A Separate Peace

Maybe it's a matter of acceptance, resignation, lowering of expectations or some combination of the three, but I think I'm beginning to find a little bit of peace with my mom's declining health. 


It's strange to be sure that only a few months ago, I was trying to convince my mom to sleep in her bed at Maristone at night, as opposed to her chair.  I was traumatized when one of the staff members found her on the floor, unable to get up, even when it appeared she had just slipped down from her chair.  I was frustrated when the remote control to her television went missing as it did almost daily.  It wrecked me emotionally when during a visit, she called me her husband and couldn't understand I was her son.


Now, she sleeps in the lift chair I bought her and I completely fine with it.  Her bed is used only to lay clothes on.  I don't want her to suffer a bad fall, although that is probably inevitable, but I recognize she's going to end up in the floor occasionally and not be able to stand up.  Sadly, that's just part of where she is now.  Every time I go to see her, I good naturedly ask her where she has hidden the remote control that day before I begin a search of her normal hiding places (purse, drawers in the chest next to her lift chair, etc.).  Not always, but usually, I find it pretty easily.  When she doesn't understand that I'm her son, I remind her - gently - that I am and, further, that I have a family in Nashville to go home to.  She remembers J.P. and Joe, though not necessarily their names or ages until I remind her of them. 


Often times when I visit, like yesterday, we talk quietly, then I doze off on her couch while she naps in the lift chair.  I think it reassures her, somehow, to have me there even if we're not talking.  I also think providing me with a respite from my busy day brings her pleasure and that on some level, she realized she is helping me by giving me a chance to unwind for a couple of hours. 


I feel at home at Maristone in a weird way now that things have leveled out, at least temporarily.  I'm there a lot and that helps, for sure.  The staff know me and speak to me when I'm there.  Several have asked for legal advice, which is kind of funny.  More importantly, the residents know me, even if they don't know my name and I don't know theirs.  A week or so ago, a man who lives there that I interact with regularly was sitting a out front and struggling to get up from his chair.  A lady was trying to help him, but when he saw me, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes and he motioned for me to help him stand, which I did.  The fact that he felt comfortable enough with me to ask, in his own way, for my help was special.  It was an intimate moment, in a way, and it passed quickly but not without my making note of it.


I hope we can stay in the this place with my mom for a little while longer.  As with so much of this journey, I suspect I'm going to look back a few months from now and wish like hell then that I was where I am now.