Little Victories = Big Celebrations
Yesterday was Mom’s 82nd birthday. It turned out to be a good day, unlike her past two birthdays that were marred with illness.
I called her early and she sounded like she felt ok. I made a feeble attempt to sing to her, telling her I would torture her more. She said it sounded good to her anyway. Mothers are always like that, telling you that you can do anything.
We made plans for dinner that night, at the Olive Garden. Italian is her favorite meal and her longtime local favorite Italian Gardens was long gone from the downtown Kansas City landscape.
“Call me before you come to make sure,” her voice trailed off.
When you’re 82 with congestive heart failure, COPD (the modern term for emphysema) and a very bad back, you don’t make plans too far into the future even if it is only 5 hours.
By afternoon, we were on schedule, though. I went up to her apartment in the senior high rise to give her the gifts. She’s lived here 9 months. She can get her mail and have her hair done all while never having to step into the heat or cold. She’s ok here now, but it wasn’t always this way.
I think she likes the book I bought her by Barack Obama, talking politics is one of the only hobbies she’s been able to carry with her into old age. The others being television – which I think she does just to have company - and to a lesser extent, reading. Her eyes get tired easily and her medications make it hard for her to stay awake. A book that would have taken her a couple of days to read now takes her a couple of months – at least.
The other gift, knee-high hose, was something on her wish list this year. “I don’t need anymore stuff,” and she has a storage garage full of what she couldn’t bring to her apartment and what I couldn’t sell to prove it.
She gathered her oxygen tank and coat and sat back down to catch her breath, something she has to do a lot. A 2-minute trip downstairs takes 10 minutes in between stops to rest. I could get a wheelchair as I did when she first moved here, but she doesn’t want that. The doctors told her that when she quits trying, that will be it. Her heart and lungs will no longer get the exercise they need to keep her moving and she will have to be in a wheelchair permanently.
We’ve already been through rehab – twice. The first after the heart attack was done in the hospital, three 15, then 20, then 30 minute sessions a day – until Medicare stopped paying. The second we did together this spring and summer at her apartment building. She fell twice last autumn and she needed to build her muscles and heart and lungs back up.
We measured her progress each day by the apartment doors. Next door, two doors down, three doors down, all the way to the end of the hall. Then downstairs. It took us 4 months, but by the end of July she was walking again. Now she can make it downstairs in 10 minutes.
At the restaurant, Mom ordered her favorite – spaghetti. She eats slowly these days too and she can’t eat too much, makes it hard to breathe.
The social worker from the county called in the middle of dinner. “I can’t reach your mother, and I need to come by and see her.”
She wants to come next week when I’m out of town, but I insist she come today when I can be there. I need to convince mother to have a hearing test and maybe the social worker will help me.
I shudder a little when I get off the phone, remembering the social worker’s first and last visit one year ago. My mother didn’t want the help of strangers – particularly the government, but I couldn’t live without it.
No, she didn’t want Meals on Wheels; her daughter could bring her food. No, she didn’t want free dentures. Yes, she could bathe herself. No, she didn’t need help dressing each day.
And quit acting like I’m losing my mind! Mom was rude to the woman, treating her like an intruder. I got angry; she got angry. The social worker comforted me when I broke down in the driveway. The only services Mom consented to were 2 hours of housecleaning a week. Thank God she wasn’t as stubborn about the visiting nurses or therapists the doctor ordered after her last fall.
I looked at Mom eating her spaghetti and smiling. I pushed the scene with the social worker from my mind.
Last night was for celebrating two victories, each equally as big. Her birthday and her walking out of her apartment.
I can worry about the social worker later.
I called her early and she sounded like she felt ok. I made a feeble attempt to sing to her, telling her I would torture her more. She said it sounded good to her anyway. Mothers are always like that, telling you that you can do anything.
We made plans for dinner that night, at the Olive Garden. Italian is her favorite meal and her longtime local favorite Italian Gardens was long gone from the downtown Kansas City landscape.
“Call me before you come to make sure,” her voice trailed off.
When you’re 82 with congestive heart failure, COPD (the modern term for emphysema) and a very bad back, you don’t make plans too far into the future even if it is only 5 hours.
By afternoon, we were on schedule, though. I went up to her apartment in the senior high rise to give her the gifts. She’s lived here 9 months. She can get her mail and have her hair done all while never having to step into the heat or cold. She’s ok here now, but it wasn’t always this way.
I think she likes the book I bought her by Barack Obama, talking politics is one of the only hobbies she’s been able to carry with her into old age. The others being television – which I think she does just to have company - and to a lesser extent, reading. Her eyes get tired easily and her medications make it hard for her to stay awake. A book that would have taken her a couple of days to read now takes her a couple of months – at least.
The other gift, knee-high hose, was something on her wish list this year. “I don’t need anymore stuff,” and she has a storage garage full of what she couldn’t bring to her apartment and what I couldn’t sell to prove it.
She gathered her oxygen tank and coat and sat back down to catch her breath, something she has to do a lot. A 2-minute trip downstairs takes 10 minutes in between stops to rest. I could get a wheelchair as I did when she first moved here, but she doesn’t want that. The doctors told her that when she quits trying, that will be it. Her heart and lungs will no longer get the exercise they need to keep her moving and she will have to be in a wheelchair permanently.
We’ve already been through rehab – twice. The first after the heart attack was done in the hospital, three 15, then 20, then 30 minute sessions a day – until Medicare stopped paying. The second we did together this spring and summer at her apartment building. She fell twice last autumn and she needed to build her muscles and heart and lungs back up.
We measured her progress each day by the apartment doors. Next door, two doors down, three doors down, all the way to the end of the hall. Then downstairs. It took us 4 months, but by the end of July she was walking again. Now she can make it downstairs in 10 minutes.
At the restaurant, Mom ordered her favorite – spaghetti. She eats slowly these days too and she can’t eat too much, makes it hard to breathe.
The social worker from the county called in the middle of dinner. “I can’t reach your mother, and I need to come by and see her.”
She wants to come next week when I’m out of town, but I insist she come today when I can be there. I need to convince mother to have a hearing test and maybe the social worker will help me.
I shudder a little when I get off the phone, remembering the social worker’s first and last visit one year ago. My mother didn’t want the help of strangers – particularly the government, but I couldn’t live without it.
No, she didn’t want Meals on Wheels; her daughter could bring her food. No, she didn’t want free dentures. Yes, she could bathe herself. No, she didn’t need help dressing each day.
And quit acting like I’m losing my mind! Mom was rude to the woman, treating her like an intruder. I got angry; she got angry. The social worker comforted me when I broke down in the driveway. The only services Mom consented to were 2 hours of housecleaning a week. Thank God she wasn’t as stubborn about the visiting nurses or therapists the doctor ordered after her last fall.
I looked at Mom eating her spaghetti and smiling. I pushed the scene with the social worker from my mind.
Last night was for celebrating two victories, each equally as big. Her birthday and her walking out of her apartment.
I can worry about the social worker later.
posted by Kerri Fivecoat-Campbell at 7:06 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home