It’s such a long journey

It is hard to believe that I haven’t written in 2 years. Sometimes I feel that we are frozen in time with Mom. She lays in bed most of the day, although she does sit in her wheelchair (more like a wheel-lounge-chair), for a few hours each day. I’m sure she can’t see; her eyes are so cloudy and there is no focus on anyone visiting. She sleeps ninety-nine percent of the day, however, even with her eyes closed, she manages to eat well when someone feeds her. The CNAs are so surprised that she eats so well, but I’ve assured them that my mom and I have many things in common, one of them being that we will take “just one more bite” before we leave our bodies. This always gets a laugh!

I’ve been dreaming of my mother more lately. She is her former, healthy self, involved in whatever story my mind is dreaming up. It feels so normal for her to be with me. I don’t seem to remember that she is actually old and has deteriorated so much. In other dreams I have, I am aware that who I am dreaming of is gone, but not in my dreams of Mom. She is there: alive, vibrant, fun -sharing the adventure of my dream.

There is so much that I want to tell her. So much I want to ask her. I want to tell her about my career, my family, my adventures. I want to tell her my thoughts on life and how grateful I am for my life. I want to ask her about more family history. I want to ask her for advice that only a mother can give.

I want to share holidays with her, go out to dinner with her, share tea in the late afternoon as the sun begins to light the sky on fire, travel with her – see a new part of the world together.

I want to thank her, too, for her unconditional love. She really understood me. She took time to share important things with me – things that help me understand who I am – to accept myself. I was not always the easiest, in fact, I was a difficult teen – VERY difficult. Yet, she seemed to be able to support me even when I was being the worst version of myself. She showed me what loving your children really meant. She did it her way, and she did it well.

Now, when I go to see her, it is not as often. Mostly, it is because the pain I feel when I am with her is overwhelming at times. I can’t understand why she is still living in her limited body. She seems comfortable, but she does have a roommate that cries out much of the day. It is so unsettling and although we have tried to have a new roommate put into the room, we have not been successful thus far. I can see that when the woman cries out, relentlessly, because she is so anxious and upset in her own dementia, my mother gets restless, clearly bothered by it. The funny thing is that my mom had patience for so many things at times. She could be accepting in ways that I really admire. So, I think, on some deep level, maybe, my mother has empathy for the woman. I know that this may sound crazy to some, but I often wonder what my mother really understands. There is no way for me to know.

My mother is 92-years-old. Her diagnosis came at 73, but the signs were apparent in her late 60s. I can’t express how much I will grieve her physical loss. Somehow, being able to talk at her or to her still makes me feel connected. I know she would be very philosophical if she were in my shoes, and it was her mother who was still alive. She would tell me to learn the lessons it offers (which I do), offer it up (the pain I feel; advice from a Catholic mom), and accept it as it is. So, heeding her advice, I pay attention to what this teaches me about life, about myself, and about my mom; I pray for guidance; and I accept that I have no control of her life. I can only make sure she is safe and cared for.

I’m amazed that I am still having this conversation.

Blessings to all who are on this journey.

Nearly a year now

It is so hard to believe that it has been nearly a year since I have pushed my mom’s wheelchair, sat with her so I can rub her arms and legs, sung to her in person, and given her countless hugs and kisses. It has been a very long year for everyone, EVERYWHERE, but truthfully this part feels like a colossal cheat to me. My mom will be 91 this coming summer, and I can’t be there for her in any meaningful way. In the way an Alzheimers patient needs to connect. Close contact. Personal time. Surrounded with love and patience, care and understanding.

Instead, since last March, I have visited her “in person” exactly three times. Each time, I went there with my sister. I was so glad to have her with me. Somehow, her presence eased the sadness I feel whenever I visit my mother. Two visits were outdoors – six feet apart and masked. The other was indoors, months ago, just before the frequency of the virus began to increase in New Jersey. I know she can’t see anymore with her thick cataracts, so eye contact is not possible. I have no idea how her hearing is these days, so how much of what I shouted across the distance was lost? Shouted at her. Trying to tell her about the life of her family and friends. Aiming to connect and keep her in the loop. I sang to her, too, with my cracking, unused singing voice – a voice that has lost so much range without use. Knowing for sure that my mother loves songs, loves music, and was always proud of my singing because it connected her to her late aunt, Aunt Molly, I always sing to her if I can. Molly was a singer who performed on the radio during my mother’s youth. Aunt Molly was truly like a mother to my mother in more ways than I can count. I know my singing connects her to pieces of her life – her Aunt Molly and me.

