A quandary

The greatest state

Mom had a couple of bad days last week. She had to have an aide dial the phone for her, and her voice was frail and fearful. She couldn't do normal things without help -- go to the bathroom, change her clothes. The nurse said she even would ask an aide making a call for her, "What will I say? What should I say?" The nurse said she was afraid Mom would fall, even with her walker.

I asked the nurse if Mom was a candidate to be moved to the 24-nursing care wing, and she said, "We'll just take it one day at a time."

When I saw Mom, she was jittery, fearful, and not well. She seemed afraid she was dying, or about to be moved. I helped her use the bathroom, and when we came out, she said, "I wonder what will happen" -- to her, her future, her life.

The nurse said Mom had been put on some new meds, and thought this decline might be caused by a reaction. She was trying to reach her doctor to ask if she could suspend the meds.

So, Friday, I was in a quandary. Julie and I had set side the weekend to stay with some friends up north. What if she died and I wasn't there? Or needed extraordinary help in some way? How could I help even if I were here? What if she felt better in the morning and I hadn't gone?

I didn't think she'd die. And I didn't think I could help. Her need is endless, my time is finite, and I went. I kept my phone with me and turned on -- boating, swimming, talking, eating, drinking. The phone never rang.

I went to see her tonight. She was fine. Better. Cogent. She went to the bathroom without help. Had they taken her off the meds? I'll call the nurse tomorrow to find out.

See me in the chair at left