Making contact via snail mail with pictures and words.  My list is rather long.  It should probably be trimmed.  Sadly, it was trimmed by one this past year as one of Jimmy's friends in Lamar passed away unexpectedly.  He was only in his 40's (or had he hit 50?).  Ironically, one of my oldest correspondents is yet with us at the ripe old age of 102 (or is that 103?).  By hook or by crook, I will GET THESE THINGS mailed this week!  Maybe one year I will address only envelopes to those who actually address envelopes to us, but I'm not there yet.  And though I espouse the act of saving trees and reducing waste, e-mail Christmas cards a [personal] sacrilege to me.  To all of you who read AND sent cards our way: a very large and lusty THANK YOU!  They are scattered throughout the living room and dining room.

We plan on spending two nights and days away from this house come New Year's Eve.  Last night, Jimmy and I decided to make it a non-party celebration.  Just us and the kids and a room at Embassy Suites.  Simple.  Fun.  No schedule.  Maybe hit that sushi place in Franklin that serves it up via a conveyor belt on color-coded plates.  There will be bubbly.  And free breakfast.  And swimming.  Not to mention sleeping in.

I may or may not be back before the New Year hits.  If I don't write before then, have a truly safe and celebratory New Year's Eve, whatever you choose to do.  I hope your Christmas was enjoyable, entertaining, healing, and any number of other appropriate adjectives.

Knowing you readers are out there makes life on a bad day good . . . on a good day . . . better.

A Heady Day

Yesterday, I was sure my blog subject matter was all sewn up after walking my dog for her morning mile.  It harbored a bit of humor and positively reeked of the common man element which makes for a painless read: the leash had become entangled with one of the brown Kroger plastic grocery bags I conscientiously recycle by filling with the fresh deposits Panda reliably drops at some point during our exercise.  To further complicate matters, the ear piece cord from my iPhone was twisted in the mix.  Cold weather and gloves made it difficult to simply unwind the mess.

So-o, in a winner-take-all sort of move -- the kind of hasty irritated action which is often not fully fleshed out in thought and can be loaded with the potential to invite disaster -- I pumped my arm in an arc.  I immediately saw my error but was helpless to withdraw the motion.  The loaded bag of warm elderly pooch excrement effectively worked free of its bondage and rotated around my wrist, before coming to a full and complete stop on the right side of my head.  S-l-l-a-p!  Not QUITE a V-8 moment but definitely stupid enough to warrant a quick look around me for any possible witnesses.  No one.  Fortunately, though the bag's contents were reshaped, the plastic held its ground.  Nary a tid or a bit leaked, smeared, or otherwise erupted.  Phew.  I thanked the Lord for small favors and finished out the balance of our walk.  At that point in my day, nothing more significant had come along to usurp its place.

See.  That would have sufficed for a short but sweet entry.  Open and shut.  Laugh and move one.  But what came next in the day, within hours, actually caused me to temporarily forget that I had knocked myself in the side of the face with a sack of sh- . . . well, you know!

As I've chronicled in fits and starts, my time as of late has been full of travel to Colorado in and around Thanksgiving, nine days, followed by almost full-time attendance to my mother as needed -- a week of overnight stay at her place since the 10th and staccato visits to our house afterward.  As meaningful as my activities have been, and continue to be, they're also quite exhausting.  The body and brain try to keep it all moving forward but fatigue is ever present.  And with fatigue comes a certain amount of decision-making which doesn't fire on all cylinders.  Much like the doggie doo episode.  

It's 2:15pm.  I've pulled into the parking lot of the diagnostic imaging center where mom is to receive her lower lumbar MRI.  We hope to pinpoint the origin of the severe pain in her back and right leg which has transformed into a bit of a bully and a showoff in the overall gallery of pains she's had to endure since her knee surgery almost two weeks ago.  The lightweight seated roller-walker which was the object of an intense week-long hunt comes out of the back seat; I'm grateful to leave the dinosaur of a wheelchair, which has been mom's sole means of conveyance between her recliner and the restroom, in the trunk of her champagne-colored Park Avenue sedan.  Mom must remain off her right leg for two months while her cartilage regenerates in the mini-breaks riddling her scoured knee joint.  So, for the past few days, she's busied herself with mastering the art of backward scuttling between our living room and powder room.  But she can't roll herself safely on the concrete.

