Sharing a post from my other blog:
So many “moving days” flash through my mind like a slideshow in an old Kodak carousel.
Up to this point, moving days that I recall have been full of happy memories.
My nervous anticipation as I unpacked my little red car to move into my first college dorm room. And the bittersweet excitement I felt when MacGyver and I left my hometown in our little Budget rent-a-truck as newlyweds to drive 1500 miles away and start our life together.
My overflowing sense of pride as we moved into the first little house we purchased years later, and the unbound joy we felt as we brought our babies home from the hospital and moved them into their newly decorated little rooms.
I can also envision moving my kids to their own college dorm rooms in the not-so-distant future, as hard as that is to believe. Just imagining how bittersweet that will feel puts a lump in my throat.
So many moving days filled warm, bittersweet feelings.
Then there’s tomorrow. A move-in day I hadn’t really ever imagined, mostly out of denial. The day I move my Mom into a nursing home.
A wonderful, safe and perfect place for her. But a nursing home no less.
She doesn’t recognize me much any more and her head has started to hang lower as if her little neck muscles are starting to give up, so I don’t think she will be sad about the move. Correction: I pray that she will not be sad, or give me that far-away, but at the same time, not-so-far-away look in her deep, beautiful, soulful brown eyes.
Our roles have now reversed. And as such, I have written her name in Sharpie on the labels of all of her clothes and towels as I have packed them for her moving day. As if I’m getting ready to take her to camp tomorrow.
It’s all very surreal in so many ways, as the snow spins in the wind outside my window this first day of May.
A new and different kind of ‘moving day’ indeed.
I haven’t written any posts for more than a week. I’ve been a bit numb from the drain of the last weeks with Mom, or Little Red Riding Hood, as I like to call her on my blog. And I know you readers enjoy my more light-hearted posts. So I’ve been torn about writing about Little Red Riding Hood for the last month or so. But it’s part of my Life on Wry, so I’m sharing a post I wrote today for my other blog, Laughing at Alzheimer’s (because laughing doesn’t’ make my mascara run). So here we go.
Nursing Home selected. Check. (I’m tired … are you?)
The much anticipated intervention meeting with my Stepdad was successful. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy convincing a man that it’s best for his wife of 30-plus years to be in a nursing home because of the level of care she needs. But the hospice folks helped me get through this difficult conversation. It had to happen. I was losing too much sleep worried about them both.
We ended the meeting with him open to the idea and to hearing about my top choices after researching and touring area nursing homes that were a potential fit.
The next day when I came to help with Mom, I again explained to my Stepdad that I wasn’t trying to be pushy, but that I felt – for various reasons that I explained and probably over-explained – that it was the right thing to do for both of their safety and well being, as hard as it was to formulate those words. He knew I didn’t take this lightly and that I had been researching options for when the next shoe might drop (after our infection in December sent Mom into a tailspin of decline). He knew my heart was in the right place.
In true Goldilocks style, I have been researching and touring various nursing homes of various sizes with differing amenities and programs. Small, medium, big homes, ones with lots of programming and little programming, ones close to my house and close to my parents’ house, in the lower, medium and higher price ranges.
I participated in these tours almost robotically, as if for a work project for which I was designing a features and benefits grid in order to write a brochure about their differences. I only cried on the way home from the tours a couple of times. It was a completely surreal experience. I wanted to have my sister with me, but it wasn’t an option. She’s been gone for 13 years. This was a solo mission. And she was with me in spirit, I really think she was.
After I went through all of my notes and all of the brochures with my Stepdad he agreed. He said it sounded like I had a favorite and he liked my rationale. I gulped and told him how much pressure that was to be the one to pick and he calmed my nerves and reminded me how much effort I had put forth. Was he really on board? He would go see it with me later in the week (last week) and bring his checkbook for a deposit if it felt right.
Was I hearing him right? Was he really on board? Don’t get me wrong, this took much time and many “come to Jesus” conversations, as I like to call them, over the last couple of years, and more angst than I can even explain. But he knew I seemed more serious this last few months since Mom’s decline. And he knew, in his heart, it was time. But was I actually hearing him agree with me on this subject for which I dreaded the very thought of? Indeed.
I explained to him how one of the nursing homes just felt right to me and I could picture Mom there. How natural it even felt with the Executive Director who gave me the tour. She reminded me of someone dear from my hometown. So many things made it seem like the right place. I drove away dabbing tears and pulling myself together, knowing that it was the place my Mom should be.
I took my Stepdad a couple days later. It was clear to me that he had taken some time to think about this whole issue, and felt even more resolve that the stimulation and care she could receive was what would be best at this point in her decline. I was still in shock that this was really happening and that I had steered our ship to this point.
Tomorrow the ‘assessment team’ from the nursing home will assess her at my parents’ house. To determine her needs, and that the facility is a good fit. Now that we’ve come this far, I only hope it will all go smoothly. I know it’s going to be a rough ride, but surely it can’t be more rough than the last couple of years, right? I’m probably wrong about that aspect, but I still know in my heart it’s what is best.
I’ve already picked out a comforter and curtains for her little room. They have flowers and the colors of pink roses in them like she likes, or liked anyway. And I have a list ready of what all that I will furnish her room with, from photos and knick knacks to her wall calendar and hand lotion. My stomach is wrought with unease, and I wake each morning consumed with guilt and wishing my sister were here to tell me I’m doing the right thing.
We’ll see what tomorrow holds. I’m going to think positively. Besides, that’s what I tell everyone else to do all of the time.
But being a grown-up really does suck sometimes. And it makes me tired.
Wish me luck.