Since visiting is now not an option at all, not even at 6 feet apart, my family has a 15 minute Zoom session with her every week. Imagine a screen of people, all sad and frustrated, trying to engage her. It is a time we talk at her. Some of us try to share current family events. Others let her hear their voice saying, “I love you, Mom” and “I miss you, Mom.” Often, I end up singing to her, one of just a handful of songs I know she likes, and on occasion, there is a slight reaction. Usually, she is asleep, although there have been times she has her eyes open. I wish she could see us there, loving her, missing her, hands tied behind our backs by this pandemic.

Although I am frustrated by the entire year, certainly that frustration is not limited to my mom. Truthfully, it gives me peace knowing that the home isn’t allowing visitors. As I mentioned in an earlier entry into this blog, we are fairly certain she had the virus in the spring; however, she was recently vaccinated along with the majority of the residents of the nursing home. At least I feel confident that she will be protected from experiencing any of the symptoms that have caused so much physical suffering to so many. I realize this is not a guarantee, but if we can keep her comfortable, when her time comes, perhaps she can pass peacefully instead of after a struggle with her health.

Until we can visit in person again, I will have to accept that this is what this lifetime is presenting. My philosophy is that in every struggle, there is some good. So, what is the good with mom? She is safe. She is physically healthy. She is cared for and cared about. More good? Yes! It reminded me of how important every visit we have made to her over the nearly 11 years really did matter, and that, given the chance, I will take more opportunities to visit with her when I am again permitted to go in and be with her in person.

Mom and the Pandemic

We are in the middle of a pandemic! It feels surreal to me…a pandemic?  REALLY????  DENIAL.  Yup!  That was my plan.  I’ll ignore it.  Follow the directions for my safety and the safety of others, but denial felt like a good choice, and since I figured it would all be over in a few weeks (LOLOLOL!!!!!!!) it would be a thing of the past. My nonscientific mind never allowed me to take in all the information. Oh, believe me, I read, watched, listened, and distanced myself. Somehow, I thought EVERYONE would lock down and after maybe a month – tops- it would all die out, and with that, I would be able to go visit my mother, Tobe Jane.

Initially, I was encouraged that the nursing home locked down immediately.  Such great news! That way, nobody will get sick – right??!!!  WRONG!!!!  My mother’s nursing home has had the second highest percentage of cases in a nursing home in Bergen County. CNAs are sick. Patients are sick. My dear friend’s mom, who happened to be in the same home, got sick and passed away. Such a nightmare.

Early on, my mother was ill. We’ll never know if it was Covid or not, because even though she had a cough, shortness of breath, and a low grade fever for a week, and even though I now know that her CNA has been out for weeks with it (it pays to know people), the home REFUSED to test her. REFUSED!!!!!!!!!! Really? The upside is that she recovered, according to the home, but do we really believe them?

My family was informed that the home was leaving patients in their beds, all day, every day. I understand that between cases of Covid and what I imagine was a skeletal staff, they were struggling, but patients who are put in wheelchairs every day were in bed for about 6 weeks!  WHAT???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So I called the head of nursing and another supervisor. I left  each a message that I wanted to be sure my mom was moved from her bed to her wheelchair every day. I realize she is restricted to her room, which is good, but she needs to be moved. They never called back. NEVER!!!!!!!!

Ultimately, my sister made some headway with unrelenting persistence and was told that starting that day, they would get mom out of bed every day: an actual admission that she had been in bed for weeks. My guess- so was EVERY PATIENT. Shame on them. These are human beings who can’t speak for themselves. My mother, having been a nurse, would want all the safe guards in place and would insist that we stay away (even though we have no choice), but she would have made sure that each patient was truly cared for. Not just fed (I assume) and had their diapers changed.  She knew the importance of different positions for the health and wellbeing of elderly patients.  My question: are they truly following through?  Based on years of dealing with them, I have strong doubts.

I am struggling with feeling helpless. I can’t even get a phone call back. I can’t go check on her. I am relying on a nursing home that has repeatedly neglected aspects of my mom’s care. It took us months to get them to change her diaper more times each day, a request that was made because she had recurring sores due to the moisture. We had to insist on a new CNA at one point because the woman who was assigned to my mother for a couple of months after her CNA moved to South Carolina, was so awful that my mother developed bed sores and smelled horrible. We managed to get a new, WONDERFUL, CNA, but the other woman still works there. I feel for those families. With the new CNA, my mother’s wounds healed, she smelled lovely, and we felt relieved to say the least.

