The last place my mother lived before she went to hospice was a twenty-four-hour-a-day care home. We had toured and checked out all kinds of facilities, nursing homes, and full-care assisted living before deciding on this place. It was small and not at all institutional. It wasn’t perfect. But somehow I felt like she’d be okay there. I went almost every day to visit her. Once I had to miss a couple of days and I got a scorching phone call from her. But it had been her choice to go into a full-time care facility. What her kids wanted was to rent an apartment near The Compound. My sister–who is a hospice nurse–was going to take family medical leave and stay with Mother full time until the end. But Mother was adamant that she didn’t want the couple who owned the apartment (they lived on the top floor) to have a sick person living there, and she really didn’t want them to have someone die there. And though she could get annoyed with her kids if she felt we weren’t giving her the right amount of attention, she never wanted to live with any of us. Every time she tried that, she couldn’t get out fast enough. She was an odd mixture of independence and need, and it could be challenging to figure out what she wanted from us at any given time.
Looking back, it’s difficult to know if she adjusted well to the care home, resigned herself to enduring it, or simply had a lot of occasions when she was unaware of where she was or who we were. Not long after she was settled in there, Debby arrived in Houston. We visited Mother and then returned to The Compound to eat and rest. It was probably around nine p.m. when Debby said, “Let’s go back. I just need to know she’s okay.” So we drove back to the home, but Mother wasn’t in her bedroom. We found her sitting on the living room couch with one of the staff. Apparently she’d had a dream or some kind of episode, because she’d been agitated. Instead of trying to make her stay in bed, the aide got her a glass of milk and some Oreos and sat with her, listening to Mother tell a rambling tale that she continued after Debby and I arrived. We had no idea what she was talking about, but occasionally in her narrative, she’d raise her hand and say that she’d told someone, “I’m going to slap the shit out of you!” She was cracking us all up.
Tonight, going through photos, I found an old one of Debby. I think she’ll totally agree after she sees it that it could be titled, “I’m going to slap the shit out of you.” SAME facial expression and gesture, Debby!
live and learn.
On Facebook, Gina said she sees herself in this photo, and I told her it’s hereditary. Apparently, you’re going with behaviorism over genetics.
Oh my goodness. I see it. Every woman’s fear that one day she will turn into her mother. Sarah and Jenna watch out!!!!!
It’s inevitable.