Five Days in April

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

She walked to the far end of the lobby and selected a chair next to a big picture window that looked out onto the parking lot. Once she was settled comfortably in, she patted my hand and smiled up at me. "I'm fine," she said. "Go on. Do what you have to do." But when I returned less than five minutes later, she had passed out and was slumped over the arm of the chair.  As soon as the alarm was sounded, the once empty lobby was full of concern. None of my attempts to revive my mother-in-law were working. Was this the end?

This story actually begins one week earlier when the Florida assisted living center where Tom's mother lived called to say she was no longer able to stay with them.  Her short-term memory failures and need for oxygen were a combination that did not work well in their facility, they reported. She needed to move out as soon as possible.

MOM IS COMING TO NORTH CAROLINA

Thursday, April 24, 2014

After the checklist of travel essentials was reviewed over and over and over again, Tom, Maggie Mae and I pulled out of the driveway as the sun was coming up over the Nantahala mountains. Twenty-five minutes later, our truck pulled back into the driveway because one of us (not Maggie Mae) forgot their cell phone. No problem. We're off again and this time we've made it four hours down the road before one of us realizes we forgot... . No problem because we don't have to turn back; it's not a travel essential. It would be nice to have, though. Really nice, actually.  Love, love, love to have it on this trip. Okay! Alright! We'll stop and buy one! What's another hour added to a thirteen-hour trip? 

Since Tom had just had surgery to repair a torn rotor cuff--the shoulder was being held together by a thread the doctor said--his right arm was in a sling and non-functional, which meant that he could not drive or pack or aid in any way the removal of his mother from Florida and the subsequent transfer of said mother to an assisted living center in Franklin, North Carolina. No problem. I can do it. How hard can driving fourteen hours one way and packing a one-bedroom apartment be? How difficult can transporting a 90-pound, 95-year-old lady on oxygen with short-term memory issues be? Besides, Tom's brother and sister-in-law are coming to help, right? What? They've caught a bug?

Friday, April 25, 2014

Packing, packing, packing. Tom wishes he could help. No, really he does. He looks so handsome sitting on that recliner on the assisted living center's veranda holding his sweet tea with his left hand... while I pack. No, really he does.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Packing, packing, packing. While I am transporting boxes from the apartment to the truck, someone comes into the room and takes one hundred dollars, a table and two chairs. No problem, though. The assisted living center's management will get to the bottom of this. What? They want to know if Tom or I took the items, but due to short-term memory issues, we have forgotten. 

Later around midnight...

What is that awful wretching sound coming from the bathroom? What? Tom has a bug?

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Tom is getting worse as the day progresses. Lethargic and nauseous with pain. A trip to a MedCheck reveals nothing, however, he is given an anti-nausea pill. The staff at the assisted living center asks once again, "Is it possible that you or your husband took those missing items, but forgot?"

Later around midnight...

More wretching sounds from the bathroom. Pill not working.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Wonderful Day! Great Day! Mom is coming to an assisted living center in North Carolina where she will have advocates who live only fourteen minutes (not hours) away. With her two sons and two daughters-in-law by her side, Mom grins big and steps up into the backseat of our truck. Waiting for her are pillows, blankets, snacks and a tail-wagging Maggie Mae. Oh, how she loves that dog, she says.

Off we go, north on Interstate 95. The plan is for us to drive all the way to Franklin and stay in a hotel because Mom can't negotiate the steps at our house. At eight o'clock the next morning, she would be sitting in the lobby of an assisted living center, ready for a new chapter in her life.

"I'M FREE, I'M FREE!" Mom screams from the backseat. I adjust the mirror on my visor so I can see her big smile. Even though we're not sure what she means, Tom and I both agree with her, "Yeah, Mom, you're free."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom, who is still sick, turns around and answers, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet." 

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom again, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."

Two Hours later... (only twelve hours to go)

"Are we there yet?"

No response.

Tom is pretending to be asleep and I have a rule "The driver doesn't talk." That's what I told her but she has forgotten so she keeps asking if we're there yet and then I say...

"How would you like a chocolate shake?"

"Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," she says. So we stop at McDonalds and she's as happy as she can be.

Four hours later...

"Are we th..."