Writing about this makes me anxious, but also helps me put this in its place: it is what it is. I don’t have much control, but we will continue to advocate for Mom. We will do our best on her behalf in a situation that is so very difficult. I will continue to pray for her safety and comfort, for her caregivers to do the best for her and every patient, and to give myself a chance to breath during this life-altering time.

I wish everyone, everywhere good health today and always.

December 2019

It has been another long year. Mom turned 89 on July 14, coming close to another decade milestone.  We continue to watch our mother decline in the healthiest way possible: strong heart, able to swallow and eats fairly well, no major illnesses. On the other hand, she has lost a lot of weight, despite eating, and suffered on and off with different skin sores, mostly related to being confined to her wheelchair and bed all day.  Her face is cachectic and as a result, she drools quite a bit, since her jaw hangs open with not a lot of muscle control. Visiting her gets more and more depressing.

People keep telling me to be grateful she is still here. Grateful for whom?  Mom? Me? She has now lived in this nursing home for ten percent of her life.  I’m am not grateful.  I am heartbroken to see my mother deteriorate in this way. I am pained for her to know that although she breathes, she doesn’t really live. I am angry that her nursing home is understaffed, and although she is clean and seems comfortable, she is alone most of the day.  She is left in her wheelchair in her room for hours each day because they don’t have sufficient staff to open her activity room for the full day. I know that the people in her wing of the home are the ones who “know least,” but perhaps they also need the most. I see the nursing assistants missing meals to try to meet patient needs. Even lead nurses are left to feed patients when they have other responsibilities. And yet, she lives on, so to speak.

In light of all my feelings, there is one thing that does give me comfort. The one thing I am grateful for. Although it is strange and might seem small, in my heart, it is colossal!  My mother still kisses me on the cheek when I leave. I smooch her up during my entire visit.  Sometimes, my relentless smooches elicit a happy response – a true moment of light. Then, when I leave her to head home, I give her enormous, loud kisses on both  cheeks, and then I say, “Okay mom.  Give me a kiss.” And do you know what?  Eight times out of ten, mom puckers up as I shove my cheek to her lips and she kisses me. It really is a great moment. A connected moment! I don’t understand why or how, but she responds – even when it seems like she is asleep.  It is the one HUGE highlight of a very depressing visit. I treasure it.

I remember my former colleague, David, telling me that my mom would be around longer than I could possibly expect.  He was a bit older than I was and he was nearing the end of an equally difficult journey in his family. Of course I didn’t see how that was possible, but David was right! Very right! That conversation happened 16 years ago, and truthfully, I don’t see an end in sight. I am pretty sure I want one, but then I second-guess myself.

When the end does finally present itself, will I be ready to say “good-bye?” Will I continue to grieve as I have for the last 16 years, or will I be relieved? This is something I struggle with. For truthfully, that big smooch my mom still gives me means the world to me.  It warms my heart and reminds me that I always knew that my mom’s love for me was unconditional.  Everyone needs someone in their arena as they grow up that, no matter what, loves you and can be relied upon always.  That was always my mom. And although I am so blessed to have others in my life who love me unconditionally, my first, greatest supporter will always be my mother, Tobe Jane. I miss her every day!

 

Tobe Jane…

It seems hard to believe how long Mom has been living in the nursing home – over 8 years now. When I think back to her first years there, I see my mom walking within the secured wing of her facility,visiting other residents by waltzing into their rooms, uninvited. For most families, Tobe was a welcomed guest whose gentle ways were comforting.  She added something to their visit and company for their loved one.

Often, the staff got to play a game I used to call “Hide and Seek, Tobe”; this object of this game was to find my mother, wherever she was hiding in the wing.  Sometimes, it was in someone else’s bed, sometimes it was actually under someone’s bed (don’t ask), sometimes it was sitting in a chair in the corner of someone’s room, sound asleep. Back then, I thought things couldn’t get any worse.  Although I saw people who were far worse off, ones confined to wheelchairs or beds, somehow, I could never imagine my mom getting to that point.

Mom also seemed to have an inner sense of which residents were going to pass soon; I really don’t know how she did it.  In those cases, mom would sit vigil in the resident’s room, watching over them.  Within the week, the resident would end up passing on, gone to a peaceful place. I assumed Mom would be doing this for all of her stay.

Then, almost 3 years ago, we thought Mom was approaching her final days.  She had acute renal failure and we thought for sure, that would be it. However, in true Tobe Jane form, Mom rallied and her renal failure was reduced to a normal decline in renal function.  The bad news was that from that time on, she has been confined to a wheelchair.

