Days Like Today

I could feel the vibration of my cell phone and rolled over to see who was calling. It was 9:30am Saturday morning and by then I had already been up 3 times, either to help Craig with his vomiting or to deliver medication. I was stealing a few more moments before showering and heading over to help with Mom’s caretaking before heading back to help Craig. Recognizing the name, I answered the phone and sleepily said “hey”. “Hey”, Diane replied. “Mom fell”.

I sprung awake and asked how. Diane said she dropped Mom and I said, “It’s not your fault. What happened?” Jill went to Walgreens to retrieve Mom’s prescription; Dad was still sleeping. Diane was the only one immediately available to help Mom to the kitchen table for breakfast and, days before, she would have been able to help Mom safely shuffle to her wheelchair. The seizure has changed the landscape significantly. Diane held onto Mom with one arm and reached for the wheelchair with the other. The wheelchair may have lightly bumped Mom's immobile legs. They moved only a fraction before Mom’s left leg twisted behind her and gravity took over. Fast and hard, she fell against the hard wood floor, the wall and wall trimming giving her an abrasion near her temple, a bump on her forehead, and bruising on her hip and knee. In a voice weary and sad, Diane relayed the details and was clearly distraught as we considered whether Mom needed to return to the ER. She’s not only at great risk for hematomas and bone fractures but now seizures, and any spike in blood pressure or temperature could set something off (who knows).

It’s unfortunate Mom fell on Diane’s watch. She actually fell on my watch days earlier, yet I was fortunate enough to have the commode right behind her and, instead of falling backward all the way to the ground, she simply fell back onto the cushioned commode seat. I dodged a bullet and knew it right when it happened. I felt terrible nonetheless. No looks of comfort, no words of solace can salve that wound when it opens. We've all been there with her first fall in the movie theater months ago. We know what it looks like, we know the sounds. The shock and horror sits with you overnight until you’ve sufficiently beaten yourself up for not doing more or doing something differently. It's a slow heal until time allows you to forget the mental image (or at least delay the recall). 

I told Diane we should no longer do one-person lifts---something I advocated perhaps too quietly early on, noting the risks to slipped disks and the like. In retrospect, this was insensitive timing to Diane's situation. Being the resident “ergonomist”, I probably should have engineered something more compelling than delayed advice, but what can you do. 

When I arrived to the house, Mom teared up and said “I fell”; the silver-dollar sized abrasion on her temple was her most visible evidence. Fortunately, she did not lose consciousness and was not in immediate need of another ER visit. You wouldn't know the tough ol bird fell, apart from the war wounds on her head and body. She never really complained about the fall, just carried on as normal.

The rest of Saturday was one of the most difficult days to date in terms of inability to communicate with her, having difficulty with the pills, and moving her. Late at night, Jill, Diane, and I cried quietly to one another, panicked and worried for what's to come in terms of caretaking. I return to DC tomorrow. One of the sisters will be with Craig and the other will be with Mom, yet her caretaking is a three person show now. The guilt of leaving is indescribable--guilt for increasing an already heavy load for my sisters, guilt for feeling like I'm abandoning Mom, guilt for the time I know I'll be losing with her. And, that's only Mom. There's the equal guilt of abandoning Craig and losing time with him. The guilt is trumped only by the very real fear of not knowing what it will be like the next time I see Mom--if she'll recognize me, if she'll be able to talk with me even enough to say "I love you sweetheart" as she always does. Or, how things will be for Craig knowing how dramatically his life has changed already--whether he'll continue the stability course or lose more weight, energy, etc.

The "unknown" throws cement at my feet, slowing my leave. There's a cruel irony in leaving the most important things in life to return to your own. It's an unnatural pull between two important places, appreciated even more when on one end lives two family members fighting for life and every moment with them is desperately held onto--even if they live years from now.

I gave Craig anti-nauseas not too long ago. He's been vomiting last night's 'judgment' for the better part of today. He ate rice and applesauce---part of the "BRAT" rule for stomach issues or bananas, rice, applesauce and toast--and is reaping the consequences. As I pushed the IV's, he asked "are you going to miss this?" "Yes", I replied. "Definitely. With this at least I can help you with medication, vomit buckets, cold cloths. In DC, I can't do a damned thing." I asked him if he'll miss me giving him meds and he said yes. That was surprising to me for some reason and I turned around to ask, "really?" "Yeah, I really will", he replied.

I just gave him his TPN (nutrition) and said "with any luck, Craig, this will be the last TPN I hook up to you. Hopefully, the next time I see you, you'll be off of it". He giggled. I know I'll be back sooner than later. Til then, I'll miss everyday in between. ~E