Unexpected Tears

This is the first in what will potentially be a recurring theme in this multifaceted blog: My mother fell last week. Twice.

Those of us who are in the second half of our lives frequently say, "You can't take it with you" or "Everybody dies" or some similar aphorism. The bottom line is this: No one lives forever.

When you follow that adage with the fact that yesterday was Mother's 97th birthday, then we have to acknowledge that she probably doesn't have that many years left. As I've observed her over the past few years, I've repeatedly stated that I don't want to live to be 9x years old. She has very little hearing left. Her eyes are fine, but she'd rather sleep that read. Her life revolves around walking down to the dining room of her retirement apartment complex for meals, Sunday night Scrabble with like-minded residents, and sleep. Lots of sleep. She forgets to take her meds; she forgets to shower and wash her hair; she forgets to put on clean clothes.

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It could be worse. It could be so very much worse. I've observed the parents of many friends who are not aging gracefully, who are battling Alzheimer's or Parkinson's or the demon cancer. In fact, my mother-in-law (John's foster mother) is almost 103 and is pretty much deaf, blind, and wheelchair bound. Quality of life? Not so much. Mother's brain is in darned good shape for 97. She still has a quality of life. We are lucky. Still ….
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We have a lovely companion who comes in to help her with laundry and who takes her for manicures and pedicures. The complex provides a Fletcher Academy student who comes in to clean once a week. You and I would kill to have that much uninterrupted time to read. She sleeps.

If you've read this blog for very long at all, you know that I don't feel very bonded to my mother. She and Daddy adopted me when I was six days old, and I've never felt like she gave me unconditional acceptance, as I believe one should give to one's child, whether adopted, stepped, fostered, or natural. For y*e*a*r*s, I've said I would not cry when my mother died. I've presumed I would just feel an enormous sense of relief.

But Sunday, as the Jazzman and I were preparing to leave the hospital to begin our journey back to Ohio, I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her. She had a look of helplessness in her eyes. This strong woman is never helpless.

I cried.

It broke my heart. The sense of what she's feeling right now—mortal, helpless, hopeless—broke a heart I didn't think could be broken any more by her.

Monday morning she was moved into an assisted living/nursing home facility where she will receive physical therapy for at least two weeks until she can increase her mobility and at least get out of bed and to the bathroom by herself.

It's going to take a hell of a lot of hard work on her part, and a commitment to maintaining the status quo that existed before last Tuesday's fall.

My sense over the weekend was that this was the beginning of a slippery slope to the end, be it six months or six years away.

I hope I'm wrong.

Note: The photo was taken a year or two ago in Mother's apartment in Hendersonville. I did not take any pictures of her on this trip, as she just wasn't looking good at all—not like I expect her to look! May she be able to get things together and look this good again!