Live long and prosper: Merry ho ho from the Chronic Malcontent

We are cruising toward winter here in the Pacific Northwest. It's dark by 4:30 now. At the care facility where my mother lives, the administrator locks the door at dark to keep the riffraff out. We don't want riffraff getting in and upsetting the old folks. That would be like inviting a fox into the hen house. Every old person is a target, sitting alone, waiting for dinner, waiting for someone to put them to bed. Any bozo could wander in off the street (and has, so my mother says) and create extreme havoc.

Until last week, I've been escorting my mother outside to the smoking area. Queenie, one of the aides, showed me how to set the door so we can get back inside by pressing the disabled paddle. Mom carries her cigarettes and I carry a little LED lantern to help us navigate the dark to the little shelter that covers two plastic chairs. That was our routine for weeks, but last Sunday that all changed.

As I was getting ready to head over there to visit and change her hearing aid batteries, I got a call from the med aide: your mother's fallen and she's on the way to the ER.

“I don't think it's serious,” Debbie said. “She said she fell and hit her back on the chair. I'm sure she'll be back tonight. We'll save her some dinner.”

As I found my shoes and jacket, I thought, oh boy, here we go. This is how it begins. And ends. Except this will be the third time we've done this, so maybe nothing really changes. Maybe I just get more efficient at managing my anxiety.

When I entered the ER, Mom was already there, ensconced in a bed with a blanket over her. She looked pissed. I found a chair and did my best to calm her down.

“I must have missed the chair,” she said in disgust. “I need to use the bathroom.”

After a while, the doctor flung back the curtain and came into the tiny space. He was the same ER doctor she had the last time she was there. She didn't remember, but I recalled the dimples. He got her up on her feet and had her shuffle a few steps. Her eyes were round with fear.

After the doctor gave her a pain pill, a young male tech took her off to x-ray, bed and all, and I went outside to find a cell phone signal so I could call my brother and let him know the scoop. Clouds were dissipating. The super moon was bright in the sky, not quite as large as I expected after hearing everyone rave about it, but it was still a pleasant sight, especially after being in the windowless emergency room.

I went back inside. Eventually she returned, riding the bed like royalty. Some long minutes later, Dr. Dimples came back and said good news, nothing was broken. After a trip to the restroom with a borrowed walker, she was pronounced ready to go home. She agreed to sit in a wheelchair. I rolled her out to the front door and told her to scream bloody murder if anyone bothered her. I ran across the parking lot and brought my car around.

I drove her back to the care facility (three blocks away). I unloaded her at the door and called someone to come and let us in. Mom entered the place like a homecoming queen. People came out to greet her, ask how she was doing. She hung onto my arm as we slowly trudged down the hall to her room, her acolytes trailing behind.

The next evening I visited her just before dinner to see how she was doing. She told me her brain had “slipped another notch.” I wasn't sure what that meant. We went outside to the smoking area. I realized it was the same time she had fallen the day before, and it wasn't even close to being dark. Suddenly I had a sinking feeling I knew what had happened. She didn't miss the chair in the dark. She fainted and fell, hitting the chair on the way down. Why did she faint? Because she most likely had a mini-stroke. After examining her a few days later and hearing my theory, her doctor concurred.

Now, ten days later, I think she's doing better. She's blazing up and down the halls with her walker. She promised her doctor she would use it, and so far she's keeping her promise. She has agreed that she won't go out after dark to smoke without a staff person with her. Cognitively, I think her brain has settled more or less back where it was. She was a little more demented than usual for a few days, but last night she was able to make snide remarks about the Christmas decorations going up at the White House (“You mean those people are volunteers?”), so at least the snarky brain cells are still functioning.

Every time I leave her, I tell her I love her and tell her to stay out of trouble. She laughs. Last night, as I walked to my car, the new motion-sensor lights by the smoking area came on. I looked back. Mom stood in the window, in her tatty red fleece jacket, left hand raised in the Vulcan hand sign for live long and prosper.

Right on, Mom.