Scouting the terrain, I note the handicap ramp is short, steep, and sporting an inch rise between the two joining surfaces.  "I'm gonna have to move fast to get a running start up that thing, mom," I warn her, "Just like we did in the wheelchair at the drugstore."  She is facing me, snug in the seat, gazing up at my face as I grip the handles and get a move on.  I'm slightly distracted by my heavy purse as it refuses to stay on my shoulder as I walk, so I don't sense my error in judgement concerning comparisons between a bulky large-wheeled chair and a featherweight petite-wheeled rollator intended to be walked and NOT ridden.

The second we make contact with the raised lip of the ramp, however, fireworks of realization explode in my brain.  More rapidly than one would imagine possible, several things happen.  The top-heavy roller does not roll -- it catches and topples over, sending my mother straight back, her suddenly very delicate and vulnerable gray-haired head tumbling toward the cold concrete.  My right arm and leg begin to curve inward as I instinctively try to cushion my mother's fall.  I'm not that fast.  There is the sickening crack of her skull against a hostile unyielding surface, echoed by the hard thwack of my knee on the same.  I curl around her, cradling her head, suddenly sobbing in my fear and mortification at what I inadvertently caused.  "Mother, mother, I'm so sorry.  Are you all right?  Are you all right?!  Oh, mother-r-r . . . "  There's no stopping my cries.  Though not for lack of trying on her part.  "Gloria, I'm all right.  Try to breathe.  Calm down,"  she touches my hand, patting it, "You need to go get help for me."

Limping, and still crying, I enter the waiting room and ask for help.  Two gentleman, one dressed distinctively in Harley biker fashion, sporting a beard and longer hair, jump up and follow me out the door.  Seeing mom sprawled out on the ramp, still and silent in the cold, they exclaim their disturbed surprise and quicken their pace.  All the while, I'm informing them of her condition, warning them to take care with her knee . . . and yes, I'm still crying, heaving, unable to calm myself.  This isn't like me.  Only one other time did such tears and panicked wailing overtake me: when my son, as a frightened 5 year-old, ran screaming from the dentist office and almost plunged headlong into oncoming traffic before my terrified eyes.  I could not catch him.  If it had not been for the portly man who crafted dentures in the back of the office moving at superhuman speed and snatching him up at the last possible moment, I would have only two children today.

It takes me several minutes to rein in my emotions once mom and I stand before the receptionist.  I hiccup through our tale of woe, and explode into a fresh round of weeping.  Another employee emerges from behind the counter and embraces me, cooing her sympathies as I shudder.  When I feel sane enough, when I'm reassured that my mother is not dead and will likely live to see another cruise in the offending rolling walker, I set about the business at hand.  Paperwork and searching for her lump.  My stomach turns when my probing fingers find a dent but mom quickly reminds me that there's a matching dent on the other side due to her forceps delivery from back when such methods were employed!  We soldier on.  Because of the bump to her noggin, mom is instructed to endure the test without the aid of medication which would lessen her anxiety.  Can't risk missing the signs of a concussion.  She counts down the agonizing minutes as the giant magnetized tunnel vibrates with the telltale knocking which is a signature of the system.  Lying down flat is not in her bodily vocabulary right now, so this is a bit of necessary torture.

It is unthinkable to return to the ancient wheelchair in her estimation.  I am ready, willing, and extremely eager to retrieve it for our departure.  Nope!  She mounts her trusty lightweight steed and rides again.  Being the trusting soul that she is where her loyal daughter is concerned, she has me escort  her right off the bat.  But gently.  And with great forethought.  And the purse set down on the sidewalk.

_________________________

In the end, we decided she would return to our house for safekeeping.  My son accompanied us to her apartment in Woodbury to gather a few items necessary to her well-being.  My knee throbbed, resonating with the echoing sympathy pains to my mom's own healing knee, but a cold gel pack and ibuprofen, working in tandem with the Chambord and fresh lemon juice over ice, encouraged the angry joint to lessen its grip on me.  There followed Chinese take-out for dinner with frozen yogurt and brownie chasers.  Our Christmas mood returned with a viewing of "Elf" and late-night chatter with my daughters and their boyfriends which dissolved into silliness and laughter.  Eventually, we surrendered to sleep somewhere around 2am.  12 hours had come and gone since the debacle.

My brothers jokingly accused me of elder abuse and a botched murder attempt.  I'm able to giggle about certain aspects of the event but still can't bear to hear my mom explains how it happened, especially when she describes the watermelon thunk of her head on the ramp.  This morning her neck hurt.  Whiplash, of all things.  My knee is a touch swollen.  Some bruising.  A nice scab embedded with the outline of the corduroy pants I was wearing at the moment of impact.  A soothing haze has begun to drop down over my recollection . . . which is just fine with me.  It won't happen again.  Though my mother is the senior one, I don't think MY heart could take it.

