Yes, I went to see Mom yesterday.
You know you're in trouble when you walk in the nursing home (a much more succinct way of describing 'The Quarters at Des Peres" than saying "Assisted Living Community") at 3:30 p.m. and the nurse says "Good, you're here! She won't get out of bed--she had some night last night." I found Mom in bed, covered with a sheet, flat on her back, and looking about the size of a 6th-grader (well, an AVERAGE 6th-grader...not a KAMMERER 6th-grader). She was not sleeping soundly so I opened with "Hi Mom, I brought you a brownie." THAT got her attention and within a minute or so she was sitting up in her bed (I raised the back to encourage sitting up) munching happily on brownie #1. "Ummmm....this is GOOD," she said, a look of rapture on her face.
I did her nails after she ate the second brownie, but didn't want to polish them in bed (she never can wait 'til they are dry and inevitably gets nail polish on something). I coaxed her into standing up, and that's when I found she had a hospital gown on under her shirt. Hmmm. She wouldn't remove the shirt, so I actually wrangled the gown off without removing the shirt and talked her into putting on her pants. Of course, I somehow managed to get both legs in one leg hole (this is why we use "professional" help) and that's when she got a little testy with me. "What are you DOING?" she said, very crossly.
Enter the "baby."
The baby is a pink-clad baby doll, pretty much life-size. "He" was sitting on the top shelf of her closet this time. I handed the doll to Mom, who changed from Jeckyl to Hyde (or is it from Hyde to Jeckyl?), took the baby and began cooing appropriately. "We're just going to have to wear you out today," Mom told the baby. Wow. An actual cognizant, well-formed thought....delivered to a doll.
Mom picked out a dark pink color for her nails this time, tried to sample it by placing the brush on her tongue and started in surprise when I squawked and took the polish away from her. I got one hand done and was blowing on the fingers to dry them when her frustration level peaked. I never did get the other hand done, but she did enjoy a third (and last) brownie. These were small, mind you, and she relished every bite.
I helped her put on her shoes, but she refused socks. Oh well...it was a warmish day anyway.
We then made our way to the dining area. After all, it was nearly 5 p.m. and she hadn't yet had a real meal. We were accosted in the hall by Lee, who wanted the baby back. Mom wasn't going to budge on that one.
I guess the message today is that I'd like to die in a blaze of glory, perhaps on a failed mission to Mars when the capsule suddenly gets sucked into a 2001-like vorpal space or maybe in a massive volcanic eruption, or even in a tornado where my house is sucked up a la Dorothy and Aunty Em. I don't want to put my already bad fashion habits on public display, or appear orgasmic over chocolate. I'd like to remember my kids (so I can complain about them) and my grandkids (if R & C ever decide to procreate).
But life, unfortunately, doesn't give us the choice. So if I do end up like Mom, remember the me instead that patiently painted her nails and answered inane questions and who thanked God, every time I left Mom's side, that Dad didn't live to see her like this.
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