Mother, Can You Hear Me? Read online

  Mother, Can You Hear Me?

  Copyright © 2018 Joy Ross Davis

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amber Horn

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2018936819

  Print edition ISBN:

  978-1-947727-58-8

  Visit the publisher at:

  www.bhcpress.com

  Also available in trade softcover

  Emalyn’s Treasure

  The Devereaux Jewel

  This book is dedicated

  to my mother, the inimitable

  Elsa Ross Frawley,

  a Tennessee backwoods gal

  who became the city girl

  she wanted to be.

  She touched lives and gave

  me mine in so many ways.

  Angels be with thee, Mama.

  Nursing homes don’t exist anymore. Now, they’re gently called “skilled nursing facilities.” But women like my mother, feisty eighty year olds, aren’t swayed by a new name. For them, nothing can offset the terrible stigma of the old one. A nursing home means only one thing: living death. How do we tell her?

  It started with a fall in her bathroom then escalated to major surgery and a seven-week hospital stay. The shattered shoulder mended, but for inexplicable—and horribly unexpected—reasons, my mother has not walked since the surgery. She is unable to perform the simplest everyday tasks. Her doctors insisted that we find a suitable facility.

  We turned to her discharge planner for help and learned that Medicare would pay for twenty days in a skilled nursing facility. Once we decided on the place, the case worker would take over. She’d arrange for an ambulance for transport and even talk to the doctor about prescribing a light sedative. What a relief!

  We chose Plantation Manor, a family-owned facility on the Old Tuscaloosa Highway with lovely landscaping and rooms that smell like fresh flowers. The day before her scheduled arrival, we took a few personal items to her room and, with owner Gary’s help, installed her newly purchased, cable-ready TV.

  Still, my brother and I feared our mother’s reaction to the news that she wouldn’t be coming home. Her fiery temper and colourful vocabulary are legendary. To a male nurse, she hissed, “Get away from me. Your breath stinks. Smells like you’ve been eating…” He didn’t stay around to hear the rest. And to a nurse’s assistant, “That’s the ugliest haircut I’ve ever seen on a living human being.” The young woman left in tears.

  With her number of insured days in the hospital exhausted, I camouflaged the truth. “Mother, can you hear me?” She refused to wear her hearing aid. “You’re leaving the hospital and going to a rehab facility where you can get stronger.” She did nothing except stare at the ceiling.

  On discharge day, we waited for the critical paperwork. At four o’clock, we learned that we’d have to transport Mother ourselves. No ambulance. No light sedative. No help from the case worker, either. In desperation, we called Gavin at Plantation Manor. Within twenty-five minutes, an ambulance and two jovial attendants arrived. They made jokes with Mother and called her darlin’. She laughed and patted one of them on the arm.

  When she was settled into her room, she smiled. “I like this place. I’m going to get better.” Then she leaned forward. “I’m gonna steal that TV. It’s nicer than mine.” She was laughing as we left.

  I expected to be relieved. Instead, I waited for the two a.m. phone call, for my mother’s other self (the part tainted by dementia) to emerge railing against being abandoned and imprisoned in some strange place full of strangers.

  But I was touched by Grace. After a full night’s sleep, my first in almost two months, I smiled. Day Two offered a glimmer of hope.

  It was nothing more than a glimmer, a simple glimmer of hope that triggered my encounter with an angel at the Manor.

  I peeped around the corner of Mother’s room. She seemed to be asleep, stretched out on the bed, blanket across her feet. She wore her favourite blue plaid blouse and knit pants. The faint scent of perfume lingered. Reluctant to wake her, I tiptoed a few steps forward and peered over the bed. She saw me immediately.

  “Oh, Joy,” she cried, “how did you find me? Get me out of here!” Her hands trembled, her voice quivered. She came to life in tears. “Look here.” She lifted the edge of her blanket. “They’ve got me strapped into this bed. I can’t even move. Please,” she sobbed, “get me out of here. I’m a prisoner.”

  I felt a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat.

  “It’s all right.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “You’re not strapped in. You’re okay. This is a hospital.”

  She whimpered then gritted her teeth. “What do you know? You think you know everything, don’t you?” Her voice got louder. “What kind of daughter are you that you’d abandon your own mother in a place like this?” She was yelling now. “You’re sorry, you hear me? Sorry as the scum of the earth!”

  I thought I had become accustomed to the sting of her words, but I was wrong. She can’t help it, I told myself. It’s just her way. She doesn’t really mean it. Still, I fought to hold back the tears welling in my eyes.

  Then a young CNA came bouncing by and stuck her head in the door. When she saw the expression on my face, she came in and stood by my mother’s bed. “Mrs. Frawley,” she said in a sweet Southern drawl, “is something wrong? Can I help you with anything?”

  “Oh, Laura,” my mother said, “I’m so glad you came!” The sobs vanished. A broad grin spread across her face. She pointed a finger at me.

  “This is my daughter.”

  The CNA’s name tag read, “Brittany.”

  “Mrs. Frawley, is something wrong? Can I get anything for you?” As she talked, she stroked my mother’s hand.

