Journey of the Heart
A Family Affair
by
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Thursday, February 15, 2001 Chalk Lines “Mom, did you have a whirlpool bath tonight?” Yes! And I didn’t like it! “But you thought the one last week felt good.” Well, not this time. “Have you been down to the sun room to watch the falling snow?” I hate this weather. “Well, you don’t have to go out in the cold.” I don’t like it anyway. “Your refrigerator has plenty of fruit. Have you eaten any?” No. “Are some fun activities planned for today?” Not that I know about. My back still hurts. “I’m sorry. The back was doing better when I visited on Sunday.” Well, not today. I guess it will never get any better. I am fast losing patience with our one-sided conversation, but I make one more try. Knowing that mother often refuses to wear her ugly elastic stockings, I ask, “So, could your feet fit into your shoes today or did you wear slippers?” I don’t remember. I say no more. I’ve already said too much. A mother-daughter relationship can be complicated. Although our bond is indisputably anchored in love, it is also saddled with endless opportunities to disappoint. Aging and illness add to a mixture of surging hormones and delicate emotions, power struggles and undeserved guilt, giving too little - expecting too much, hovering too close – not hovering enough. Confusing role reversals enter the picture when the parent becomes the child, the child becomes the parent. Chalk lines get scuffled and rules get changed on a field where there are no winners, in a game that no one wants to play. No referee’s whistle restores order when we stumble and lose sight of the goal line. I need to be more mindful that this contest is not about me; my Mom is the one caught in the heat of a lonely, losing battle. A helping hand, a listening ear, a kind word, a prayer or two – yes, these things I can provide. The last thing my mother needs right now is a daughter with attitude.
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About the Book
The red-and-white transport vehicle pulls away from the curb at the medical center. With a heavy sigh, I shift my Chevy into drive and fall in behind while contemplating the task of getting to know the ins and outs of yet another health care institution.
Each place has its own particular power structure, and it will be in the best interest of the patient if I quickly learn the next prevailing protocol. Who will answer questions, be accountable, and take appropriate action? Who will be kind when no one is looking; who will not? I dread the role of being a watchdog.
Only the top of the passenger’s head above the wheelchair can be seen through the van’s back window. My mother is being moved to a nursing home today. I have tried my best to match wits with the pitfalls of dementia. I have failed.
Dementia is a thief in the night that robs a patient’s memory bank while bequeathing a siege of unforgettable images in the mind of the caregiver. For the author, a brief phone call was more than an interruption to business as usual; it was an omen of change. Her predictable life was about to become an emotional roller coaster ride marked with heartwrenching twists and turns, breathtaking highs and lows, and unmistakable encounters with grace.
About the Author
Nora can most often be found at her desk overlooking the family bicentennial farm where she and her husband of fifty-three years welcome three grown children and six grandchildren at every opportunity. Her essays have been published in The Upper Room Magazine and aired on WMRA Public Radio. Visit her at authornorarebecca@gmail.com.