A Port in a Storm, but Sometimes Just a Storm

Sunday morning, I skipped church and drove down to see my mom earlier than usual.  When I arrived she was just finishing breakfast.  As always, she was happy to see me.  I wheeled her away from the table in the dining room and upstairs - these days, she spends most of her time in her wheelchair  - to her apartment.

After she went to the bathroom, I helped her transfer from the wheelchair to her lift chair and we settled in for a longer visit than usual.  We talked amiably.  She was in a good mood - not nervous or uptight - just a little confused about things.  She dozed off and on for a couple of hours, with the television droning quietly in the background.  I read a book, answered some e-mails and may have dozed off a time or two myself.

I was struck by how peaceful it can be, for me, sometimes, when I visit my mom at Maristone.  Maybe that's a sign of acceptance of my mom's fate on my part.  I don't know.  It just seems that with my life as busy and stressful as it is on the outside - work, clients, the boys' activities, etc. - it's nice sometimes to shift into neutral and idle for a while with my mom in her apartment.  It feels right for me to be there, not all of the time, but sometimes.

My reverie was broken when I heard my mom's next door neighbor, Maria, yelling repeatedly for help in her heavily accented voice.  I walked into the hall to check on her and found her standing in the doorway of her apartment in a nightgown.  "Nobody will help me," she said, near tears.  "I haven't eaten breakfast and I can't clean myself or get dressed.   I pressed the button on her pendant for her, then embarked on a search for a caregiver.  Finally, I found one and told her what was going on with Maria.  She rolled her eyes, nodded, and said she would be right there.

I hope the caregivers don't act that way toward my mom when we're not there.  I don't think they do, but it's hard to know.  The whole exchange made me sad again.

I left my mom a little while later, hurried home for lunch, then coached back-to-back baseball practices for J.P.'s and Joe's teams from 1:30 p.m. - 4:00 p.m.  The real world.

Tuesday afternoon, I got tied up at work and almost missed my window to stop by and see my mom.  I arrived at 5:30 p.m., just after she had finished dinner.  I noticed Beth, one of the nurses up front as i walked in.  She seemed down, so I paused and asked her if anything was wrong.  "We lost someone today," she replied.  "Who?" I said.  "Ms. Netta," she answered sadly.

She showed me a photograph of Ms. Netta and I immediately recognized her.  She was a petite, quiet, friendly lady who appeared to be in good shape, always walking around the facility and speaking to other residents or guests.  She was one of the more active residents, from my vantage point.  I learned she had slumped over at a grief counseling session that morning and died.  Just like that.

Ms. Netta is the second resident to die in the last month or so.  I get used to seeing certain residents, saying hello to them and then they're gone.  It reminded me that, good or bad, every visit I have with my mom could be the last time I see there.  The last time I interact with her.  There's a lesson in there that I'm still grappling with, two days later.  Yes, cherish every minute with my mom, but something bigger, I think.  More about acceptance, appreciation and gratitude.  I think.

(Postscript:  When I stopped in at Maristone  yesterday, I learned another residence died this week.  A retired physician who sat with his wife behind my mom at dinner.)