For the last thirty-five years, being a
mom has been just part of my identity.Unlike some, I did not feel that
miraculously at the birth of my first child. Actually, it took some getting
used to, but now motherhood is in my blood as surely as some bit of my DNA is
in Justin and Melanie. The awareness of their happiness, or lack of it, is always
there—as surely as the nagging feeling that somehow I am “responsible” for
fixing things that have gone awry in their lives--things far beyond my control.
(Hello cancer—why can I not wish, pray, or exorcise you from my daughter’s
body?)
Yet over the years, as they married making families of their own, it has gotten easier. Maybe it is their
physical distance from me, or simply because I no longer know the details of
their day in, day out lives. I have come to assume all is well unless told
otherwise. While sometimes I miss the intimate involvement, even though my extremely
grown-up evolved self (as opposed to my clingy immature mom self) realizes this
is the way it is supposed to be and I am glad.
Relaxing some of my mom vigilance that I
probably held onto far longer than necessary, has become more my norm and
probably one of the reasons I have written less on this blog recently. But
suddenly this spring, all those old feelings came crashing back—a crisis that
required protective thoughtful hands-on mom care. Only
this time, I found myself needing to mom my own mom.
I suppose I should not have been quite
so shocked since over the past few years these parental emergencies have
cropped up more and more frequently with so many of my friends. While checking
in about the respective well being of each other’s children and grandchildren
has been part of our conversations, now, my friends and I compare notes on
aging parents as well. The news of falls, breaks, joint replacements, and the
need for more help in their homes is a constant refrain. Will their money last
or will we need to pitch in and help? Several years ago, we went through it all with
my mother-in-law, but then it was my husband who bore the brunt of the
worry. With my widowed mother living a
fairly independent life in a retirement community surrounded by friends from
childhood and a special gentleman friend downstairs, for the most part, I have
sympathized from the sideline.
Last April though, the nightmares I had
heard so much about became mine. My mom got sick and my life changed course--again. She was wasn’t feeling well for a few weeks
and seeing a new doctor (hers on vacation) who took her at her word that her
congestion and cough were simply seasonal allergies. With no change in her symptoms, a week later,
he was still not concerned simply changing her over the counter antihistamine. It
wasn’t until she said admitted that she was not “really” getting out of bed,
that I packed my bags for a few day’s visit to N.C. to see for myself what was
going. Before I got there, she was already hospitalized.
Thus began a saga far too long, scary,
and complicated to recount. I will not
bore you with details except to say that she ended up in 2 different hospitals,
with 9 room changes, a week at a rehab hospital before being moved to nursing
care in her own retirement community. Along with ever-changing diagnoses, and
misdiagnoses and doctors unable to agree on the cause of her symptoms and best
course of action, she was passed between specialists like a hot potato. As days
blended into nights doctors came and went at erratic hours, and my brother flew
in for four days to help make decisions. Finally a last ditch referral brought
in Fabulous Surgeon who, while resisting surgery because of the many
complications, took charge suggesting a less invasive procedure probably saving
her life.
Having packed for fours days, there I
was stuck in hospital hell for three weeks, the sixty-four year old daughter
(and health care proxy) forced to make decisions that parents usually make for
their children.
While
dealing with doctors proved exasperating, managing my mom became even more of a
challenge to my frayed nerves. .” In her weakened, often frightened state, she
became resistant to any suggestion from me.
“Mother, you MUST eat something
or you will never get out of here.” Only to hear, “But nothing tastes good.”
Just as when I had failed to provide good nutrition thirty years earlier when
vegetables were an anathema around the dinner table, I resorted to cranky nag
mom. (With basically the same non-results.) “The doctor says it is important
for you to get up, let’s go down the hall.” “Justin, we are on a walk NOT a carry.”
Fears and anxieties, echoing one
particularly awful hospitalization for Melanie pulsed through my veins, “I am
going to stand here right by this nurses station until someone gets my mom (my
daughter) her meds.” There were days I thought I would crumble, but that was
not an option any more than it was when both the kids and I had particularly
awful stomach flu while Chris was out of town. Some days you just get through.
Period.
And if you are lucky, and I was, it
gets better. Slowly my mom began to improve; after a month, I was able to come
home. Today, she is back to her retirement community, only now in in assisted
living. As an avid walker before all this happened, her physical health bounced
back remarkably quickly, but the long hospitalization has left her mind less resilient.
They call is diminished cognitive functioning. She is getting along fine, happy
to be back with her friends, her sense of humor coming out, but has moments of
confusion. Life feels more complicated to her. We talk every day and now my
visits are more frequent. From a distance, I run interference with doctors,
staff, and insurance companies, pay bills and fall at the knees of my cousin
who picks up the loose ends regularly.
Life
seems to be reversing itself. Daily conversations revolve around gossip about
the other ladies at her meal table, the latest musical offering down the hall,
the failing health of her gentleman friend. Like my friends, I wake wondering
if my mom is ok. Is she is afraid in the
night? Is life too hard? It is care
taking at a distance, not perfect but the best I can do.
It all feels so familiar. I know how to
do this and yet, part of me rebels, not wanting to go back in time. But, like
so many others, back I go, because she is my mom. It is what we do. It is part
of who I am--always will be. Always.
Oh Susan, so moving. I have felt this pain myself. Never easy.
ReplyDeleteKeep blogging.
Love Geri