She has never been able to get around in the wheelchair alone, so her days of visiting people came to an end. Her “Hide and Seek, Tobe” was over too!  I’m sure the staff was relieved that they no longer had to search for her every day, but I miss searching for her.  I miss her seemingly calculated attempts to escape the locked down wing, following unsuspecting visitors through the doors before they locked behind them. I miss those days.

Mom turned 88 this past summer.  Her days are spent primarily sleeping with her stiffly contracted arms bent across her chest in her “mega” wheelchair which has cushions carefully positioned around her to try to keep her as comfortable as possible. Although she is mostly unresponsive, it never stops her from eating her pureed meals every day.

When I visit her, I walk her through the long halls of the nursing home where countless people stop to say hello to her; huge smiles beam from their faces as they cry, “TOBE!!!!!  How are you?” It is truly comforting to know that so many people care about my mother.

Often, I find a quiet place to sit and be alone with Mom.  I tell her all about my siblings, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren. Stories of family events, things that happened at work, adventures with friends, conversations I’ve had with her friends, all pour out from me.  I sing familiar songs to her and kiss and hug her like she is a small child that I am trying to fill up with all of my love for her.  Often she wakes up, smiles, and tries to talk, but that is mostly impossible.  On rare occasions, she utters, “love, love, love” or even “nice,” but those words come less frequently.  I treasure the moments I hear her voice and know she is trying to tell me that she loves me and all the hugs and kisses.

So, what I’ve learned is that she is still in there.  Yes, I truly believe that.  She shows it in small, tiny ways, but I still see her in there.  Don’t get me wrong, I miss my mother so much.  In infinite ways, I miss so much about her every day.  I relied on my mother for so much in my life: unconditional love, moral support, counseling, advice. If she had just gotten sick and passed quickly, I don’t think I would have grown to understand myself and life the way I do.  Somehow, maybe this was part of her grand plan: to come into my life and let go ever so slowly, so I could learn important life lessons, first hand, along the way.  For this, I am grateful.  Mom always used to tell me that “patience is a virtue.” Well, Mom, I get it now.  Patience is undeniably a valuable asset; I am working on my growing virtue every day.

Today

I went to the nursing home today, as I do many Sundays, to feed Mom lunch and take her for a walk around the nursing home.  Getting her out and around makes me feel like I did something good for her.  She spends her days in the same part of the nursing home, confined to her wheelchair.  When I push her out through the big, heavy doors to “see” the halls beyond, somehow, I feel as though I’ve accomplished something for her in her day.

The thing about those walks, which I now take on a regular basis, is how the staff at the home respond to my mom.  Love-filled “Tobe”s fill the air as people stop to say hello to her.  Staff that didn’t move with her when she was placed in the relocated locked down portion of the home are so happy to see her, to talk to her, and to share their favorite “Tobe stories.”  Today, the CNA who stopped to say hello told of a time that Mom escaped her lock down by smiling in a flirty way with a handsome employee who didn’t realize Mom had to stay behind the door she was trying to exit.  She laughed so hard as she reminisced about that escape.

The other night, my husband and I went to see her and feed her dinner.  After dinner, we went for a walk with Mom.  I wanted to show him how much her former wing had been totally transformed since she moved two years ago.  As we slowly made our way through that hall, I suddenly heard someone calling loudly from behind a glass window, “Tobe, Tobe…”  I looked all around me until I realized that a CNA who had worked with my mom for years was running towards us wearing the  biggest smile.  We embraced with such a warm, loving hug.  She had always been so kind and loving to Mom.  That is when she told me she had just  been looking at some photographs of Mom the other day and missed her so much.  It warmed my heart to see the connection she has with my mother.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, there are loving, caring CNAs with Mom now, but this woman’s love radiates from her entire being.  You can see how much my mother touched her life and how much she genuinely loves my mom. I love her for that! These walks are really good for both Mom and me.

By the way, the good news is that Mom’s renal failure is no longer acute.  It is just mild now, which means she is doing well.  I wish she could still walk around, but it is what it is, so we’ll go on with acceptance from here.

Since Late November…

Sometime last fall, my mother began to falter when she walked.  I would get occasional calls that she had fallen, was checked by the doctor, on a couple of occasions was double checked with an x-ray, and was fine.  Of course we were all concerned, but still grateful that she could walk and in a little denial that this was a sign of what was coming:  mom’s health was starting to fail and her Alzheimer’s was beginning to worsen.