And that, dear readers, is how yesterday went from 'the day I hit myself in the head with pooch poo' to 'the day I almost killed my poor mother!'

Lobbyists

There's a bit of a gauntlet to be walked here at the Holiday House when one enters via the double set of glass doors separating the bare foyer of the building with its one payphone from the lobby with its revamped sitting areas and sign-in table.  During specific times of the day and early evening, one can't help but notice the cluster of residents inhabiting the formal pale green winged-back recliners and the comfortable couch facing the cabinet-housed television.  There are also several ladies who mill about, or hang out, perched on their multiple maroon walkers with cushy seats, hand brakes, wheels, and those handy storage baskets.  (I do believe mine would house a notebook or laptop, dark chocolate, and my iPhone!)  Though singles and doubles do use the space, most times they congregate in groups. There are a minority of males; females dominate this two-story forty apartment complex.

And all heads swivel as new arrivals head toward those clear glass doors which separate the outdoor air and life of Woodbury proper from the indoor air and existence of this largely senior population.  Given the physical condition of many of these folks, its rather impressive to see just how far their  necks are capable of turning as they take immediate notice of the incoming.  A very apparent and sudden silence stills the room as eyes question and smile, wonder and surmise.  If one is not an actual inhabitant returning from an outing, perhaps to the Dollar General or Piggly Wiggly or a physician's appointment, then the three-ring binder on the guest table must be filled out with specific visitor information: name of visitor, name of resident awaiting said visit, date, time in, and, eventually, time out.  The back of the head fairly burns with the intensity of multiple gazes zeroed in on it.  Does anyone ever return in surreptitious manner during an isolated moment to nose through the penned lines, perhaps curious as to who that strange women was who visited such-and-such in apartment 107?  Or to determine when that gentleman caller left because it sure seemed like his car was in the parking lot ALL night!  The now official visitor, while heading off in the direction of the targeted resident, is accompanied by a dwindling trail of whispers as the talk heats back up and the newcomer is enfolded into the topics being tossed about in the Holiday House huddle.

This same gallery of keen onlookers exercise their skills of observation and interaction in more individual ways, too.  If one is not careful in manner and scrupulous in word, feelings can be hurt and dislikes can form.  Just tonight, my mom received an impassioned call from a resident who happens to also be a good friend.  He has an apartment directly above her and rang her up to find out if the music he was playing at 4:45 in the afternoon was disturbing her.  "Music?  What music?" we both wondered as we had heard nothing outside of ourselves, the television, and the lovely voices of my delightful daughters all day.  As his story unfolded, it became clear that a mini-drama had been enacted over the past hour.

The sour-faced women down the hall who huddles outside the north end of the building several times a day to puff on her cigarettes, and who is known for stirring the hornet's nest with not much more than a short stick, spouted that she heard the loud music and was tired of it.  Further, my mom had heard it, too, and [being the night manager and general go-to gal for peer problems great and small] disliked it so much that she was going to have him evicted!  From my corner of the couch, I could hear him, voice enhanced by the speaker button on mom's telephone, intoning passionately of how the CD was a gift from his son featuring his son's music and most everyone who heard it thought it rather good.  His dander was most definitely up; he worried he'd possibly bothered my mom during her difficult recovery.

Mom smoothed his ruffled feathers, clucking a bit over where this woman could possibly have come up with such falsehood and why.  He seemed to recall that the smoker lady stopped caring for him after another person moved in.  No one could ever figure out why.  Mom told him to play on -- later I suggested she should have closed with, "Rock on, Ray!" -- assuring him that 7PM was the cut-off and that she remained unaware of any excessive noise or complaints of such.  Disaster averted.  Lives may possibly have been saved.  No one was evicted.  We returned to our regularly scheduled Hallmark Channel programming.  Or was it Sarah Palin's Alaska?

(I distinctly heard this modern princess of the North say 'yinG and yang' during one of her rambles and I had to wonder if all Republicans display a propensity for these peculiar creative wordisms?  Some of President George W's Bushisms still rank high in verbal antic enjoyment for me!  But then I recalled a total donkey of a democrat I know personally who pronounces THyme for thyme and It'ly for Italy.  And then there was that aunt-by-marriage with no political affiliations at the time who substituted buzzARD for buzzer and KIRrit for carrot.  And until I was called out on it by my favorite uncle as a young teen, I pronounced lingerie as it presented phonetically in text, having never paired the audio version with the written.  It appears to be a simply human thing.  Imagine that . . . )

At present, all ladies and gents of this microcosmic community are safely ensconced in their beds.  The only noise I hear emanates from easily identifiable and non-offending sources.  The hum of the freezer and fridge unit as it works to chill the groceries I added to its dwindling contents.  The soft measured breathing of my mother as she slumbers somewhat fitfully in her borrowed lobby chair.  And the on-and-off staccato of my Dell keyboard as my sore arthritic fingers race to complete this entry in time for a bit of reading -- Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, a topic for another day if ever I get through it -- before my breathing, too, becomes soft and measured.

