Strike 2

When Sam was a little younger, he asked me once, “Has a stroke ever tried to get on someone and they just jumped out of the way?”

My mom had her first stroke over three years ago when she was 60.   It took her right side and some of her left, but it also took a piece of her.  She had several small ones over time, but her last one was in a really bad place- the thalamus- that controls motor function.  It took her left side as well.  She is in bed unless people come to pick her up and put her somewhere.

She is making friends and seems to like her new nursing home, but is at the mercy of any aide who doesn’t feel the need to give her a drink, or scratch an itch, or adjust her leg for her, or use the phone.  My understanding is that if PT is successful, she will get to about 20% mobility on both sides.  After three weeks she can move her right arm again, but doesn’t realize she’s doing it unless she looks at her arm.

I see her about every other day, but always when I’m not with her, I think of her lying in bed staring at the TV that is always on so she can’t hear the ringing in her ears.  I keep hoping we’ll be able to visit about something other than what she couldn’t eat that day, or whether her teeth were brushed today, or rehashing something horrible that happened to her last week.  I would love to share some funny stories, and have the kids talk to her animatedly about nonsense and have her ask questions and seem interested.  Pieces of that happen sometimes, but I have to orchestrate it; it doesn’t happen naturally.

She’s still there.  She could probably still beat me at Scrabble, but I keep watching for signs that Scrabble would be possible with all the grueling news first.  I feel selfish.  She should be able to tell me  what is bothering her.  I should be able to pop in for 20 minutes a day to see her.   If I saw her more, maybe she wouldn’t zone out so much.  I already feel that I am not accomplishing my goals with my first responsibilities, now I have another source of guilt.  I think guilt is like blood to me.  If I didn’t have it, I might die.  KIDDING!

The dichotomy is that I am also basically happy.  I look for hope and often find it.  I am hopeful when I find that my mom’s roommate is a loving, childlike woman who kisses her on the forehead every night.  I am hopeful when she introduces me to a staff member who is always nice to her.  I am hopeful when she cracks a joke, or laughs at one of mine; when I show up to sign papers and my brother is visiting and has brought my mom’s dog; when another resident has come to visit her.

I know I am fortunate- and so is she.  She is not ready to die.  She wants to stick around as long as she can breathe and swallow food.

Which reminds me- I promised I would make her collard greens and corn bread.  I better get on that.