  “No, Laura, I’m fine. Just visiting.”

  The young woman bent down and hugged my mother. “You sure do smell good.”

  My mother giggled. “You’re so beautiful,” she said.

  Brittany straightened the covers, plumped the pillows, and positioned the tray so that Mother could reach it. As she worked, she glanced over at me. “Do you know who Laura is?” she asked quietly.

  Suddenly, I remembered. “Laura was one of the nurses who cared for my mom at UAB hospital. Mother loved her so much.”

  Brittany smiled. “Oh, how sweet. She thinks I’m Laura.”

  “Sister!” my mother yelled, “can I go home with you tonight?”

  I leaned close to her. “As soon as you’re stronger.” I touched her arm. “Mother, can you hear me? I said you could go home as soon as you’re better.”

  But she wasn’t paying attention to me. She was smiling up at Laura.

  “Okay,” she said then cut her eyes in my direction. “You’re not gonna snitch, are you? We sneaked out of here a little while ago and walked out on the front porch. We sat in one of those big white rocking chairs, didn’t we, Laura. Had the best time.”

  Brittany shrugged then grinned.

  I smiled at her. By whatever name, she was sweet, kind, and loving, and in her face, my mother saw not the face of a nurse, but the face of an angel. Her very own guardian angel. We’d both been touched by Grace, my mother and I.

  It was Sunday, a lazy day at the nursing home, a day designed for rest. For my mother, though, by ten in the morning, the word “rest” quickly translated to an altogether different one: restless. She couldn’t yet walk by herself nor use her right arm, but that didn’t stop her from stirring up troub
le.

  I started down the long corridor armed with her favourite reading material: People, Enquirer, Woman’s World. An attendant at the Nurse’s Station stopped me.

  “Hi, Joy,” she said. “Your mom’s a little upset this morning.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling heartsick. “How bad is it?”

  “Well,” the attendant said, “she’s pretty much cussed us all out and told us to stay out of her room.”

  I felt my cheeks redden. “I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

  When I stepped into her room, my mother scowled and shouted, “Where have you been?”

  Before I could answer, my brother walked in.

  “Oh, Son,” my mother said, tears suddenly streaming down her face. “How did you find me? I thought y’all had left me out here.” She tossed one of her magazines onto the floor. “I want out of here now. Let’s go.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked and sat down on the bed.

  “I want to go home. Didn’t you hear me?” she yelled.

  “Two weeks, remember,” my brother replied, his voice soft and soothing. “You can only stay two more weeks, so while you’re here, you need to let them help you get better.” His lawyer’s training put exactly the right words in his mouth. “And Mother,” he continued, “don’t cuss at these folks. You’re going to offend them. You just can’t talk that way to them.”

  “Why not?” Mother asked as sincerely as she’d ever asked a question.

  My brother glanced over at me. “Because, it’s rude, and they’re…”

  With perhaps a swift hint from heaven—and a desperate fabrication—I blurted out, “Quakers, Mother. They’re Quakers.”

  My mother looked shocked. “Quakers? The quilt people?”

  My brother and I nodded in unison. “Yes.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” my mother said. “I’ll be da—”

  I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

  My mother grimaced. “I forgot.”

  One of the nursing assistants stopped by and walked to my mother’s bed. “Are you okay, Mrs. Frawley? Can I get you anything?”

  I cut my eyes at my brother who, in turn, cut his at Mother. “I’m just fine, hon,” she said to the girl in a tone dripping with uncharacteristic sweetness. “I don’t need a thing right now, but thank you for asking.” My mother gave us several exaggerated winks.

  The assistant seemed delighted with her response and patted my mother’s arm. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.” She left with a big smile on her face.

  My brother and I looked toward my mother and mouthed, “Quakers.”

  She rolled her eyes but mouthed back, “Quakers.”

  Then the three of us laughed out loud at our first delightfully private joke.

  On Monday morning, though, the real test came.

  I attended a portion of that morning’s physical therapy session and seated myself so that Mother could see me…watching her. Her therapy assistants for that day had managed to talk Mother through her entire morning’s workout, but toward the end of the session, they directed her to the bike, a machine that exercises the legs and arms. My mother hates that bike! Already tired and agitated, she allowed them to walk her to the machine but refused to move once she sat down in the bike’s seat.

  One of them reached to move my mother’s “bad” arm and place it on the bike’s handle. Mother slapped at her then gritted her teeth. “Get away from me, you sorry little…”

  I cleared my throat. When Mother looked in my direction, I mouthed, “Quakers.”

  She, in turn, rolled her eyes and mouthed back, “Quakers.” A sly grin spread across her face. She put both hands on the handles, both feet on the wheels and finished her workout.

  It is strange, indeed, the power of one simple word to quell my mother’s tongue. A voice from heaven? Perhaps. A touch of Grace? Most assuredly.

  My mother was born in Tennessee in 1925, three months after her father died of a heart attack. Though there were six older siblings, it was her numerous male cousins who took pity on the fatherless child and adopted her into their fold. They taught her that in order to win, she had to be willing to “kick, scream, fight, cuss, be mean as a grizzly bear.” She learned to play Queen of the Mountain, and to her cousins’ dismay, she frequently won.

