Whirlwind Days

Some days care giving breezes along--it’s continual, but gentle, allowing for me to keep my head and purposefully direct my days. Other days, like today, care giving is a whirlwind and I react, rather than act. These days are hard and I tend to need wine with my whine. Yesterday was glorious--March 8 and a nearly record high temp of 68 degrees. I’d accompanied Pete to Rochester for an appointment with his hip doctor, but was home in time to visit Mom at our usual coffee time. The sun shone, the wind gusted, and as I pushed Mom’s wheelchair around the Good Sam grounds, we decided to let the wind tousle our hair instead of wearing hats. The wind and sun felt good, and the earth smelled so deliciously “earthy” as it does in the early spring.

We visited Uncle Bill, who still resided in the rehab unit following his hip fracture. His clarity was cloudy--more so in the rehab setting than at home. He asked about “Margie,” and I figured he meant the Margie who visits occasionally--a younger, vibrant gal whom Bill adores. But it turns out he meant Margie, his wife. I was a bit startled he hadn’t remembered her passing away in December, and I gently said, “Margie passed away, Bill.” And without much emotion he responded, “Oh, that’s right,” and our conversation continued on...not missing a beat.

Then on to Jane’s for a glass of wine, home to prepare dinner, and then the usual evening rituals of dishes, reading, etc., putting the animals and Pete to bed, and then lights out. Good Sam had called around dinner time to say mom’s pager had gone off and they'd found her sitting on the floor--but she seemed fine and they’d helped her into bed. Before sleep I realized I’d completed a “breezy” day. It had gently flowed from one event to another. The stepping stones of day's path were unencumbered--one person to care for at a time.  I felt like Madam In-charge.

Today Mom was scheduled for a dental appointment, and as I gathered my wits about me with a 6 am cup of coffee, I realized I was pleased that the snow was gone, allowing for me to use the newly purchased wheelchair to transport her from her apartment to the car, then to the dental office, then back to the car and then home to the apartment.

After readying the house for the cleaning gal, I went to fitness, then showered, dressed, and prepped Pete for his shower. Suddenly my cell rang--my phone identifying that “Staff at Good Sam” was calling. Alexa was concerned that Mom was quite confused, was dragging her right foot, complaining of back pain, and nearly falling. They felt a trip to the ER was in order. OK--I thought to myself, another ER visit. My plans of cleaning the house with Lola and putzing outside were out the window. Well...I was determined to finish helping Pete shower and then I figured I’d meet Mom at the ER. The stepping stones of the day were mounting, one atop the other. I steadied myself for the climb.

Pete cannot shower without help, and we’ve created a dance of moving the hall rug, positioning his walker by the bathroom door (which he grabs after driving the electric wheelchair to the too narrow bathroom door), heating the bathroom to a warmth his body can tolerate, and preparing the shower with grab bars, a stool, and fully charged razor. He enters the bathroom, we remove his clothes, weigh him, and then he backs into the shower, delicately placing each foot into the shower and making sure his balance is good. We cut his hair, trim his beard, then I set the water nozzle and temp just “so,” and give him time to wash himself off. It takes a coordinated effort for the poor guy to feel clean! Then after a precarious shuffle from the shower to the walker, I dry him off, get his pants and t-shirt on him, and he navigates with the walker back to the electric wheelchair, then backs down the hall back into his room. Voila. No wonder he showers only once a week. It’s an ordeal!

But after Pete was back in his room, I called and canceled Mom’s dental appointment. I then grabbed my regular “ER supplies” consisting of water, an apple, something to read, and my iPad and phone. I made sure my clothes were comfy (usually dress in something knit) and took off for my reliable parking lot just west of the ER entrance.

Sending out a quick text to friends that I would yet again be at the ER with Mom, I smiled as I received texts back: Let me know if I can help! one wrote. Another texted, Want me to stop by? And yet another quipped, And so it goes… Needlesstosay, she’s “been” there. Love these supportive friends.

After 15 minutes, Mom was wheeled into the ER waiting room by the trusty Good Sam chauffeur who’d transported her in a wheelchair via the van. Completely unaware of why she was at the ER, Mom seemed a bit lost. I recognized the registration gal as the one who’d registered Pete last Thursday for his first cataract surgery. This time I registered Mom, repeating what Alexa had shared earlier, but with no paperwork having accompanied Mom, I was sort of shooting in the dark. Mom could remember no fall, no unsteadiness, no dragging of her right foot. Oh well...we’d probably just take a look at everything.

I wheeled mom into an open room and the nurse (Megan) smiled, realizing she’d seen the pair of us a time or two before. We undressed Mom, slipped her into a hospital gown, and laid her on a bed/gurney. Megan deftly prepared Mom for examination, taking Mom’s temp, winding a blood pressure cuff onto her right upper arm, inserting an IV, clamping an oxygen monitor onto one of Mom’s left fingers.

Eventually the ER doctor appeared, ordered X-rays, an EKG, and blood/urine work. After each was performed, the big “wait” came. Mom slept and awoke now and then, wondering where she was, and asking continually why it was all taking so long. Well..it just was. Cousin Carol stopped by, seeming just as at home in the ER as I--frequent flyers there, we were! The two of us walked to a nearby conference room and discussed the tough job of care giving--the uncertain futures shared by our parents. She doesn’t live her own life anymore--she lives her life AND her dad’s, and I suspect some would say I’m living three lives--those of Pete and Mom and my own as well. Makes for a whirlwind, a whirlwind. The exam room in the ER spins with it.

As unusual as it is, after four hours, Mom began to complain, to become agitated, to ask again and again and again what she was wearing (a hospital gown), what that thing on her arm was (a blood pressure cuff) why she was here (you fell and complained about your back hurting). She continually asked the time, wondered when it’s “our turn,” and fidgeted with the covers, the wires, the tabs attached to her chest. Her oxygen level fluctuated, lowered to the point of the machine screeching, when her agitation caused the level to drop into the lower 80s. Poor lamb. She was confused and anxious and made me crazy, crazy, crazy. The wind whirled, my head hurt, and my heart ached for mom. She blurted a breathy, “I’m having a terrible day. Shit.” I nodded in agreement.

After five hours the doctor arrived with the news that after reviewing Mom’s X-rays, the orthopedist felt the left hip had loosened a bit. Consequently, Mom needed to be off her left foot (no weight whatsoever) for two weeks. Soooo what to do? No question--back to rehab. Apartment living was out for the time being. Mom’s disappointment was evident, and yet she became concerned about my having been with her for so long and said, “I’m such a pain in the ass!” Very unusual for her to speak so, yet I had to agree--she’s PITA2 (Pain in the Ass #2). Pete, naturally, is #1 (!)

Because it was nearly 5 pm, a transfer to Good Sam rehab had to happen tomorrow. Mom seemed to understand the need to overnight in the hospital and that she’d transfer to rehab Thurs. Yet after a moment, she asked again and again for clarification. She was more concerned about where her nightgown was than anything else, and I assured her I’d go to her apartment and bring her her nightgown to wear tonight, yet she insisted what she had on was fine.  Confusion reigns. Wind whirls. I’m off to find wine before anything else.

After two hours of waiting for a room, I needed to leave--to feed all Johnson animals, which included Pete. I reluctantly left Mom, left her in the care of the hospital staff. Could only send prayers to her night nurse.

The two care giving paths crossed again today and I feel like Sophie who has a make a choice.  My heart aches for both my loves as the whirlwind tries to tear me in two.  How humbling to be so needed.