Good night to all.

Go-Litely Into The Twilight Years

The 'Drive Medical Go-Lite Deluxe Padded Seat Aluminum Rollator Walker with Loop Brakes.'  Today's elusive holy grail.  I didn't even realize the things were called anything other than a walker.  That some models are wheeled and others simply stoppered perhaps registered in the fuzzy not-pertaining-to-me part of the brain.  And it certainly didn't occur to me to consider such things as color selection -- marbled, blue, burgundy -- and size -- wider seats, distance between the floor and top of the seat, height of the handles -- and quality -- hard plastic seats or cushy, soft over stiff hand grips, flimsy wheels versus veritable four-wheeler models.
But beyond ALL of that, the thing which I never entertained was the possibility that my aging mother's arthritic but still fully capable hands would one day need to grab hold of one of these useful contraptions.  I mean, aren't they most often utilized by elderly people?  Senior citizens?  Old fogies with one foot in the retirement home and one foot at least near the grave?  This is my mom we're talking about here.  Yes, I've noticed her appearance is now devoid of any vestiges of middle age, much less youth, as of a decade or so ago.  That she's 72 has not escaped my notice.  
But this is the woman who kneaded homemade bread dough while listening to Don Williams in our cozy apartment kitchen in Alaska when I was a little pig-tailed girl.  The woman who took us on long drives on isolated country roads to admire the open space and its natural scenic beauty.  The woman who cooked up batches of fat-rich suet for the winter-hungry birds in the mountains of Idaho.  The woman who up until recently would have to hang up during phone calls because a neighbor was in need of assistance for minor and major emergencies in her apartment building.  Not to mention the apple cakes, oatmeal bars, veggie-laden soups, and big big bowls of my husband's favorite potato salad which make regular appearances in our home courtesy of her very capable self.  It's inconceivable that she'd ever have to adopt the accoutrements which stereotypically signal the need for assisted living.  
Yet just this morning, I stood in the foyer of a Woodbury business, folding a fancy-schmancy rollator  in order to lug it out to the champagne-colored Buick Park Avenue parked just out front.  It's basket -- likely to be filled with prescriptions and the like -- was tucked under my arm.  At one point, I had to call out to the informational flier to ask that it not take flight on the breeze because my mom likes her official paperwork.  All of my hopes for the immediate future were pinned on this contraption.  I envisioned my presently pain-ridden mother regaining her ability to mobilize herself with some level of independence for the next two months of 'no weight bearing on her right leg' per the doctor's orders.  I saw a day, sooner than later, where the back of her slender neck, the delicate section just above the neck of her t-shirt and immediately below her dark gray wavy hair, would not be a primary viewing point for my caretaker's eyes.  No more clunky ancient wheelchair wearing out a rut in the carpet between the chair in the living room and the bathroom.  She would tote herself around on the impetus of her one good leg, partnered with the miracle walker.
That was this morning.  Tonight, the tired old house wheelchair is still sitting in the small kitchen near mom's front door.  I've tripped over it several times in the dinner hour.  In place of the walker, there is a yellow return receipt entwined with mom's refund cash.  The thing was too tall.  With mom positioned properly on its throne, her feet came near to dangling.  In order to roll herself around, she would've had to remain a perpetually posed ballerina from the knees down.  Can you say major muscle cramps?!  But I did my homework.  Whipped out the ol' tape measure and checked the dimensions of two other residents' well-used walkers.  Researched online.  Made a phone call or two.  Tomorrow, one of my daughters will hang for a bit with Grandma Sharon while I take a quick trip to a neighboring burg in search of the Drive Go-Lite Deluxe Rollator . . . 'cause that IS the one.  Our hopes are renewed.
In two months, however, she's ditching the ambulatory assistance for her own legs.  I'm making sure of that.  Maybe, maybe, we might save it for possible future use.  Knee replacement?  But this daughter may yet be in denial because she does not wish to see her maternal one remain dependent upon a device which robs her of one of those unspoken levels of personal freedom, thus slowly diminishing the adult capacity of a person and steadily returning them to a place which mirrors the helplessness of their infancy.   

