I'm recovered

What to say to one's mother who says--I'm recovered, only the words don't come out quite like this. Instead, they sound splotchy and confused and take minutes to decipher. "I'm all..." she says and then "I'm..." and then "better" and I have to figure out that what she is saying is that--"I am done with this rehab because I am all better." When she says this, or rather something that approximates this, I struggle to maintain my equilibrium, because the vastness of my mom's fabrication is so huge that it threatens to swallow both of us. She is laying in bed, fully reclined, and her head is tilted so that it nearly rests on her right shoulder. I say to her, because I can't help myself, "then lift your right arm for me...show me" She says--"okay" and then there is a silence that is, unfortunately, not interrupted by the sound of her rotating shoulder or by the slip of the bed covers as her arm raises. No, there is silence, as she looks in the direction of my waist because, she can't raise her neck and eyes to eye level without help. "Okay," she says again, and then more silence. I can't tell what she's thinking--can't tell if she understands that her arms are not moving up off of the sheets. Sometimes Mom fails to perceive that her hand or arm are stationary rather than moving. This goes on for several minutes and then I change the conversation, because her arms are not going to move any time soon. They may never move.

Later in the afternoon, I watch the new OT (she's not Mom's regular OT, Becky) manipulate Mom's arms. At first she asks Mom to move her wrist or her fingers in a certain way, but soon these requests stop as the therapist begins to understand that Mom is not likely to move any of her limbs on her own. So I watch Mom's hands and arms flop here and there, like a rag doll. The only thing controlling their locomotion is the therapist. The OT decides to load Mom into her chair, so we can go to the therapy room. This is not an easy thing, this change of Mom's location, as it requires first changing her wet diaper and then sliding her onto a board from the side of her bed to the wheelchair. Lorna, Mom's caregiver, and the OT take on the job of changing Mom and I watch from my chair how Lorna systematically rolls Mom's leaden body onto her right side and then pulls away the wet Depends. She cleans Mom's behind with an alcohol wipe and I watch as Mom's skin gleams white and flaccid under the florescent lights. Mom's mouth is wide open, her jaw dropped, and her eyes are nearly closed, but I can see that they are not completely shut--she's not asleep but rather zoned out. I wonder just then what she's thinking about this indignity--to have other people's hands skimming the intimacies of her flesh, inspecting for skin breaks, for areas missed in the cleansing. What must this be like?

When we get to the therapy room, the OT stations Mom at the table and she brings out a plate and cup and a full set of silverware. We sit there for a minute, staring at each other, and then the OT says--"Can you make a place setting Dorin?" My mom doesn't acknowledge, so the OT says this again, this time a little more loudly, as if hearing were the issue here instead of cognition. I watch Mom's hands flutter as they try to raise up and grab hold of the silverware that has been placed in a cup, ready for the grabbing. She works at this for several minutes and then several more. The OT says nothing, neither do I. We both watch. I wonder how long this is going to continue--how long we can wait and hope for something to happen. A miracle. When Mom does manage to latch onto the handle of one of the pieces of silverware, the OT says--"squeeze tight while I help you raise your hand," I can see Mom's fingers moving just a bit, like she's trying to bare down hard on the spoon. But when the OT raises Mom's arm, the spoon clanks back down onto the table. We all look at it there, rolled onto it's backside...even Mom can't help staring--like it's a piece if silverware from Mars.

"All better," Mom says, and I want to cry. But who am I to say? Maybe Mom is right....maybe she is as good as she's going to get? Maybe Mom is the realist after all, the one who can call a spade a spade, or whatever that tired-old saying is? Maybe it's me, her daughter, who needs to realize that Mom is what she is and that I need to be okay with this? I just do.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--