Mother, Can You Hear Me? Page 2

“And what happened next Mrs. Frawley?” Nurse Holly asked.

  “That old bag locked the door and told me to sit there until she came back. It scared me to death.”

  The nurse leaned down close to her. “So, how did you get away?”

  “Simple,” she said. “I waited until she left, then I hauled my fat butt back here.”

  “How, Mother? If you didn’t have your wheelchair, how did you get back?”

  “I ran, of course.” A smile spread across her face. “I was pickin’ ‘em up and puttin’ ‘em down.”

  Nurse Holly gave me a sheepish grin and shrugged. The look on her face assured me that she was as confused as I was.

  For a moment, I couldn’t think of a word to say. My mother hadn’t taken more than a few steps in months, and now she insists that she ran? That she was kidnapped and ran away? I wanted logic. Unfortunately, there was none.

  Suddenly, though, I had an idea. At the time, I thought it was a good one.

  “Well, Mother,” I said, “do you think if we helped you out of your wheelchair, you could show us how you ran?”

  She didn’t hesitate for a second. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m exhausted. I bet I ran ten miles. I’ll be sore all over tomorrow. It’s a good thing that angel showed up when he did.”

  “You saw an angel?”

  “Big fella, handsome, too,” my mother said in a whisper. “With a top hat and a cane. He used the cane to show me the direction to run. Just held it out in front of him like this.” She demonstrated how the angel had held out his arm using the arm that had not moved an inch in months.

  “Mama, you moved your arm!”

  “’Course I moved it. Why shouldn’t I?”

  I smiled. “No reason. Does it hurt?”

  My mother stared out the window and smiled.

  “Mother, can you hear me? Does your arm hurt?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  “What’s out there?” I whispered.

  “The big fella,” she said. “He says he fixed my arm and I don’t owe him a dime.”

  Then, she started to chuckle, and I laughed right alongside her, grateful for the Grace and Mercy extended at that precious moment.

  It was unpredictable, unexpected, and it started with the dog.

  On the second day after my mother’s arrival back home, an occupational therapist named Robby walked into the foyer. Our sixteen-year-old Pekingese greeted him with her usual string of high-pitched yip yaps, which quickly turned to full fledged territorial barks. She let him know right away that this was her house. No intruders welcome here.

  A former Marine, Robby stood and spoke with an air of authority. Without hesitation, he bent down, looked our darling yapping dog in the face and said sternly but softly, “Don’t bark at me.” Immediately, the puzzled princess hushed. She didn’t utter a single bark.

  Now, dealing with the dog is one thing. Dealing with my mother? Totally different.

  Robby and I walked into the den. “Mother, this is Robby. He’s your occupational therapist.”

  “What? Who’s he?”

  I bent down close to her. “This is Robby. He’s a therapist. Can you hear me?”

  “You don’t have to yell,” she said and scowled. “What’s he doing here?”

  Robby stepped forward. “Hey, Mrs. Frawley. “I’m Robby. I’m an occupational therapist. My job is to help you learn how to be more independent in your environment.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? Blah, blah.” My mother flipped through a Reader’s Digest.

  Robby knelt down. “I’m gonna help you get better, Mrs. Frawley. Are you ready to get started?”

  “She’s very weak,” I said. “She can’t do anything by herself.”

  I left and busied myself in the kitchen until I heard, “That’s good, Mrs. Frawley. You’re a lot stronger than I thought you’d be. You’re a regular athlete.”

  What? An athlete?

  I peered in at them. Robby stood a few feet away from my mother while, with her arms folded across her chest, she stood up then sat back down. Four times.

  “Good job!” Robby said. “Ready to try something new?”

  “What in the world are you trying to do, kill me? I’m a sick woman,” my mother shouted. “Hasn’t anybody told you that, you dummy?”

  Robby crossed his arms and stared down at her.

  I braced myself for Armageddon.

  Instead, Robby bent down and laughed. “I know it hurts, darlin’, he said, “but sometimes, you’ve just gotta work through that pain.” He hugged her. “You can do it, can’t you?”

