Fighting the Good Fight

…

My mother has never been shy. The stroke left her voice intact along with her opinions and her willingness to share them. Her hearing is gone, so she generally speaks only loud enough so she can hear what she is saying. The walls reverberate and the windows rattle in normal conversation.

“I hate this place. Get me out of here,” she exclaimed.

“But mom, this seems like a nice place. They cook for you and let you watch TV as much as you want. The nurses are very nice and the physical therapists are helping you get better each day. What is so terrible about it?”

“They served me oatmeal.”

“Hmm. It seems to me you served me oatmeal every morning until I graduated high school. You told me it was good for me. Maybe this is just Karma working itself out.”

On my way out, I checked with the staff. She has not been shy nor has she been easy to care for. I thought I sensed a bit of dread when two nurses entered her room to return her to her bed after a therapy session. Apparently, there have been issues. I got the same feeling from several sources.  Still, everyone I met was friendly, cheerful, polite and competent.  Poor souls.

Whatever else you might say about her, she is fighting the good fight wherever she finds it. I only wish she had some less well-meaning adversaries.

So, she may be down, but she seems far from out.

I believe I shall devote my afternoon to napping. God knows, I have earned it. I think of it as taking one for the whole team.