My mother was discharged yesterday from the hospital, where she was a model patient.
Apparently, that was all an act.
Because if the first day home is any indication, it's going to be rough sledding for the foreseeable future.
Unbeknownst to me, in the years after I left home, she secretly acquired advanced medical knowledge, more than all the doctors, surgeons and nurses we've encountered in the past week. She didn't share her superior medical knowledge with them, perhaps so as not to embarrass them. She has no problem unleashing it on me.
"Mom, you need to walk" I say.
"No I don't".
"Mom, that's not the way you're supposed to get up from a chair."
"My way is better."
"Mom, you need to elevate your legs."
"Who told you that? No I don't."
If I thought I was going to get any back-up from my father, I was sorely mistaken. He's her wingman...
"Now, leave your mother alone!"
And then there's the "Valley of the Dolls."
Her list of medications runs two pages long. I dutifully lined up her morning regimen, about ten pills in all. I gave them to her in a little cup and then she proceeded to pick and choose the ones she felt like taking, like it was a salad bar.
"Mom, you have to take ALL the pills" I say.
"Who says? I don't need all of these..."
And so it goes. I finally got her to take them all because the hospital was sending a traveling nurse to check up on her and I threatened to rat her out.
The pill thing I don't understand. She loves pills. One whole cabinet in the kitchen is almost nothing but pills. She's hoarded them for as long as I can remember. She never throws anything away. Several years ago I called her and she seemed out of sorts. She explained that she had a pinched nerve in her neck...
"I took a Vicodin, but it isn't doing any good."
Perhaps that's because it was prescribed in 1986.
When the cabinet gets unmanageable, she "consolidates", mixing all the pills until each bottle looks like a bag of skittles. Years ago, while I was home, my lower back went into spasm and I was in excruciating pain. My mother came to me on the couch with a glass of water and a pill.
"What is it" I ask.
"It's a red one".
"Yes, I can see that... but what IS it?"
"I'm not sure, but it's good for your back. Or was that the yellow one..."
I took a pass.
The only pills you could trust were the Valium, and that was only because they had the little "V" stamped out of the center of them.
I'd kill for one of those right now.
But you know what? It's fine. I love her.
When I think of all the grief I put them through as parents, this is the least I could do. She's home, she's safe and she's on the mend. Anytime I find myself pulling my hair out, I think of the grim alternative I could have been dealing with. So, one day at a time. Tomorrow will be better than today.
And the visiting nurse is returning, so I still have some leverage. She's a tough cookie.