  Her closest brother, Pascal, loved her brave antics. He had a bit of the scamp in him himself. Their mother, my grandmother—a hardworking seamstress—struggled to make ends meet, so the older children went to work and the two youngest, Pascal and Frollie (my mother’s nickname) helped with household chores. My mother learned to sweep and clean. Pascal’s job, though, became the Snake Watcher.

  My grandmother was horrified of snakes. Wherever she went, she carried a hoe with finely sharpened blade meant for one thing: slicing the head off a snake. As a boy of eight, Paschal scoured the woods for any varmint that might slither into their cabin. An ace at throwing stones, he killed many a foe with a single, well-aimed blow. My mother, as horrified of snakes as her mother, wailed and high-tailed it home whenever Paschal would yell, “Found one!” As a cunning little mountain chap, Paschal frequently yelled it anytime he wanted to be alone, as he did on a particular day when his desire to be King of the Mountain put a devilish twinkle in his eye. He had, indeed, found one, whacked it with a stone, and stood back to admire the kill. Barefoot and shirtless, he picked up the dead four-footer, draped it across his shoulders, and headed home.

  The closer he got, the prouder he grew. He wanted to show off his skill and bravery. So, he devised a plan. An unfortunate decision.

  As his mother stood cooking at the wood stove, her back to the door, Paschal sneaked into the kitchen, the snake still around his shoulders, and like a young Tarzan yelled, “Found one!”

  My grandmother gasped and whirled around to see her boy wrapped in the clutches of a deadly serpent. A blood-curdling scream was the last thing Paschal heard before his mother grabbed the hoe and cold-cocked him with the blunt end. He sprawled on the floor with the snake trapped underneath him. With my mother clinging to her skirt tail and wailing, my grandmother dragged him out of the cabin. Then she went back in and with her fine hoe, hacked off the serpent’s head. Young Frollie toddled in behind her and beat the doubly-dead snake senseless with a small stick.

  Paschal slowly regained consciousness, his eyes opening to a terrible sight. His mother stood over him, her face filled with fury, her hoe held tightly in one hand, a switch in the other. And as if that weren’t bad enough, his baby sister squatted beside him and smiled, not a sweet smile but something more sinister: her Queen of the Mountain, I’m-the-winner smile. Eventually, he summoned the courage to get up. My grandmother switched his spindly legs ‘til she drew blood while the young Tarzan danced back into the kitchen to clean up the spoils of his war.

  Paschal eventually recovered from the humiliation and played King of the Mountain with as much zeal as ever, claiming many a trophy, though well out of his mother’s eyesight.

  And my mother still plays Queen of the Mountain, even though the “mountain” is a skilled nursing facility. She uses the skills her cousins taught her, and most of the time, she wins. There are days, though, when she doesn’t, and on those days, with a touch of God’s Grace, the grizzly bear inside her slinks away and magically turns into a docile kitten. At least for a little while.

  Sometimes, the best way to handle a difficult situation is to do nothing but laugh.

  I learned this the hard way when Nurse Holly telephoned at a little after seven Monday morning. As soon as she put my mother on the phone, I heard, “Sister, come get me. Hurry. I’ve been kidnapped!”

  By seven forty-five, I arrived at Plantation Manor carrying a thermos of coffee. Mother was sitting in the hall in her wheelchair. “I brought our Monday morning coffee, Mom. Would you like a cup?”

  “Oh, how did you find me, Sister?” She sounded frantic. “Did you hear what happened to me? It was that same old
woman. She sneaked in here and lured me away.”

  I wheeled her into her room and sat on the side of the bed. She was obviously nervous, so I said very calmly, “Is this the same one who kidnapped you last week?”

  She glared at me as if I’d lost my mind. No answer.

  I poured the coffee and slid Mother’s cup across the bedside tray toward her. “What did she lure you with?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember,” she said, “but she took all my clothes. See?” She lifted her blouse. “I don’t even have on a bra. (She did). “That crazy old woman took it. Then she drove me to her house.”

  “So,” I said slowly, “a woman came into your room last night, took all your clothes, then loaded you and the wheelchair into her car.”

  “No, no! That’s not right,” she yelled. “Didn’t you hear me? We didn’t take the wheelchair.”

  “Then how did you get to the car?” The tone of my voice betrayed the fact that my composure was slipping away.

  “Well, I walked, of course. I don’t need that wheelchair. I only use it because they make me.”

  I poured another cup of coffee, all the while nodding like some bobble head doll on the dashboard. I had no idea what to say. Then I realized that it didn’t matter. The event was solidly fixed in her mind. Nothing I could say would change it. So, I just waited and listened.

  The nurse came in about that time.

  “Oh, hey honey,” my mother cried. “Did you hear what happened to me?”

  The three of us went over the story again.

  The look on my mother’s face was dead serious. “You know, Sister, you just can’t predict what crazy folks will do,” she said midway through the story. “And you ought to see her house. It’s right next to a mall. She owns the whole kit and caboodle.”

  Stifling the laughter was almost impossible now.