Mom's Story-The Move

"BRING SCISSORS! I NEED SCISSORS!" she yelled into the phone when Tom called to check on his mother. It was the morning of her release from Whitehall Rehabilitation Center after a bout with pneumonia, and in just a few hours she would be walking into an unfamiliar place full of strangers, confusion, and compromise. On this day she would not be driving herself home, pulling her cherished and pampered car into the garage and closing the door on a world she doesn't understand and increasingly gets on her nerves. "Why do you need scissors, Mom?" Tom asked. "Because I need to cut the ropes that they have wrapped around me here. I'm tied up and can't move," was her response.  Oh, boy!

When Mom received the news from her doctor that she could no longer live alone and drive, she was devastated, but he saw what her family didn't. She wasn't safe to herself and others. After living alone for seven years in a big four-bedroom home with the hurricane shutters blocking out the sun and the neighbors, Mom had become a recluse with an attitude. No one was going to tell her how to live her life.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when Tom's mother called to request scissors. The rehab center was less than a mile from Mom's house, so within minutes, Tom was standing in front of her as she angrily pulled at the hose that supplied her with oxygen. "Cut this thing off of me!" she yelled. "It's driving me crazy! I can't move!" After explaining the importance of the oxygen (her survival depended on it), she calmed down and continued eating her pancakes as if nothing were wrong. Tom, on the other hand, was still rattled when he told me the story an hour later.

THE MOVE

"Where are you taking me?" she asked as we drove past the road that used to take her home. After telling her that we found a nice apartment we thought she would like at an assisted living center, she became silent, which was highly unusual for Mom since she had always been a very vocal backseat driver.

"What is this place?" she asked as we pulled up to what looked just like the lobby entrance to a very nice hotel. "This is where you're going to be living now. Isn't it nice?" I said. Silence.

Tom walked around the car and opened the door for his mother. She got out with no help, thank you very much, and walked the short distance to the double doors that automatically opened when they sensed her coming their way. As she entered the lobby, people--strangers--from every direction, all at once, and all talking at the same time, descended upon her. Oh, my! Not good.

But wait! She's smiling. She's shaking hands and saying "thank you" and "nice to meet you, too," and "happy to be here." What?

"No, thank you, I can walk," she said with a big smile when a staff member offered her a walker for her first visit to see her new apartment, and down the hall she went as if she knew where she was going.

Tom opened the door to her apartment and stepped back. Mom walked in and suddenly stopped. Her smile disappeared. Oh, no. She doesn't like it. Did we bring the wrong furniture? Does she hate the pictures on the wall? Is she upset because we brought the blue chair instead of the pink one? What about that table? That's not hers! Is the kitchenette too small? Wait until she sees there's no stove.

But wait! She has tears running down her face. She likes it. No. She loves it, she says. The tears are tears of joy because her family cared enough about her to bring her favorite things and arrange them so perfectly in her new apartment. She walked from room to room (which took about three minutes considering the apartment is only 300 square feet) and praised all efforts on her behalf.

At the end of the first day of Mom's new life, she appeared happy and all was well, or so we thought.


Mom's story to be continued.