Another Beginning
I fell into bed last night just after 9, and so naturally awoke at 3 am and dozed until 6. I meditate and pray before setting my feet on the floor and welcoming the day, and today I prayed for patience and flexibility. But as it turns out, I should’ve asked for wisdom as well. I dressed and ran up to the hospital to check on Mom--she was surprisingly lucid and told me she’d been a model patient. The nurse was ordering breakfast for her (oatmeal with brown sugar, milk, orange juice and coffee), and we told Mom she’d be treated to breakfast in bed before being discharged at 11 for the rehab unit.
After a moment I noticed the room’s white information board. Penned in the “family contact” spot was my name, Jane Johnson, and the notation “Sister, Hidden Creek,” as well as Mom’s phone number. Hmmm...I’d become Mom’s sister and lived at Hidden Creek--assisted living. Actually the idea of it didn’t sound that bad, but I felt compelled to change the info to “daughter” and supply my own cell number. I had to smile, for occasionally when Pete and I visit one of his healthcare providers, it isn't uncommon for a doctor, nurse or staff person to mistake me for Pete’s daughter instead of his wife. My, my...Mom’s sister, Pete’s daughter--I’m losing my identity, I guess.
A case facilitator stopped by to discuss Mom’s “observation” status and her eventual move to rehab. She indicated that because Mom had left rehab a mere three weeks ago, she might be admitted under a status that would allow Medicare to continue paying for her care. I thought that was an interesting “return policy” the government had. But alas, the situation changed and dramatically so.
When I reached home, Pete was about ready to hop onto his scooter for a trip down the ramp to the van and his second cataract surgery. I returned a call to Janelle at Good Sam and was told physical therapy really couldn’t work with Mom in rehab, since she has a non-weight-bearing status on that left leg. Janelle proffered the idea of moving Mom into a “long-term care” room, in other words, into a regular nursing home room. She added a room had become available, one that was “one of our bigger rooms,” as if that were a major selling point. Maybe it is for some people, but I was in a vortex of possibilities and had to make a decision pronto. It was 9:30. Pete needed to be at same-day surgery by 10, and Mom was being moved out of her hospital room at 11, but where to?
I quickly decided to drop Pete at the hospital, zoom to GSam to see the available room and perhaps sign Mom in as a long-term resident and then return to Pete in the hospital. What a decision for Mom, and it was I who had to make it. As I navigated the curves of the newly constructed Lakeview Blvd., I prayed aloud for guidance, for wisdom, for “the answer.” And it did come, it did.
The first room I was shown faced an inner courtyard and had a northern exposure. As I looked over the room with my eagle eye, I noticed the floor’s molding was loose and even missing in places. The walls were light grey...not bad, but oh my--one wall was vivid purple. My god, purple! “Can we repaint?” I asked. “Well, we can certainly talk about that,” was the answer, “but let me show you another room,” the gal suggested.
Just across the hall--but the room appeared to be across the world, as it was draped in sunlight and overlooked the creek Mom had come to love. The exposure and view from the large window of this room were identical to those of her apartment, and suddenly I knew without a doubt that this room, this very room, would do nicely. The walls were neutral; two bird feeders stood tall and inviting, and I knew Mom would be able to enjoy the flitting critters. This room was perfect. I completed the required paperwork, sent a prayer Mom’s way that she wouldn’t be too traumatized by the sudden shift in my promise that she’d be going to “rehab.” Instead a “new apartment” awaited her. I wouldn’t be present when Mom arrived, rather I’d be with Pete and his cataract surgery. I knew I just had to allow Mom to meet the new place on her own.