The briefest of updates

Mom continues to be up and down, and in spite of making actual progress with her walking, is now swooning and willfully collapsing while loudly declaring she is going to throw up / have a heart attack / die on the spot.

She fluctuates between being afraid she is dying to wanting to die to being cheerful and rather chipper. Rumor has it she even flirted with a handsome young doctor the other day. (I would assume her teeth were in that morning.) 

Short mom anecdote: taking a 2 minute wheelchair break in the middle of walker-lurching down the hall today, Mom looked up at the two lovely, young, earnest therapists who are accompanying her and asks "Why do I feel so fucking awful?"

"Sylvia" one of them cautioned, "Remember what we said about the cursing?"

Mom: "That it might upset some of the other residents?" They nod, pleased.  Mom takes a perfect thoughtful pause. Then adds: "Fuck 'em."

Tomorrow they transfer her to the sub-acute rehab facility where hopefully an equally earnest and helpful staff will continue to harangue and cajole her into reasonable shape to go home within another few weeks.

Because I don't known how much more of this shit I can take.

Also in honor of Wordless Wednesday (even though I am clearly being wordy) a picture of flowers:

These are from the grounds of place where Ethan goes to summer (day) camp in the city. Taken because I spent some time yesterday running around like a headless chicken and picking up and dropping off overdue paperwork with schools and camps and doctor's offices all over the Upper West Side.

I really have no excuse for the need for this. In sprite of having been a successful and highly organized producer for many years, I apparently now possess the executive functioning skills of your average fruit bat.

Whether this is actual ADD or just my aging peri-menopausal brain remains to be seen.

To quote my eloquent mother: Fuck it!

Up and Down

Beautiful flowers in Mom's room (thanks Bruce, Bern, Rachel & Simon)

I only have time for the quickest of updates tonight; barely a post, more of a postette, postella, postellini. Because I am completely knackered. (For my readers who are not anglo-australo-philes that means totally worn out, tired, broken.)

In fact, I'm pretty much going to recap my Facebook status updates because that about says it all:

When I arrived:

"Mom is having another really hard day. One minute she is admiring the smile of the nurse who has come to take her blood and the next she is sobbing and screaming at me to just let her die, it hurts to much to live and she just wants to be done.

After this, and before going home to children who will be all over me because I've been gone all day? I think I need a drink."

Then, later:

Mom was in better space & spirits by the time I left. I still do not understand how no one figured out her severe discomfort was caused by gas and that she needed a very simple anti-gas medicine (simethicone) to feel like a human being. I should NOT have to have been the one to suggest it!

And in the middle? (Warning, what follows is a bit of a rant. Cursing involved. Because it was one of THOSE days.)

A lot of begging my mother to eat and drink, followed by her taking one mouthful of yogurt, one sip of seltzer, and then holding up her hand, cursing at me when I try to force more.

A lot of running to the nurse. They are growing to dread me at the hospital rehab nursing station, and that's a good thing. Because I MAKE them fucking take proper CARE of my mother, which they are somehow loathe to do.

I tell the nurse my mother in in excruciating pain and she blinks at me blankly "Really, she didn't say anything to me."

REALLY? REALLY? Are you fucking kidding me?

She didn't "say" anything because she is so out of it. The pain has reduced her to the state of an animal, holding her abdomen and moaning about how she is terrified she is dying.

But if you ask her point blank, she will say she's not in pain, that she's just uncomfortable. Because she's so polite and all. Also, at this moment, mentally compromised enough to NOT be a reliable reporter - as I have told the staff a BAJILLION times.

At one point, she turned to me and asked, "They are giving me so many medicines already isn't there SOMETHING they can give me that will take me out of this misery?" And I thought "Damn straight there should be something!" and ran off to the nurse to make sure they'd been giving her simethicone for what was, so clearly obviously to me, severe gas pain.

Nope.

No one noticed, and she didn't request it. I actually may have gotten a little mouthy at that point and said something about how when my babies were gassy and screaming in pain it didn't take a medical degree for me to figure out they needed simethicone drops. And how I didn't feel the need to wait for them to "ask" either.

And a dose of simethicone and a couple of trips to the bathroom and bedpans later (no gory details I promise, even though I got to live them, you won't have to) and she was back in her mind, able to converse, aware of the world outside her body.

So I arrived to a mother who would not eat a bite of her lunch and who responded to my entreaties by pounding on the bed and yelling "Yes, yes, I want to die, I am ready to die, just get this OVER with, I can't take any more!"

And I left a mother who was actually eating dinner, slowly making her way through the fruit salad and asparagus, the first solid things she had taken in, in days.  And a mother who was holding my hand and thanking me for being there.

And it was so hard to leave her, not knowing how she would fare in the night. But my children across town needed me too.

And I don't know who I am going to find in the morning, the pain animal or my rational mother. Hoping for my sweet mother, but willing to do whatever it takes to get her back, in any case.

Who The Hell Am I?

Me and Mom on Mother's Day, just before the fall

Today Eden asked: Who The Hell Are You? and invited us to answer.

But today? I don't have an answer.

The I in me is missing.

I have been consumed, subsumed by caregiving.

And at the moment there is no end in sight.

Right now I am a daughter and a mother and truly nothing more.

Just a month ago I was becoming a somebody again. I even said so in The New York Times (online).

And then bully big bear life took a giant paw and swatted me back down. But first he took down my mother.

For a while now we have known that she was one fall away from hell, and our fingers were crossed for so long they grew permanently twisted and entwined like wisteria trunks. But it happened anyway. On a random Friday. (But so un-random: the Friday just before a three-day weekend full of family plans, as it is ever so.)

And though she is technically on the mend, the steel rod in her hip stronger than the bone surrounding it, able to hold her up, she is still falling down. My mother is descending the rabbit hole of despair. She is in a no-win situation and while I hold it together during my visits, I weep in the elevator on the way down to the street, emerge from the hospital's chill air onto the steaming city streets with silent sobs wracking my body, tears streaming down my face.

I have just spent two, three, four, five hours besides my mother who is grimacing and groaning and sharply intaking her breath, in between moments of begging me to let her go home. She is so tired, so discomforted, so without energy or appetite or hope; unmoored in time and space, unsure of where she is or why.

She wants to be allowed nothing more than to sleep; to sleep and sleep and sleep and rest her bone-weary body. But to let her lie in bed now is to let her lie in bed forever; if she doesn't get up on her feet soon, she never will.

So I am letting the rehab folks kindly torture her. And feel the twisting of my guts as she says: "I can't, I can't, I can't." But then does.

And every fresh day I lie in bed at 5:45, alarm braying, saying to myself: "I can't, I can't, I can't." But then I do.

Linking up with lovely Eden of Edenland today. Neigh.