  Mother smiled up at him and nodded. “Sure, I can if you’ll help me.”

  Then he got up and stood next to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Mrs. Frawley, do you see this girl here?”

  “She’s my daughter,” my mother said.

  “Yes, but there’s something she isn’t. Do you know what that is?”

  My mother shook her head.

  “Your servant,” Robby said. “You don’t have to call her every time you want to get up. You can do that all by yourself.”

  My mother looked puzzled. “Why, I hardly ever call her. I can do everything by myself.”

  Robby winked at me.

  “All right, Mrs. Frawley, I’ll be back in two days.” He stood in front of her with his arms crossed, his legs slightly apart, the sound of authority in his voice. “I want you to practice and do your homework. I don’t want to hear any bad reports, either.”

  When he left, she said, “The next time he comes I’m gonna tell him to kiss my rusty old…

  “Mother,” I interrupted. “Medicare’s providing this home health service at no cost. You should be grateful.”

  On Robby’s second visit, as soon as Mother found out he was coming, she said, “Oh my Lord, I look awful. Go bring me some makeup and my lipstick. Hurry before he gets here. And don’t forget my good perfume.”

  She, with her red lips, and the little princess, with her wagging tail, insisted on greeting him at the door, two charmers out to win the affections of an unsuspecting Marine!

  The best of my mornings begin at five o’clock when everyone else is still asleep, the house is quiet, and the only sound I hear is the gurgle of the coffeemaker. On these rare mornings, I look out across the backyard and watch Nature’s drama unfolding, a drama which often foreshadows the course of my own day.

  A bright goldfinch, striped with black wing feathers, perches at a feeder outside the kitchen window. The sun’s rays catch his glimmering yellow feathers, and magically, he is ablaze in golden light. He dips his beak once then twice into the feeder to find the sunflower seeds. He seems content. Suddenly, without warning, a large mockingbird swoops down, squawking to high heavens, and plows into the feeder. In a matter of seconds, the goldfinch’s moment of contentment ends.

  Outside the sliding glass doors, a tiny hummingbird sits on the red flowered perch of a feeder. His iridescent colors shine like beautiful jewels in the soft light of morning sun. He dips his beak into the feeder, flutters his wings, then dips again. His little body fattens as he relaxes on the perch. He seems content. Suddenly, another hummingbird squeaks, zooms toward the feeding hummer, and knocks him off the perch. Another moment of contentment vanquished.

  I sit at the island that separates the kitchen from the den and sip my strong, sweet coffee. For a few minutes, I stare out at the backyard, lost in peaceful memories and private dreams. I whisper prayers for God’s guidance, his Grace and Mercy so crucial to me now. I snuggle into the seat cushion, content.

  “Joy!”

  My mother’s loud, shrill call interrupts the silence.

  “Joy, did you HEAR me? Hurry. I can’t get my pants on.”

  In a matter of seconds, I am scurrying down the hall to her bedroom.

  “What took you so long?” she asks. “I hate these stupid old pants. They’re worn out.” She struggles with the waistband, grunts when she tries to bend over and sl
ip the pants over her feet. “I can’t do it, Sister. Help me.”

  “You’re supposed to be doing this by yourself, Mother,” I say as I help her. “Remember what your therapists said?”

  “Those stupid ole insurance people? They don’t have the sense God gave a flop-eared donkey.”

  “They’re nurses and therapists.”

  “Here,” she says pointing to the floor. “Help me with my shoes. Do we have anything in this house for breakfast?”

  A few minutes later, we head to the den/kitchen, my mother inching her way toward her favourite chair. As we near it, she stops and waves her finger at me.

  “Watch this,” she says and shuffles to her chair. Before she sits down, she reaches out and grabs one of the rungs of her newly-installed safety pole. Then she eases herself down into the chair. “See? I don’t need those people. They don’t know their hind ends from a hole in the ground anyway. Where’s my coffee?”

