What a week, what a week. Life sometimes dishes out the tests that make Stanford look like preschool. Hopefully I’ve passed a few this week.
Summer sailed incident free. Did I take advantage of the extra free time? Of course not. That would spoil my procrastination streak of 40+ years. Work was slow, children (young adults) were well behaved and stayed out of trouble (as far as I know). My 75-year-old mother also behaved herself. I think God is an equal procrastinator. He could have toss me a few hardballs along the way. I could handle it. But noooooooooooo. He had to wait and toss the whole bag at once. I feel like I’ve been standing at the backstop of pitching practice for the SF Giants.
All that peace and serenity came to a screeching halt last week. My boss, who has been taking it real easy for many, many months, decided to start working again. The office is remodeling which meant packing my entire office and while simultaneously meeting deadlines. College started up again. My classes this semester are online but they require at least one in-person class session. No problem. Hannah is home from her job as a camp counselor and requires a little taxi service and a chunk out of my thin pocket book not to mention help with financial aid applications, shopping for textbooks and miscellaneous sundries. No problem. Shirah, my lovable, adaptable daughter, is finding her own way to work after my school workload interfered with her schedule. The poor dog sorely needs a grooming. We can handle all of these things without a thought or care. Then I call my mother to invite her to Shirah’s birthday dinner (happy birthday, Shirah!). “I’m not feeling too well,” she tells me. I say, “tell me more.” She’s had a headache all week and has no energy. Her words are coming slower than usual and she sounds confused. “Ok”, I say. We’ll cancel Shirah’s dinner (sorry, honey!) and take a trip the emergency room. It had been awhile. I hadn’t seen the ER in well over 2 weeks when my cousin’s mom suffered a massive stroke. (I later teased another cousin who was on her way to care for her sister who was having shoulder surgery that we better not have any more family members go down because we were running out of caregivers.)
Psych 56: Aging, Death and Dying. I attended the first class a couple of hours before admitting my mother to the ER. Could I have picked a better subject for the occasion? Should be an easy class. But nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. The teacher has given us a mandatory homework assignment consisting of reviewing pages and pages of web material and text books and writing 3000-3500 words ALL DUE IN ONE WEEK. For those of you who don’t know how much writing that is, we’re talking 10 PAGES, SINGLE SPACED!!! Having past experiences in ER waiting rooms, I took my death and dying textbook to read. How morbid is that. In retrospect I should have at least put it in a plain brown wrapper.
Elementary Statistics. Now, I’ve been told from a few different sources that this is one of the hardest classes ever designed anywhere and that Santa Rosa Junior College has one of the toughest curriculums. But, I need it for my major, so I’m taking it. First class, Monday evening.
Back to mom. Following the Psych class the previous Saturday, I picked up Shirah’s birthday cake, took it home, placed it in the freezer, picked up Hannah, drove to my mother’s 5th floor apartment, assessed the situation. She didn’t look good. Got mom dressed (she’d been in her nightgown for lord knows how long), located all her medication, keys, purse, etc. Even though she barely knew where she was or what she was doing, we still had to slap her hand away as she reached for the cigarettes. We gently and slooooooowly walk her down to the car. Should we take her to urgent care facility where the wait is shorter or the main hospital ER where we could be all night? We told her we were taking her to the hospital because she was sick. She kept thinking we were going to visit the aforementioned cousin’s mother who had the stroke. We went to the ER. Following a short intake we moved to the packed waiting room to settle in for a long. . . .wait. We literally had not sat down before a nurse came and rushed us back to the ER.
Seeing her condition and listening to her speak, several health care individuals at the hospital told me that she probably would not be able to live alone anymore or, of course, drive herself. Even at discharge (3 days later) the doctor said she should no longer drive and requested a nurse visit the home to assess her living situation. I know I must have just look at them perplexedly. She only had a lung infection. Why would they say she needs so much more care?
Knowing my mother was going to require so much more attention, I hit the overload limit. My eyes filled easily with salty tears theatening to spill at even a slight thought of what might be. Of my mother’s losses, of my losses. I didn’t know what to do. Should I give up on school to care for her. I only have 3 classes left before I can transfer. I’m 47! This is turning into a dream left to die. It wouldn’t be the end of my world, but it would sure hurt. I visited my blog after a period of absence. Something pulled me there. I re-read the end of the last entry where I remind myself that I need to spend more time with her. How will I feel if I’m immersed in school and she dies? How will I feel if I give up on school and she thrives for several more years? Arghhhhhhhh! Damn life with no easy answers!!!!!!! I even toss out the questions to my 19- year-old. Both my children are wise and gifted in seeing difficult situations with amazing clarity. She told me I needed to set my priorities and I was the only one who could. She was right. Damn, damn life with no easy answers!!!!!!!
Then, I realized why the doctors at the hospital are telling me my mother cannot be independent. I’ve lived with her in her current state for almost 19 years so I forget that she doesn’t seem normal to everyone else. I then told the doctors that she had a stroke 19 years ago that affected her speech and her cognitive ability to process language. Her thoughts get trapped in her head and she has difficulty relaying them verbally so people think she’s confused or stupid. I readily tell people about her stroke when she speaks because they often don’t understand her. I assume the doctors already know this.
She’s home now. She does need more care. Her simple math skills are almost completely gone. She can almost no longer write a check. She’s not sure what kind of foods she should buy at the grocery store so she buys the same things and cooks the same things. But, she can mostly do for herself.
She’s been a heavy smoker since she was 14. In the past, most doctors would address her smoking in a passive way saying things like “don’t you think it’s time to stop?” Of couse she does. At the end of this hospital visit, the doctor finally said the Emphysema word. He looked her close in the eyes and made sure she could hear him (she is hard of hearing too) and told her firmly but gently that SHE COULD NOT SMOKE AT ALL EVERY AGAIN! My promise to her is that if she stopped, I would visit more often because I could not sit in her 900 sq. ft. apartment breathing in the thick, eye burning smoke. And during my visits, I will do homework while she watches her favorite shows. It’s been over a week and no cigarettes! Our congregation of Lutherans, stingy on applause, applauded her during the Prays of the People this Sunday.
I got to pick 2 answers on this multiple choice quiz and they are both right! I still tear up, but now because I am happy for both of us.
