Stepping out...

It's been nearly two months since Mom's fall and resulting hip surgery.  Ups and downs, coughs and exhaustion, now an emerging voice and walking, albeit with a walker.  "Unimaginable" is how I classify my previous feelings of Mom perhaps returning to her apartment.  Earlier she'd seemed on the brink of moving on... and now she seems nearly on the brink of moving back across the parking lot to her apartment. So how has she changed from her pre-fall state?  I'm not sure she's any less clear--seems to be sharp one minute, totally forgetting what's just been said the next--as before. Perhaps the biggest change is in her walking--now with a walker, at least in the rehab unit.  And the speed of her gait--now deliberate, careful.

So focused was I that Mom would be relinquishing her apartment, that we've cleared out much of the detritus accumulated in the nine years of living in one place.  Out with the ragged linens, used and empty envelopes, folded paper shopping bags, outdated canned goods and personal care items.  All used dime store vases are now in a box in the closet. All trinkets and baubles are in the give-away box.  So the place is less cluttered, more organized, but definitely retains all her things and everything essential to Mom's living again in the apartment.

I struggle with the thought of Mom back in her apartment and falling again or being in need of assistance, yet forgetting she has an alert button strapped to her wrist.  All she need do is press it.  If only that brain clicked "on" more!

No matter where Mom ends up, it's clear a transitional period will ensue once she's moved--she'll need to get used to the routine and rhythm of wherever she goes.  So to that end--to the possibility that she'll move back to her apartment--we set off on an adventure yesterday.

Since we were in between "blizzard warnings," I took the opportunity to bundle Mom up, scoot the wheelchair across the parking lot, and visit the apartment.  Mom seemed up for the adventure--as she always is.

As we approached the main door, I asked, "Any of this look familiar?"  Mom assured me it did.  We pushed the handicapped door entry buttons, easily slipped into the lobby area and through the dining room to the hall.  "Now, let's see if you can find your apartment," I said.

"It's down here, isn't it," she asked?  I pushed the chair and Mom attentively checked the doors on the south side of the hall.  As we approached her door, she said, "I think this is it."

"You're right," I said, unlocking the door.  We entered the cool apartment (temp lowered, I'm sure, since no one's currently living there) and I said, "OK, greet your apartment!  Say 'Hi" to the stove; now tell the living room you're back for a visit..."  We kept this up for awhile as I wheeled Mom from the main area to her bedroom and bath, and then to the TV area.  Following our re-orientation greeting, we set off for the complex's dining hall.

Many people gather in the dining hall in the afternoon for coffee and a sweet--and yesterday the sweet was VERY sweet--banana cake with a cream-cheese frosting. Delicious.  Mom was greeted with, "Oh, Hazel's here!" from several of the residents who patted her hand in welcome as we entered.  I parked Mom at her favorite spot in the well-lit corner, grabbed her some UNthickened coffee and a piece of cake.  I was curious to see if she could cut the cake with her fork and eat it.

Turns out she had no problem cutting and eating the cake, drinking the coffee without coughing.  NO coughing whatsoever.  And Edna rolled up with her walker, cake and coffee, and joined us for conversation.  We heard about all the new residents who'd moved in during the past two months (though who they actually were was cloudy). We chatted about the possible date of Mom's return, about WIG (Edna formerly drove Mom to the meetings), and remembering to push the damn alert button if needing assistance.

"I never remember to do that," Edna admitted.

"Well, what if we practice," I said.  "OK, you're in a chair and suddenly your knee's hurting, and you don't think you can stand.  What do you do, Edna?" I asked.  "You..."

"...push the button," she responded.

"Good! And Mom, if you feel like you might topple over.  What do you do?"

"Push the button," she said, trying to locate the nonexistent band on her wrist with the button.

"Great!  I think we'll practice remembering that every day.  You don't have the button on your wrist right now, since you're at rehab and it doesn't work there, but we'll get it and practice, OK?"  Mom nodded, but I'm sure it was simply reflex.

Before all was said and done, Edna admitted she thought practice would go a lot better if we accompanied it with a Manhattan.  Maybe so...

Back to Mom's apartment.  I wanted Mom to actually walk through her apartment and touch her things.  After digging Daddy's old walker out of the closet and with security belt around her waist, we toured the place once again.  Though her steps were slow, Mom admitted things looked quite familiar, yet I suspect she now and then wondered, where the hell am I?

Time to return to the rehab unit for a nap.  On with the coat, hat, gloves, scarf.  When she was again secure in the wheelchair, I rolled Mom out of the apartment, pausing at the door to lock it behind us.  Before doing so, however, I said, "OK, Mom...tell your apartment you'll be back."

She smiled and called out, "I'll be back."  And then she paused, took a breath and said, "Soon!"