  As I’m cooking her breakfast, she calls to me again. “Sister, watch this.”

  She grabs the safety pole and pulls herself up out of the chair. “Told ya so,” she says. “Now, call your helper and tell her to stay away from my house. I don’t need her anymore. Then call those insurance folks and tell them all to go to…”

  “Sorry, Mother,” I interrupt. “I need her help, and you need the therapists. Period.”

  “Didn’t you see what I did? What do you need help with? I can do everything by myself.” She sits back down. “Where’s my breakfast?”

  As I’m frying bacon and whisking eggs, I glance outside at a little hummingbird perched at the feeder. Fat and content, he sips the nectar. On a tree limb above him, though, another hummer perches. He moves his beak from side to side, flutters his wings, readying himself. I know what’s coming.

  Suddenly, I hear the thud of a large glass and the thunk of a plastic cup as they hit the floor. I know before I even see it that orange juice is splattered across the floor and coffee is splashed all over her shoes and socks.

  “Uh, oh,” my mother says.

  I turn off the burner and slide the pan away. Then I whisper, “Lord, please help me to smile.”

  Another moment, interrupted.

  Whether she’s known you for years or is just meeting you for the first time, my mother will do her best to offend you. And she doesn’t play favourites. Friends, family, casual acquaintances: everyone is fair game for one or more of my mother’s accurately slung barbs.

  A friend of mine, Peggy, comes faithfully several mornings a week to help me clean, change, and in general, keep Mother occupied. Today, as Peggy was helping my mother change out of a pair of wet pants, my mother looked at her and said, “I wish you’d get out of here, and I hope to God we’re not paying you for this. It’d be like throwing money down a rat hole.”

  Shortly after Peggy left for the day, my mother’s favourite therapist came for a session.

  “Well, my God,” my mother said to Robby, “what in the world are you doing here?” She sounded thoroughly disgusted and shook her head, even though she’d spent most of the morning primping so that she’d look her best for Robby.

  Robby wasn’t fazed. “I came to see my favorite patient!”

  “Aw, don’t gimme that load of bull,” my mother said. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  As he left, my mother took her final shot. “Hey, don’t forget your purse.” Then she slapped her knee and howled with laughter as she pointed to a small duffle bag on the counter.

  An hour or so later, the nurse came. On every visit, the nurse gets down on the floor to check the wounds on Mother’s heels. She applies medicine and clean bandages.

  “Okay, Mrs. Frawley, that’s it. You stay off your feet until these wounds heal.”

  Mother smiled her sweetest smile. “Want me to call the crane company to help you get up?”

  It was even worse with the physical therapist, a large woman with a tiny voice and unusually slow Southern drawl. When she walked in, Mother immediately began to ridicule her drawl.

  “Mrs. Frawwwleeey,” Mother said, mocking her with her best hand movements and tone of voice. “Ah just come by to make sure you were alllll riiight.”

  Ann seemed unfazed.

  “Who pays you to come here?” my mother asked her. “If I’d known you’d be coming all the time, I’d never have signed up for that insurance policy. Those places will rip you off every time.”

  While the nurse was busy recording data on her laptop, Mother cut her eyes at me then toward the nurse.

  I gave her the “don’t you dare” look. Like a mischievous child, she grinned and looked away.

  “Did you have to call Omar to have those clothes made?” she asked the nurse.

  Ann didn’t look up from her typing. “I beg your pardon?” she said softly.

  “Omar the Tentmaker,” Mother said. “Did he make that outfit for you?” She covered her mouth and pretended to stifle a laugh. “Here,” Mother said, pulling up on the safety bar by her chair. “I’ll see you to the door. Thanks for dropping by.”

  When the nurse left, Mother noticed my disapproving look. ““You mad at me? I haven’t done anything. You better be glad I didn’t mention that hair. Nasty mess hanging down her back. I’m gonna tell her about it next time.”

  The head therapist arrived a few minutes later for the monthly evaluation. Mother was sleeping the first time she came, so the two of them hadn’t met yet. She’s a rather tall woman, heavy set, with several prominently protruding teeth in front.

