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.

Three Weeks with Mortality

It will be two weeks this coming Friday that I got the call. It was my mother’s voice, but slurred and with gaps. She struggled to make herself understood. It came out like this: “I’ve had a minor stroke and I am in the hospital in Granbury.”

I fell silent for a moment, trying to integrate what I heard. When my single brain cell finished processing, I said, “I’m on my way.” Five minutes later, I fired up the Bat mobile and aimed west. I felt it better taking the extra time to don trousers.

Less than an hour later, I arrived at the Granbury Medical Center and strode directly to mother’s room. My brother and his wife were there. They were somber.

I went to her side and grasped her hand. Bending low, I kissed her forehead and said, “I AM HERE MOM!” She is hearing challenged, y’know. She looked up at me and proclaimed her undying love for me, provided  I “ get me the the Hell out of there in the next thirty minutes.”

“Wait here,” I said, “while I talk to the nurse.” The “wait here” part was a jest my Mom understood. I took it as a good sign.

The nurse said she seemed in good shape, considering. I deduced that the alternative, or bad shape, would have left her dead in her tracks. She was very lucky, so far.

I got the rundown. Cognitive abilities were okay. All limb movement was available, but her left side was uncoordinated and pitifully weak. The MRI showed this was the second of two strokes. The first occurred about six months earlier. We all recalled her slurred speech for a few days, but the she recovered. Waiting was all we could do now.

After three days, the hospital transferred her to a rehabilitation center recommended by my brother. I checked it out and it seems well equipped, clean and competently managed. I booked my Mom in for rehabilitation.

She is in rehab now and today she seems to be improving. I will catch up with more details in the next few days.

For now, I think I shall pour myself a glass of old Scotch whiskey and kick back.  Tomorrow is another day.

:)