Her health declined quickly over the next couple of weeks and after the nurse’s aides repeatedly complained to the nurse, mom was sent for a blood test.  By this point, her skin was tight and a bit yellowish and she was considerably more sleepy than usual. She was no longer walking and was transported to meals and “social” activities in a wheelchair. Then came the diagnosis: acute renal failure. The aides were crying (some actually sobbing), and we were bracing ourselves for what seemed imminent.  I posted my worries on social media, preparing my friends for why seemed to be at our doorstep.And then it happened: NOTHING!!!!!

Yes, you read that right!  Zip! Zero! Nada! NOTHING!!!!!  Oh, don’t get me wrong; things had changed quite a bit.  Tobe was no longer able to walk (which was her favorite thing to do all day); this prevented her from playing her favorite game – “Where is Tobe?”  That game was one she played with amazing skill, multiple times every day.  Anyone and everyone who had to get my mom for a meal, her nap, or to visit with her was a game challenger and the object of that game was to find my mother in as little time as possible. In the earlier days of her residency at the nursing home, she was in a much smaller wing of the facility, so it was considerably easier to find her, although in those days she was more skillful at hiding!  She was even found under beds and in other people’s beds (and on one occasion, sleeping on the floor of the bathroom) in a few rounds of the game.

The thing about her daily walking and “hiding” was that she really did connect with other residents. EVERYONE knew my mom: all of the staff (even those that didn’t work with her), all visitors, EVERYONE!  She would walk up to people and smile, pat their arms, and try to comfort them. She  loved to do a little dance with people who stopped in the hall to say hello, always trying her best to stay connected as best as she could.  I was told that on many occasions, my mom would be found sitting in the room of a dying patient, just keeping them company.  It was like she had an instinct for that – knowing someone was getting ready to pass.

Other things changed too!  Now they chop all her food which makes it look UNyummy (add that one to the dictionary 🙂 ), and her fluids are thickened (both of these things reduce the chance of her choking).  The upside is she still loves to eat and she actually drinks all of the disgusting fluids quite willingly.  We have noticed that she is starting to have a bit more trouble swallowing (a result of the Alzheimer’s), which, for now, I am choosing to be in denial about.  It is yet another sign of her decline, and I am afraid of how far she will fall before she passes on.  It hurts to watch her deteriorate.

The thing that hasn’t changed is how much she enjoys being outside.  The home has a beautiful view and on nice days, I wheel her outside to breathe in the fresh air and look around at nature.  She smiles, looks around, and then….falls asleep.  She is such a sleepy-head.

It has been 6 years since Mom started living in the nursing home, and I guess I didn’t expect her to last so long as to lose her ability to walk.  I was sure that she would choose to go before she wasn’t able to “enjoy” her days of walking, but I was wrong.  It’s a funny thing, but I almost think she chooses to stay to show us that life goes on, even when you think it can’t.  Yes, she is still in renal failure. Yes, she can’t walk.  Yes, she sleeps well over half of her day.  And yes, she can’t eat some of her favorite treats!  Yet, in spite of it all, she is still cheerful!  She still enjoys interacting with others.  She doesn’t complain.  She is a lesson for me in choosing to make the most of what you’ve got when you’ve got it.  She is filled with love.  She is filled with inner peace.  She is and always will be the woman I most admire: my dear mother, Tobe Jane.

Gratitude

A few months ago, I was sitting with mom, my arm wrapped around her rounded shoulders, when a young woman who was caring for a patient stopped to say hello. She told me how very lucky I was to still have my mom and began crying. She poured out her heart about how much she missed her own mother so much; apparently they lived together before her mom’s passing.

I reflected on our conversation for weeks. I knew that I was so fortunate to be able to hug and kiss her endlessly on my visits to the nursing home. That loving connection was exactly what I needed over the last few month: in August, I was diagnosed with a small cancer in the milk duct of my breast, and all I wanted was the comforting calm that my mom always provided. There is something unique in her presence that makes me feel strong, even when I feel scared.

I told her all about what was going on with me. Of course, she mostly stared off in space, but on occasion, she would nod her head as if to say, “I’m here for you. I understand.” I’ll never fully know her intention, if there was any, but it made me feel safe. I felt protected, somehow.

