Читать книгу NORMAL Doesn't Live Here Anymore - Barb BSL Owen - Страница 34

Very little changed on Thursday. Like the preceding string of days, time had no measurement. I waited and watched. I hoped and prayed for something—anything that might make the situation better. I continued talking with medical personnel and monitored Dad’s condition throughout the day. Time dragged on. Dad seemed to be somewhat stable and was aware of his surroundings most of the time. Mom, although weak and disoriented throughout the night, continued making progress. No longer swathed in confusion, she usually recognized me, and her appetite seemed to be returning.

Late in the day I stayed with Mom and Dad while my vigilant sisters took a break. As Dad slept in the adjacent bed, I crawled in with Mom, laid beside her, and held her thin, fragile hand. We watched a funny television show that made us both laugh. I didn’t know who was comforting whom, but we both felt safe, even if it was only for a few moments. In actuality I wasn’t really watching the television. I was pretending to be a little girl whose mommy would make sure everything was okay. Mom always assumed the position of worrier so I didn’t have to, but in a flash when the phone rang with the news of my dad and the ambulance, the roles reversed and I took over the job. The idea of being in a hospital room with both of my parents was never, ever the tiniest possibility in my mind. Yet, there we were—the three of us with all the responsibility congesting my heart. Surviving those days, filled with uncertainty, I functioned using instinct and logic, because I didn’t dare actually feel what was happening.

Friday arrived and I learned from my sisters that the previous night was as incoherent as all the others for Mom and Dad. Their lack of routine and loss of familiarity had taken its toll on each of them.

In spite of the uncertainty of our parents’ future, each player in the cast of characters I called family, enacted their roles perfectly. Weak Wanda, after spending 48 tiring hours with Mom and Dad returned to her home because “she had her own life to live.” Long ago she had been a compassionate, loving daughter, but over time she evolved into a self-absorbed existence where little else mattered. Although Weak Wanda lived less than a half-day's drive away, due to her "very busy life," she managed to keep her visits with Mom and Dad to once or twice a year. Her interaction with our parents amounted to a weekly phone call and apparently, that was enough to soothe her conscience. Sanctimonious Shirley’s decision not to make the trip to be with Mom and Dad in the hospital, was predictable. If God didn’t tell her to do it, she didn’t, and apparently her request about spending time with our parents was met with silence. Exhausted Teresa, overtaken by her stress level and anxious to go home, remained and watched me to see what I planned to do about Mom and Dad.

As the care-coordinator, social worker, and I conferenced, I tried to be sensible and unemotional in order to make the best choices for my parents. The decision about follow-up care vacillated from sending them to a skilled nursing facility, or to a nursing home, or back to their own home with additional care. Each choice was like an iceberg. What little I could actually see was supported by the vast unknown that lay below the surface. Every decision was left to me as my sisters silently waited and watched, seldom lending encouragement or support.

I felt the invisible weight on my shoulders growing with each passing moment. Where would I find the wisdom and common sense to make a decision that impacted all of us? Trying to contemplate the decision, my mind chose instead to wander through a cocoon of memories. I remembered my dad’s strength and determination as he added on to our home in 117˚ summer heat to create a nicer house for his growing family.

In my mind, I wandered through my dad’s beautiful flower and vegetable gardens. I remembered Mom and Dad telling me the stories about their years of canning meat and vegetables throughout the night and into the early morning hours in order to feed our large family. I relived the books Mom read to me at bedtime and remembered how she listened to me rattle on every day after school as she prepared our evening meal.

While in high school and college, Mom and Dad supported my interests and activities rarely missing a musical performance, play, or basketball game. As my mind skipped from one memory to another, the hurt and rejection I’d felt from Mom and Dad so many years ago, melted away.

In those moments I accepted that they were human just like me and capable of making a much regretted choice. Accepting their humanity allowed me, also, to accept my own. In that moment, my memories filled me with warmth and seemed to magically erase the emptiness created at the time of my wedding. In place of the void I found a well of courage—something I needed to draw from frequently as our life together unfolded.

Reluctantly, I crawled out of my memory-cocoon to find reality waiting. In spite of trying not to… I remembered…

A decision must be made.

…