The "Spell" 9/13/15
Raising the roman shades this morning, I was met with a glorious scene before me--bright blue sky, glassy lake and fresh green. My favorite type of day, a perfect setting for reading the Sunday papers while drinking a cup of coffee and nibbling on berries. Later, as I headed out to grab a few things from the market, my phone rang and a friend said, "Jane, I'm at church and you're mom's not doing so good," Apparently she was weak in the knees, rather short of breath and seemed likely to faint. I detoured my trip and stopped in at the church where mom, still in the pew and surrounded by caring people, knew me instantly as I knelt beside her. "What's going on?" I asked. "A bit weak in the knees?" But Mom's spell seemed to be over and she accepted a ride in a wheelchair to my car and I whisked her back to her apartment.
Driving through the crisp morning back to Good Sam, I heard a sudden, "Damn!" and turned to see Mom shaking her head. "What do you suppose happened to me?" she wondered aloud. I reminded her that occasionally she got weak, especially if she'd gotten a UTI, and assured her we'd have the nurse check to see if she had one.
Though the trip was glacial, Mom walked back to her apartment, breathing heavily as she grabbed by forearm. No wheelchair needed now. "I think I'll nap," she said, and we headed straight for the bedroom, removed her jacket and shoes. She lay down, I covered her with her blanket, ("Make sure my feet are covered,") and set off to grab her lunch plate from the dining room and put it in the fridge for later.
The entire ordeal didn't upset or startle me, and I suspect those at church were more concerned than I. Was it just that I'd seen this before? Am I becoming hardened or resigned to the inevitable? How will I react when Mom weakens for the last time?
Later, around 3;45, I returned to check on Mom. She was in bed as before, but it looked like she (or someone) had gotten food out of the fridge for her to eat, though it was the plate from the previous day and looked pretty unappetizing. Mom must've gotten to the table, had a bite or two and then retreated back to the bedroom.
But by this time in the afternoon Mom suggested we head to the dining room for coffee, and that's just what we did--again the slow, careful walk. Sitting in her favorite chair at the corner table, Mom was content to sip coffee and eat a cookie. Marge, who'd been with Mom at church, wheeled her walker and our direction, a Diet Pepsi and bagged mocha cake balancing on the seat. "I'm soooo happy to see you sitting there!" she gushed in her unique high-pitched falsetto. "I was sooo worried about you at church! I like you so much and don't want you to die!" Oh my, I thought--what honest, unfiltered words came from her mouth. Mom just smiled and said, "I'm glad I'm sitting here, too!" Marge then offered the Diet Pepsi and mocha cake, which Mom graciously declined. She wasn't really hungry anymore and soda just wasn't her thing. There's really no one I know who has Marge's voice, one that a person could so easily mimic, but her earnest concern was heartwarming. Marge wheeled off to bring another church member, Eileen, a bulletin from the morning service.
As I left Mom sitting in the sun-filled dining room, I wondered how many more days she would be able to enjoy the sun, sit there in her favorite spot, and be able to blurt out "Damn!" when something puzzled her.