"How would you like a chocolate shake?" 

And that is how the trip went all the way into darkness and into North Carolina, where we had to stop for another travel essential, this time for Mom.  It was eleven o'clock when we walked out of Walmart and into a severe thunderstorm. We hadn't heard the alarms and warnings about wind and tornadoes but we soon discovered on our own as I was driving over Cowee Mountain, our last few miles before finally reaching our destination. The rain was coming down so thick that I couldn't see the road. Mom, thankfully, was sleeping as I crept along at ten miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my nose ten inches from the windshield. I thought about pulling off the road but in mountain country, that is not wise. Cars were stopped, blocking the lanes. I continued on and at midnight we arrived at the Comfort Inn.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014, 12:30a.m.

Mom, Tom, and Maggie Mae are all in bed. Mom has her oxygen, Maggie Mae has her ball, and Tom is snoring. All is well, until...

6:00a.m.

"Carol Louise, I think I need to go to the emergency room," Tom said.

6:15a.m.

I drop Tom off at the emergency room and hurry back to the hotel where Mom and Maggie Mae are still sleeping. We have to be at the assisted living center at 8:00a.m. which is over an hour from now, but getting Mom ready takes time. There's the dispensing of her medicine, and getting her attached to oxygen is also time consuming, so I wake her up and she says, "Are we there yet?" to which I respond, "Yes, we are finally there." She smiles.

8:00 o'clock sharp

She tells me she needs no help getting out of the truck, but she really does. I hold both of her arms as she slides down from the seat onto the pavement. She's perky this morning and happy. She walks without help into the front door of the assisted living center and to the far end of the lobby where she selects a chair next to a big picture window that looks out onto the parking lot. Once she is settled comfortably in, she pats my hand and smiles up at me. "I'm fine," she says. "Go on. Do what you have to do." I leave her and walk to the receptionist's desk to announce our arrival. But the receptionist says she has no record of anyone being admitted today, to which I respond, "But I have an appointment with Teresa at 8:00." "I'm sorry," the lady says, "I have no record of that."

I return to the lobby to find my mother-in-law slumped over the arm of her chair. I notice that her oxygen tank is empty.  I send out a request for help and the room fills with management and staff but no one can touch her because she is not a resident...yet.  Could her unresponsiveness be due to her lack of oxygen? Could someone direct me on how to hook up a new tank? No is the answer, but rules sometimes are meant to be broken. At least that's how one staff member feels as she jumps right in and replaces a depleted oxygen tank with a full one. 

I tell the staff that I must leave now and go to the emergency room at the hospital to see about my husband. They say "Go, she'll be fine now."

9:00a.m.

Tom is released from the hospital with a diagnosis of Norovirus and a different type of anti-nausea pill. I take him home where he immediately goes to bed, and I return to the assisted living center to check on Mom. She's still not conscious, but she is checked in and has a room. Could it be something other than lack of oxygen? I ask. Yes, I'm told. "How much Xanax did you give her this morning?" they want to know. "I gave her the dosage I was instructed to give her by the nursing staff," I reply. "Well, there was a typo on the paperwork," they say, "You gave her a double dose."

Later that same day...

"I need to go back to the emergency room," Tom tells me. The right side of my body is jerking uncontrollably." I stand over Tom and watch as his arm and leg do the jig without his permission. I check the side effects on the paperwork that came with the anti-nausea drug and see a warning: Contact your doctor immediately if parts of your body jerk uncontrollably after taking this drug. So off to ER we go. Good news, kinda. It's not life threatening and it will wear off in a day or two.

Later that evening...

Tom is sleeping comfortably. Only an occasional moan can be heard from the bedroom so I go back to the assisted living center to find Mom in her room but still unconscious. Well, not unconscious, but non responsive. "Way too much Xanax," the dispenser of the meds told me. "No problem, though, she'll be fine."

Later that night...

I fall into bed next to Tom. Half of his body is doing the jig and the other half is sleeping peacefully.

Four Months Later...Thursday, August 28, 2014

And so it was, five days in April, 2014, that I'll never forget. No problem, though. I was grateful that I was among those "able" to help and not among those who needed help. Four months later Mom is doing great and Tom is back in the creeks and rivers fishing and life is good.