The 'Kneed' To Explain

So, I'm still not actually back on the homestead.  I made a brief weekend visit with the family over the weekend after returning from my 9-day sojourn in Colorado before donning a temporary nursing cap for my mom in her moment of 'knee-d.'  (Now THAT was a whole lotta prepositional phrases for one sentence, eh?)

I've not blogged since Tuesday last; I've not posted since the Monday before that.  Withdrawals have set in, plaguing my brain.  But physically and emotionally, there's simply been NO time.  For my big trip out West, I had to board an early plane in a timely fashion, pack and unpack -- multiple times, drive and visit . . . and drive, attend hours upon hours of repetitive court hearings, visit some more, find time to engage in somewhat meaningful sleep, eat wonderfully tasty and filling food prepared by loving hands, and make my way with minutes to spare at DIA.  Returning home entailed preparing a couple of meals for my own family with loving hands, taking time out to catch up with the kids, and trying to glimpse my lately over-worked husband in between the office and bed!

At present, my duties revolve around a 72 year-old left knee with multiple holes drilled in it to encourage new cartilage growth to replace the significant amount of meniscus which had to be cut, shaved, and discarded.  My maternal one must quickly adapt to the Drive brand, deluxe, one-button, folding walker bestowed upon her after yesterday's early morning arthroscopic procedure.  Until the initial pain resolves, I'm her go-to gal.  Probably 4 full days.  She must remain in the raised position for 3 days, applying continual rounds of ice for 36 to 48 hours; I'm insisting on the larger number.  This has led her to state that I think I'm the boss of her knee.  Well, I might have also insisted that she not investigate any tender areas around the joint when she pointed out a nearby sore spot.  "Let's not inadvertently inflict any further trauma on the area!"  And then there's the hourly foot flexing she must repeat to avoid blood clotting issues.

She lives in a small two-story apartment building for individuals in a more mature stage of life.  One of the communication methods involves taping notes and cards to the doors.  Or slipping them beneath the doors.  Or leaving bags of fruit and other goodies on the doorknobs.  I've retrieved a few items in this manner and delivered a card via Scotch brand just across the hall.  Several concerned neighbors have kept the phone ringing with questions after mom's progress and offers of help after Nurse Gloria leaves.  Though I'll check in weekly, I feel some measure of relief in knowing she'll be in good hands.  She has given to those around her and now they hope to reciprocate.  A nice system, eh?

We've watched several DVD episodes of 'The Closer' and caught the exciting season opener last night.  Brenda Lee Johnson helped distract from the intensifying knee pain for awhile.  Thanks for that, chief!  Mom records programs she hopes to share with me during my visits: today it was 'The Nate Berkus Show.'  They were gut-wrenching hours centered around Dolly Parton helping Nate put together a nursery for a man with four children whose wife died unexpectedly five weeks ago after delivering twins AND Elizabeth Edwards (the wife of the philandering presidential hopeful who developed an incurable form of cancer in 2004) assisting Nate in designing a living room for a woman who lost a young daughter to a terribly debilitating disease and became severely depressed.  Dolly sang with the renowned style and heart for which she is known -- my tears were as plentiful as the sensitive Nate's own!  And after listening to Ms. Edwards expound so hopefully on trying to survive until her children graduated high school, we had to hear later in the afternoon of her unexpected passing.  After the emotion of my travels, coupled with the arrival of a specific feminine ailment, the stress of mom's surgery and subsequent needs, plus being away from my family for so long, that was about all I could handle without blowing a gasket.  I needed air.

I cleaned up.  Got mom situated after another round of ablutions and actions -- she's a compliant and cheerful patient, even in the midst of pain, and she's gonna master that dang walker.  Then I left the building to test the winter chill, feel the sun on my face, run an errand for my ward, and grab a cup of hot coffee with a side of ice cream cone at the local Mickey D's.

We've successfully conquered a day and a half.  Mom has the more difficult job here.  I'm easing the way as she adapts to this temporary but significant life transition.  Everything will be affected, from meal preparation to no driving to maintaining body cleanliness.  A couple of months may soon feel more like a half dozen!  If you have any ideas, feel free to share.  Right now, her arm and chest muscles are sore from carrying herself the short way from the living room to the restroom.  We joke that her left leg may become a hyper-developed mutant limb whilst the healing one may wither into an atrophied stump.  But really, we simply want to everything to hold out, work together, and unite for the whole.  Go! Team Mom Sharon!