someone else's mother

A decision is reached today--what will happen to Mom once Medicare will no longer fund her rehabilitation. It's far less acrimonious than I'd imagined, as everyone at the table seems in agreement that the only medically feasible alternative is for Mom to remain in skilled nursing--her medical oversight issue are too great, not to mention that she continues to be a two person assist, meaning that it takes two people for bed mobility and for transfers from bed to chair to commode and back again. Eric and I listen as Mercedes (Director of Nursing) discusses Mom's medical needs--while Mom has stabilized she still needs constant monitoring for her ongoing neurogenic bladder and UTIs. Her doctor, Dr. Kuong, discusses the reality that Mom's internal organs will continue to decline, an issue that will produce further medical interventions. Lisa Mayfield, Mom's care manager, talks about the difficulties of getting proper medical oversight at home. Jennifer, Mom's friend and OT, chimes in with the fact that Mom's cognitive abilities typically go downhill as soon as she returns home--she needs the psychosocial stimulation of being in a setting such as the Mirabella. Even Ellen, the manager of Mom's 24/7 caregivers (the person Terry designated to talk in her place as Terry is too busy to attend) seems convinced. We talk for two hours. A decision is reached. We leave.

Once I get to my car I drive up Denny and then swing onto Broadway before turning onto 12th and eventually onto campus. I sit there in the parking lot for fifty minutes. Not talking on the phone, not listening to music, not grading papers. My driver's window's open and while the yellow halo of the elm tree just beyond my windshield is arresting, I really don't even see it. I just sit, trying to let this knowledge come to me--that Mom will not be going home, that Mom is now a permanent resident of skilled nursing. But it doesn't come--this acceptance--it just sits there instead on the perimeters of my skin, festering ugly and contagious, a cankerous sore I want to cut out from my skin, amputate, because it's so far from the truth I need to hear. It doesn't matter that I was expecting this or even that I think this is "best." No, it's the fact that it is horrific, unimaginable.

This cannot be my mother, I cannot be this woman's daughter.

When I arrive at Mom's room at the Mirabella (it's after class--late in the day) I see a woman in loud blue plaid pants, clam digger length and loose with an elastic band--something Lorna kindly picked up for Mom at the recent JC Penney's twelve hour sale. I'm thinking, these pants have got to be as far as possible from Mom's E. Fisher black cigarette pants and her Baby & Co. wrap sweater. On the bed are five cotton "tops" Lorna has picked up for Mom--fuchsia, cobalt and emerald green--not colors Mom has ever worn before nor even displayed in her house; they are not her palate. Mom is a black-and-white kind of dresser, with an occasional contrasting color. Very chic, very Channel. Blue plaid beach pants are about as far as she can get from her own personal style. When Lorna shows these tops to me, I nod "yes" and mutter things like--"perfect," "groovy" and "lovely"--trying to cover my tracks, erase my irrational dislike of Mom's new "style." All the while, I keep looking at Mom, trying to focus my gaze, trying to decide if I recognize her or not, underneath the neon plaid of her pants. For $2.67 a shirt and $6.32 for each of the pants its hard to object to Lorna's value-driven shopping choices.

This cannot be my mother, I cannot be this woman's daughter.

When Lisa comes to Mom's room for speech therapy, I turn away from Mom, close my eyes to just a squint, and listen to what Mom says, how she converses with Lisa. Lisa's coaxing her into supplying descriptive sentences. She asks, "Tell me about the objects I name for you. I'll say the object Dorin and you can give me three attributes for each."

Mom says--"okay," but soon it's clear she hasn't quite processed Lisa's request. "Shoe" Lisa says, a statement that curiously triggers a long, confusing story from Mom about seeing an old movie, one that Mom can't name until I remind her of the title--I guess correctly because Mom supplies one of the actress's names in the movie--Sonja Henie. But what does "Sun Valley Serenade" have to do with "shoes"? Mom struggles with this, rambling into extravagant sentences that make no sense to either Lisa or myself. "Two black shoes" she says, and then finishes with--"I can't do it...the name...two of them. I realize then that Mom is referring to one of the more dubious aspects of the 1937 film--how it reflects the racist ideas of the time, that a young black man's place in life is to tap dance to Chattanooga Choo-Choo. Mom's quest to explain the movie to Lisa goes on and on, and the longer she talks the more worried I get. "Let's go," she says, "let's get going." "Where do you want to go Mom" I ask her" "To see the movie...have you seen it," she asks Lisa. I silently will Mom to slow down and think more clearly and deliberately about what she's saying. Mom's talking nonsense and I don't want Lisa to hear this--I want Lisa's reports to be positive, encouraging. I just do. Mom's babbling lips are not my mother's, not the woman I've been visiting for the past five weeks.

She's someone else's mother.

Not even a visit from the Bread Queen shortly after Lisa leaves can restore Mom to herself, to me. We stuff fat, still-warm slices of Ciambatta bread into our mouths and giggle at how full we are getting but she is still not my Mom. "I want to make it...tell me...there's time for this today...let's get started'" she mutters to Hanna, suggesting something that will be never possible--Mom having the reasoning capacities and the physical dexterity to make a loaf of handmade bread.

Who are you Mom? Tell me please because I'm certain I can't stand it, can't stand what it will take to watch you lose yourself even further, become yet another woman who is not my mother.

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