Finding the Plateau (Again)

I just left my mom's place after a late morning visit.  We went for a walk and stopped in the sitting area.  I sat on a couch, with her next to me in her wheelchair.  For the most part, we sat quietly.  She dozed a bit and I did too.

It was reminiscent of the old days at Maristone when I would sneak away from work and to see her.  While she sat in her chair and watched television, I often laid down on the couch - in my suit and tie - and catnapped for 15 or 20 minutes.  It made her happy when that happened . . .  almost like she knew, somehow, that she was providing me a place of refuge during a busy, stressful work day.  It made me happy to be there.

We seem to have arrived at a different place - a place to stop and rest for a bit - along my mom's journey.  I'm in a better place, emotionally, the last week or so, probably because I'm becoming more accepting of where my mom is now.  She's quieter and doesn't talk much, which is very different for her.  If I ask her a specific question, sometime she'll answer but mostly she just nods her head.  Sometimes the surprises me and speaks a complete sentence but that's rare.  She doesn't say much unprompted, though.  Almost any speech from her is promoted by a question.

She smiles a lot and, thankfully, is never in a bad mood.  She doesn't complain at all that I can see, which may explain why the staff seem to love her so much.  Other than having to transfer her to and from her wheelchair to go to the bathroom and to clean her, I don't think she's too much trouble for them.

She's just . . . content.

We've reached a new plateau.  I hope we stay here for a while.

I know - I mean, I really know, based on several of the other residents that I see in the Courtyard on a regular basis - that there is a silver lining in all of this.  My mom could be so much worse off, right now.  She likely will become worse off, but she's not there yet.  And, yes, that's a blessing.

This time with her, right now - as she is, right now - is a gift from God, really, and I think it's important that I treat it that way.  With appreciation and thankfulness and relief.

Just being with her, out of her room, and holding her hand while she dozes, or while I doze, is an opportunity to experience something that sooner than I want will be gone forever.  The rational part of my being knows that.  The emotional part of my being has to work harder to know that, I think.

It's part of living in the moment, which is maybe the most important thing my mom is teaching me as we travel this road together.