The Migration of the Paperclip

Have you ever thought about the migration of the paperclip? No? Well, neither had I until, during an early morning visit to the bathroom one day last week, a tiny, shinny object on the floor in front of the toilet caught my eye...the left eye because the right one was still crusted shut.

Day 1

It took me several long seconds to make sense of what I was looking at. Not that I don't know what a paperclip is; it was the why that puzzled me. Why would a paperclip be away from its home which is three rooms away, in the top drawer of a file cabinet, and inside a little black magnetic box? And then there's the how. How did it get past the magnetic strip that is designed to keep the loopy little holders of papers confined? Did it climb out on its own or was it let out by someone other than me and allowed to roam free?

In an effort to answer the above questions, I decided to follow this lone paperclip's migration through our house and hopefully, eventually back to its natural habitat. Would it find its way back where it belongs on its own, or would it wander around aimlessly until it became prey to a hungry vacuum cleaner?

Day 2

On Day 2 I found it no longer in the middle of the bathroom floor but next to the wall hobnobbing with the toilet bowl brush and snap-on toilet thingy that never, ever stays where it belongs. It wanders. I wonder, will the paperclip wander, too? Does it have wanderlust? Does it aspire to be more than a piece of twisted steel whose job it is to hold paper together? How boring a life would that be? And then there's the long wait in the enclosed cardboard box or, if you're a lucky paperclip, a black magnetic box that allows clips to stick their heads out and peer at a world they rarely get to experience.

Day 3

Day 3 found our little social paperclip on the kitchen counter lollygagging with a penny and a safety pin. Is this a mass mutinous migration of all things small and undervalued, or is this a case of someone simply shirking their responsibility by not putting things back where they belong? If the latter, I am not the guilty party because I always put things back when I'm done with them. No, really I do.

Day 4

On the fourth day the wandering paperclip found my missing sock, calcium pill, and dental floss. It was a shindig in the middle of the floor that was hard to ignore. Things were getting out of hand. The madness needed to stop.

There is no finger pointing in this house, no stern looks or hands on the hips to show disgust, and no accusatory statements like, "Why did you let the paperclip go free to roam?" or "Have you been wearing my socks again?" or "Haven't I always told you to put my string of dental floss back on the lamp shade when you're done with it?" No, we don't treat each other with disrespect even though at times we may feel like smacking each other in the head with a 2 x 4 loaded with rusty nails. Okay, okay, you know I'm lying. Neither one of us would want the 2 x 4 to have rusty nails in it. So, because of our sweet, kind, and gentle treatment of each other, I decided to not say anything to Tom about his lack of responsibility when it comes to putting things back where he found them.  Instead, I returned the paperclip and its finds along its migration through our house to their rightful homes, and then I went to bed and pouted for the rest of the day.

The paperclip is back home now where it belongs, but during its time on the outside, it developed a secret admirer, another wanderlust who never, ever stays where it belongs. Know who the secret admirer is? 

One of those Small Things in Life

Do you know what this is?

 

Is it a marshmallow? A calcium pill? Half of a hard boiled egg? Eyeball without the iris and pupil? No, no, no and no. Here are some clues: It's confined to a small room; it rarely sees the light of day; where you find one, you'll usually find another; and it's peed on a lot.  Know what it is now?

It's one of those small things in life that irritates the heck out of me because it NEVER, EVER stays where it belongs.  It's not that it doesn't know its place; it does. It just doesn't want to stay in its place. It's a roamer; it roams. You never know where you're going to find it.

It knows its place; it just doesn't

want to stay in its place.

It's always somewhere other than

where it's supposed to be.

It drinks out of the toilet

and out of the sink - YUCK!

But what irks me the most is 

its addiction to sex.

Because now I have to find a home

for six illegitimate toilet snap-on thingies. 

Oh, wait a minute! They're so cute

I think I'll just keep'em.

Sale on Cherokees

This could be a good deal. It all depends, though, upon how many Cherokees fit in a carton.

Riddley Riddley Re

She'd been through this a thousand times before. Dealing with stupid people--people who don't follow the rules--annoyed her. I annoyed her. My neglect of the instructions sent her on the defensive. Glaring over her bifocals, she caught me in the act. "Did you forget to sign in, Ma'am?" she said. "How do we know you're here if you don't sign in?"

