May is the month that was Ahhh.
Was exhausting, terrifying, exhilarating, comforting, relaxing, and whew, I got through it.
I started the month reading Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. It wasn’t a fun book, delving into ideas of how people can live successfully and with dignity until the very end. Yes, The End. That’s what being mortal is about. It’s definitely not a book for the dead of winter; it needs to be buffered by birdsong and bulbs and buds of spring. As a caregiver who spent the winter on the receiving end of caregiving (Thanks, Richard and MGs), reading about age and infirmity was a bitter, but necessary, pill.
Then my mom fell. Twice. Richard took her to the emergency room, and by the time I got off work that Monday, she was admitted.
I got very good advice years ago from one of my mother’s doctors. When a person has dementia, the absolute worst place for her is to be in a hospital, alone.
Hospital personnel balanced electrolytes, took blood tests and blood pressures, ECGs and Etc.s, and administered antibiotics through an IV. The last thing my mother needed was a well-meaning doctor prescribing her strong medications for being disoriented. I told the nurse on duty I needed a sleeping chair.
Despite the hospital-issued, red-and-white-striped, sticky-tread socks on her feet, my mother didn’t realize she was a fall risk. She didn’t want to stay in bed. She thought she was at home: 428 Second Street, Braddock (her childhood home). She thought her name was Marie Wrobleski (her maiden name). She had no idea what month or season it was, or heavens, what year. So I was there to guide her through the landmines.
By Thursday at noon she got the doctor’s OK to go home. At 1 p.m., Marina and Koen arrived at the State College bus station. Their visit from Belgium coincided with my mother’s 90th birthday celebration/family reunion that we were hosting … in two days.
A house to clean, flowers to arrange, food to prepare, and a slew of physical therapists, occupational therapists, and nurses to make sure my mom transitioned well. Ahhhhh! Thank goodness for Richard, Marina, and Koen, and keeping it simple.
Twenty-six of the matriarch’s daughters, spouses, grandchildren and spouses, and great-grandchildren came from Boston, Philadelphia, Connecticut, Virginia, Delaware, Washington, D.C., and, yes, Ghent, Belgium. Owen and Peadar, two great-grandsons Nonna had never met, brought a twinkle to her eyes.
All of the guests came with snacks, salads or sides, and we served sliced Honey-Baked Turkey with Gemelli bread and Tait Farm chutneys and mustards. Homemade cookies and Creamery ice cream for dessert (a birthday cake would have been too confusing for my mom who thinks she’s 19 not 90, and knows her birthday is in December, not May.)
Somehow, the event went off without a hitch. Family members say we should do it more often. The last family get-together was for a wedding, eight years ago.
As a bonus, the next day I spent Mother’s Day with my mother and both of my children. I took a few planned vacation days (after the sick days in the hospital) to enjoy Marina and Koen. They took a bus, train, and plane back to Belgium and I readied for our annual Master Gardener Plant Sale.
The sale and our learning tables (featuring pass-along plants, birdhouse gourds, succulents, container design, and children’s activities) were exhausting but fun.
The next week flew by. This past weekend we planted out our Limerock community garden raised beds, filling them with Master-Gardener-grown vegetables, herbs, and flowers. Then, Memorial Day in Boalsburg (the Birthplace of Memorial Day) where we listened to Pure Cane Sugar and my mom sat in the shade across from her former shop, The Country Sampler, tapping her feet and swinging her hands to the music.
“She’s got rhythm,” the fellow next to me said. And to think June doesn’t arrive until Saturday. Laurie Lynch
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