Over the following 3+ months, I underwent a minor surgery, and had 6 weeks of radiation therapy. Throughout the entire ordeal, I looked forward to sitting with mom, or taking a slow walk down the halls of the nursing home with her. I would reflect on all the lessons she taught me about inner strength. She would say, “What is this to eternity?”   I knew the lessons were right there for me in this lifetime

I am on the other side of a lot of the treatment now. I am strong and grateful. Grateful that they found it during a routine mammography. Grateful that they treated it and that I endured the whole thing. Grateful that my mom’s presence and her deeply embedded wisdom helped me see and feel all that there was to be grateful for in my life and in the lessons I was learning.

Staying Connected

About three years ago, I braved reading Still Alice, a book that takes you through the decline of a woman who has early onset Alzheimer’s Disease.  It was hard for me to read on so many levels: revisiting my mother’s descent into the disease; my own worries for myself, my husband, my children, my siblings, and dear friends; my current menopausal fog brain concerns.  It is hard to look at what you’ve already experienced on such an emotional level, but even harder to be uncertain of what is yet to come. I made it through the book and, in the end, found it to be a healing force and one that gave me strength in understanding that lives have many different journeys and in this life, my mom’s illness, my future, and the future of my family and friends have been and will continue to be whatever they are.

A little over a month ago, the movie, Still Alice, came out in theaters, and when my daughter asked me to brunch and a movie of my choice for my birthday, I felt pulled to see the movie. I knew I needed tissues, which, of course, I forgot to bring, but I was riveted to the screen as the familiar story unfolded. I found myself weeping, over and over, for my mom, stepping into her shoes long ago as she knew she was having memory issues. I had moments when I panicked, for myself, recognizing those moments of word retrieval issues that I have been known to experience, fearful that they could be more than menopause and overload.

The most poignant moment in the movie for me was when Alice, who had been a professor of linguistics at Columbia University prior to her need to retire, is giving a talk about her experiences with her declining memory and what it is like to have Alzheimer’s. She talks about the need to stay connected. Connected: the most basic human need.

I think my deep sense of understanding my mother’s need to be connected is what made this point stay with me. It has been something I think about a lot lately. It is exactly why I know how much it means to visit her. I see her trying to connect all the time. She walks up to everyone, sometimes rests her hand on their arm or shoulder, to say hello. She loves all the caretakers’ constant greetings, “Hello, Tobe,” as she walks the long halls. She tries to say things, and some real words emerge, “Good, good, good,” as well as gibberish. She often says, “I love you.” I think that she understands far more than she can communicate; at least it sure feels like she does. It is hard to know for sure exactly what goes on inside her head, but she does figure out how to do things and get places when she wants to.

However, there is one thing I really know for sure. I know for sure that Mom wants to stay connected. It is a basic need. She loves to be hugged, kissed, and held. She sighs and relaxes when I sit with her and have my arm around her or hold her hand. It is in those moments that I feel connected too. I feel connected to my loving mom, not in the old ways, but in these new ways, and for that connection, I am truly grateful.

The Flu…and Feeling Helpless

My sister got a call from the nursing home on Monday; Mom, they were pretty sure, had the flu.  They would swab her the next morning to confirm.  So, worried to death, the day passed with Mom in bed and the 4 of us being warned that many patients were sick with the flu, staff was wearing masks, and it would be best not to visit.  It felt like a very long day…but finally, we got the answer we dreaded: indeed, Tobe had the flu.

I kept picturing her lying in her bed, achy and feverish, confused and miserable!  It made my heart hurt to know that there was nothing I could do to help her and visiting didn’t seem like a wise choice.  The truth was, what would my visit do to help her feel better anyway?? I kept imagining a very long week of Mom in bed.  I called every night on my way home from school, always ending with, “Is the staff still wearing masks? Should I still stay away?”  Of course, I was encouraged to stay away to avoid contracting anything.

Yesterday, I called at about 4pm, which is when the nurse, Leonard, told me that Mom is up and walking around – no fever at all, no cough!  Hallelujah! I finally breathed a sigh of relief.  The bad news is that he still is saying to stay away, and since I am not a fan of the flu, obviously, I will wait a few more days and call back to get the status of her floor of residents.  It is so sad to think of them all suffering with the aches and pains of the flu.  I’ll be praying for their quick healing.  They are such a sweet bunch of people.

Maybe it is my age.  I am poised at the door to enter my senior years and I’m realizing just how fleeting life is.  When you spend so much time with so many people who can’t remember their lives, it makes you see the importance of enjoying your own life while you can.  Spending time with loved-ones, making a difference in the lives of others, living with love inside of yourself, and counting your blessings are essential ingredients to a fulfilling life.  I can honestly say that my mom did all of those things.  She lived a life filled to the top!