I took the pencil she thrust at me and signed my name on the patient register. Through a deluge of tears I realized my signature was illegible, so I erased my scribbles, then carefully printed my name. My hand was trembling as I handed back the pencil. The small glass partition between us slammed shut, and I was alone in the waiting room to think about the error of my ways.

The room was bare except for an old church pew with the varnish warn off the arms. Constructed of cement blocks, the walls were painted white, and the floor was black and white linoleum squares that, by my guess, had not seen soap and water since its ice cream parlor days. Above the pew hung one bare light bulb that soaked the room in a yellow haze. Nearby a tiny spider was busy weaving an elaborate web, stopping long enough to contemplate a fly that was sitting motionless on the wall only inches away.

Eleven forty-seven. I was early. The only sounds were the clickety clack of Ms. Congeniality's typewriter and an occasional buzz as the fly took to flight, always careful to avoid the spider's trap. There were no magazines to distract me, so I watched the fly to pass the time. I wondered what he was thinking. "Oh, here's another poor soul," I imagined him saying. "Look at her. Full of doubt and self pity. If she only knew what I know. I see so much from my view on the wall." I wondered what he knew. "Riddlely Riddlely Re. I see something you don't see and the color is... ."

Suddenly I felt sick. I found a wastebasket with a plastic grocery bag tucked inside to protect it from the unexpected. Kneeling down I wrapped my arms around the basket and gagged. Sweat from my forehead dripped onto the used tissues left by some other poor soul who didn't have the knowledge of a fly.

Twelve thirty and I was still alone in the room. Clickety clack, clack, clack. Every molecule in my body cried out, "Don't do this! Leave now before it's too late." I laid my head back against the wall, closed my eyes and thought about him. God, how I loved that man.

Another hour passed. I didn't care. I had no place to go. No one was waiting for me. No one cared that I was desperate and sitting on a church pew with no varnish on the arms in a stark black and white room hidden in an obscure building in a seedy part of town while Ms. Compassion was busy typing behind a glass partition, and a fly was hovering over me knowing things I didn't know.

The one person I wanted to care wasn't certain he loved me anymore--said he needed time to think. What I didn't understand--and probably the fly could have explained it to me--was why he suddenly questioned his love for me. Just three weeks before, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. But that was before I told him the news.

The fly buzzed me again, then landed in my hair, pulling me out of my daze. He knew I was safe territory while the spider's web was a hazard to avoid. "HEY!" DO THAT AGAIN," I yelled, "AND I'LL SMASH YOUR GUTS ON THE HARD, COLD, LINOLEUM FLOOR!"  The glass partition inquisitively slid open. "Excuse me?" Clickety Clack said, annoyed at the interruption.

"Nothing," I said. "Just talking to myself...and the fly." The partition closed and he buzzed me again.

I sat motionless on the church pew with no varnish on the arms. Alone in a stark black and white room. There were no magazines to distract me, so I stared at the dead fly on the hard, cold linoleum and wondered what the spider knew. "Riddley Riddley Re. I see something you don't see." 

12/1997

I'm Still Here

I'm still here. In the summer it's difficult to stay inside, spend hours in a dark room typing on a computer, and ramble about this and that and those and them when just outside my door is a panoramic wonderland of rivers and mountains and forests and wild life and blooming things and then there's the sun, the always-shining sun (except for today which is forecast 100% rain, thus this post) and the warmth that comes from the sun (except for today which is forecast to stay in the 60's, thus this faux bear-skin--with the head still attached--rug I'm wearing that you can't see but can only imagine; it's quite warm under this fake bear).

Oh, wait a minute! Is that a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds? I believe it is, so with the promise of a day spent outside enjoying life in the backwoods and foothills of the Nantahala Mountains, I'm saying bye now. Who knows when I'll be back.

When is it Okay to Ask?

When is it okay to ask?

Nope! Not now.

Well, how about now?

Nah! Not now either.

Okay then. Is now a good time?

Nope! Not a good time.

How about now?

Yeah! Now is probably a good time. Now is

probably a good time. Did I mention that

now is a good time? It's my memory;

not so good anymore.