We want to take her home.
But her level of care will not allow that right now, and our heads spin with the options.
They plan to transfer by ambulance.
But it’s only a few blocks. Can we get her into a wheelchair?
My brother has a lift in his van, and we decide to handle it ourselves.
She’s wanted a cigarette so badly, and so before we go through the doors, my brother lights one for her.
The breeze blows, and the sun shines, and we stand and wait.
It’s not so bad.
There’s a small, elegant visiting area just inside the door with a fireplace. I wonder if it works.
The nurses’ station is the hub of the wheel around which four resident wings and the dining room revolve.
Through the dining room and outside, there’s a wicker seating area and a vegetable garden.
They allow supervised smoke breaks out here.
They give us the code so we avoid setting off alarms.
We follow willow-jeaned legs down long hall, two-inch heels clicking along waxed beige.
Black and white prints of bygone days hang in the halls–a horse and buggy parked on Main Street, a top loader straddling a load of sledded logs.
We stop at the last room.
It’s the second bed. The one by the window. In a room that’s not hardly big enough for a visitor’s chair.
Which is a good thing, I suppose. A way to encourage interaction in a community area.
Time here should be spent resting after working hard in therapy.
The nurse comes in.
The aides come in.
Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy visit.
We stand around and chat and discuss what items to bring from home.
And later we’ll second-guess our decision.
We know that we are not the only family to go through this.
Not the first.
Not the last.
But it feels like it.
I remember what my doctor told me years ago when microscopic cells ate through a tube, and we both wondered if earlier intervention would have made a difference.
“We make the best decisions we can with the information we have,” he said.
(But I know he went back to the lab late at night to second-guess himself.)
And we talk about about how we are not ultimately in control anyway.
How Another has it all covered.
She’s scared and confused.
And so are we.
It’s late, and she’s tired, so we say our goodnights, and go home to rest in our own beds.
Or will we?
The LORD gives strength to his people; the LORD blesses his people with peace. ~Psalm 29:11
I know that you will listen and hear the gentle tug of the Holy Spirit allowing Him to lead the way.
What seems right to us is often not His best plan.
Praying you find warmth around that fireplace and in His presence.
Covering you and your family in prayer during these difficult days. Understand and relating to the situation that you are in. My heart hurts.
My His peace be a blanket that surrounds you and His grace be poured out in a measure that astounds you.
And by “you” I mean your entire family.
LYI
My heart hurts in this for all of you … the hard decisions that must be made. May the Lord hover over you with peace.
Oh, Sandy, this is so familiar right now. Not in every detail but in feeling. My 93 mother-in-law fell a couple of weeks ago and broke her hip. She laid on her kitchen floor for over 24 hours before she was found. Rehab is now priority. Saying a prayer for you!
Oh, sweet Sandy – I so, so get this. You’ve been on my heart and in my prayers since your post about leaving to be with your mom- prayed for you all as I took my evening walk tonight. You will pretty much second guess every decision you make – for a while. And then the Peace-giver will cover it all with sighs too deep for words. You do what you have to do – and you give it up – again and again and again. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, kyrie eleison!
This is not a part of life I look forward to. My parents are now dealing with it with their parents…and I know that it is part of the blessing of having elderly family members around. But oh, it is tough.
We second-guess ourselves at the other end, too…in parenting our children.
Maybe it’s just human experience.
I’ve been chomping at the bit to get back and find out how you were doing. I said a little prayer as I read and wrote this comment. I am so sorry for your pain. May our Lord comfort you today.
Sandy,
Diana said exactly what I would say, if I could stop these tears long enough to write coherently (and she does it eloquently, too).
Praying. Without ceasing.
{{{Sandy}}} I’m late to comment here, but I wanted to tell you that I’ve been there, done that. I chose to bring my mother into our home to care for her, and I still second-guess my decisions. Our lives are so complicated, and the choices are often too many and too difficult…so we do the best we can and trust God with it all.