  “Hello, Mrs. Frawley,” she said. “I’m Jane. Nice to meet you.”

  I had a feeling she’d change her mind fairly soon.

  Mother cut her eyes at me then leaned forward in her chair.

  “You could eat an ear of corn through a barbed wire fence with those teeth, couldn’t you?” She slapped her knees and laughed.

  The therapist said she couldn’t see any need for further therapy. She wouldn’t be back.

  I saw her to the door and walked back into my mother’s room.

  She was on the side of the bed laughing.

  “I did it, Sister. They won’t be coming back.”

  I could have argued, countered, scolded. I could have done any number of things. Instead, I sat beside her and laughed right along.

  “I just hope your Big Fella angel wasn’t watching.”

  “Oh, mercy,” she said, her face suddenly serious. “Ya think he was?”

  “I think maybe he’s always watching. Don’t you?”

  I relaxed a bit, grateful for what seemed a bit of a breakthrough, maybe even a softening of her sometimes cruel ways. I said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Then, my mother patted my leg.

  “I hope he got a good laugh out of it,” she said. “I’ll see what I can cook up for next time.”

  When I became a full-time caregiver, I had no compass to help me navigate its choppy waters, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I read books. The more I read, the more frightened I became.

  The home health care agency responsible for my mother’s rehabilitative therapy has become my lifeline. Without them, I could not have learned what I needed to know about taking care of my mother. We are fortunate to have twice-weekly visits from a physical therapist, an occupational therapist (who helps patients learn to navigate in their environment), and a nurse who is a wound care specialist. She cleans and bandages the wounds on my mother’s heels and monitors her temperature and blood pressure.

  With a doctor’s order for therapy, the cost of these visits is covered by Medicare for up to six weeks. At the end of the six-week period, an evaluation determines whether or not the patient shows progress.

  Talk about progress! With the team’s help, my mother has learned to feed herself (though she hasn’t mastered cutting meat yet) and use her walker in a way that promotes safety and good balance. The occupational therapist showed her the proper way to get up out of a chair. Getting up successfully requires strong legs and good
balance. To make the task easier, the therapist encourages scooting to the edge of the chair, bending from the waist to lean forward, and using only leg strength to stand up. Without the bending forward, the back is too easily strained and leg muscles will begin to weaken. (I try to remember this every time I get up!)

  The large safety pole installed by her chair is useless for getting up; however, it is still handy for holding onto as Mother lowers herself into the chair. It makes for a smoother move, but it hasn’t yet justified its hefty two-hundred-dollar price tag. Though I paid for this myself, I learned from the therapy team that, with a doctor’s order, Medicare will provide almost all the rehabilitative equipment patients might need.

  The physical therapist helps Mother exercise her muscles and keep her circulation improved. But she has also demonstrated the easiest ways to put on clothes. Buttons pose a problem, so Mother wears only knit pullovers that she can manage. She can pull on any pair of pants by sitting on the side of the bed and slipping one foot in, pulling a bit on the waist of the pants, then putting in the other foot. It takes a few minutes, but it is successful.

  Since bending over is painful for my mother, putting on a pair of socks seemed almost impossible until the therapist showed her how to prop one leg on her knee so that she can more easily reach her foot. It took some practice, but eventually, my mother learned the technique. After mastering the socks, the Velcro straps on her shoes were a cinch.

  Now, she can even take a shower with very little assistance. Her newly-rebuilt shower stall has three safety bars on its interior, two on the exterior. Though I still turn the water on and off for her, the team showed Mother how to hold to the bars to get into the shower, keep one hand on one of the bars, and step out with first her left leg. Still holding to a safety bar, she can then ease her hand off the interior bar and onto the exterior one before she steps out completely.

  My mother practiced her exercises, repeated her techniques, and maintained a good relationship with the home health care team. I’ve learned only recently that using the name of the agency, the names of its members, and photographs of these delightful people is strictly forbidden by their company’s policy.