This morning when we got up at 7:30, Mom was sitting in the office chair already dressed. Her shirt was on wrong side out, but otherwise she looked pretty cute—her blue and white striped polo shirt and white pants.
“Well, look at you, already dressed!”
“How did you find me?” she asked. Groundhog’s Day again, as always.
Since it was Sunday, as usual, the house was full of kids, Chloe and her friends, in and out, giggling, laughing, playing.
Two different times in the day, Mother had a serious talk, first with me, then with Jerry. She told us both the same thing. “I don’t want her to leave (meaning Chloe). I just don’t want to live here anymore. Is that OK with you?”
Very clear, very intense.
I can’t tell you how many times in the last three or four years she has told me, “I don’t want to be a burden to you. You already have your hands and your house full with Chloe. She is more important. I don’t want to mess up her life.”
As a side note, when my other granddaughter Amber was in the first grade twelve years ago, she lived with us that school year. In September, not long after school had started, Jerry’s mother Stella had colon surgery and ended up with a colostomy. She recuperated at our house, living with us until the spring. Mother knew how hard that year was on us and on Amber. They were both jealous of each other. Mother didn’t want to put us through that again. So even though Mother has forgotten everything, in her mind she remembers how she has always felt.
Jerry and I talked about it. Was there even a chance she might be able to make it at the Baptist Village? We decided we’d keep taking her there a couple of times a week to keep her familiar with the place and the people so she’d be more comfortable when we leave her there during our trip to Colorado. We do plan to have Cord and Greg stay with her at night.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The next morning it was pretty obvious Mother had forgotten all about the conversation of the day before. When we told her we were taking her to the Baptist Village for a while, she was pretty grumpy about it.
She pushed her buggy down the hall and into the dining room. “Over here? Over here?” she kept asking as she weaved her way straight to her seat at Table 8.
Instead of saying, “Who are you?” to everyone, she asked me who they were. It kills her friend Nellie that Mother doesn’t remember her. “Remember? When you were in independent living, I was your neighbor. You had the prettiest flower garden in the village.”
When Jodean, another of her best friends, sat down at the table next to Mother, I encouraged her to talk to Mom and asked her to follow her back to her room. Then I went in to Michelle’s office for a talk.
Michelle, the nurse, was not as encouraging as she had been before. “Last time you left her, she was so lost, opening her door and asking everyone, ‘Where is he?’ I took her back to her room and turned on the TV. When I checked on her later, she was in her pantry trying to find the bathroom.” So was Michelle saying it just wasn’t going to work?
I walked back to the dining room. Jodean promised she’d take Mom to her room and stay with her until Jerry came. I headed to Norman for my writing group.
Jerry called me while I was in my meeting and told me to call Sue, the hospice nurse, and tell her to come to our house instead of the Village. They were leaving. Mother’s portable oxygen tank was empty. She was not happy, fretting.
Now we’re really worried about leaving her there when we go to Colorado next week, even though Cord and my brother Greg will be with her.
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