Friday, August 27, 2004
We enjoyed a moonlit stroll, tonight...
...up and down our driveway. Mom thought the idea was daring and was almost unwilling to try it so I bribed her with the promise of sugar-free candy afterwards. When I said, "sugar-free" I had to remind her that she likes it, but it worked.
Although it was primarily a practice session and she worked so hard her right knee began to complain, she enjoyed what she called, "the change of scenery". We had a bright 3/4 moon tonight. Our driveway is also well lit at night by a city light across the street and our porch and carport lights provide adequate illumination.
She was surprised that it was "as easy to walk at night as it is during the day."
"You know, Mom," I told her, "it won't always be daylight when we're out and about."
"Oh, really!"
"Well, for instance, the book club meetings. I'm hoping we can start going to those again in September. Those are always at night."
"Yes, that's right. I enjoy those."
"And suppose we decide to go out for dinner? In the winter, it will be dark both coming and going."
"Well, yes, you're right there."
"And, you know, they have evening concerts in the Square..."
"Really! When did those start?"
"They go on all spring, summer and fall."
"That would be interesting."
"I thought you might like the idea of going to some of those events."
"Why haven't we gone before?"
"Well, Mom, for two years we were stuck in Mesa and when we finally got back up here last September, soon after we arrived you hurt your back, then, you've been very weak and iffy this whole winter, spring and summer..."
"Oh, yes. That's right."
"But, best to forget all that now. I think Prescott is going to be seeing a lot more of us very soon."
"Well, I hope so. I'd like to see a lot more of Prescott."
Yes!
I'm still having trouble getting across the concept that one needn't work to use a walker, that the best way to use it is to relax, relax, relax. Tonight I tried several different ways of explaining it to her. When I explained that she does not need to push it with her arms she responded, "If I don't it won't move!"
So we spent some time in the carport on level ground having her "test" its mobility by "stepping up to the plate" (it has a fold down platform that can be used as either a carrier or a seat), literally walking into it, eyes forward, shoulders back, arms relaxed and feeling that it moves because the person using it is moving, not because the person using it is pushing it.
Then I demonstrated that the walker "works" even when one doesn't grip the handles but simply lays one's spread hands on top of the grips. She tried that but didn't trust the device enough to keep her hands spread.
I demonstrated that it's kind of like dancing: If you keep your eyes on your feet or on the ground you restrict your ability to move.
We practiced slow. We practiced at normal speed. Back and forth, back and forth, from one end of the carport to the other.
I reached around her and demonstrated how when one turns with the walker one pulls it close then relaxes the arm opposite the direction in which one wants to turn and pulls the walker toward one's body with the arm on the side toward which one wants to turn while pivoting in place. I think the pivoting practice is what got to her knee. She did, however, finally seem to "get" this concept at a body level.
Finally, to relax her I told her to go ahead and walk one more time down the driveway (which is on a slight incline) and back up anyway she wanted, at any speed, without my comments and without my company. That's when I noticed her limping on the right.
I think it's going to take a little time for her body to completely absorb what I'm trying to teach her. I even compared it to using a shopping cart, which probably wasn't the best idea because when she used to use shopping carts she leaned all over the handle. Although she did push it forward with the momentum of her legs, the practice of leaning on it is part of what compromised her back so badly that she was ripe for a severe lower back sprain.
We've got a ways to go. I have to say, though, she is trying so, so hard. I see the look of determination on her face as she works through her therapy and on walkering with me, I detect the underlayer of utter trust in me and what I am telling her, the deeper layer of desire to please me and do as much as she can to keep us living together without threat of being separated and, well, today, I started tearing during her workout, my heart simply melted at everything I observed in her face and her demeanor. I saw that she noticed but she didn't say anything, she just smiled and continued lifting her weights in the air as I did the same. I think she's finally beginning to appreciate that, yes, I may be "unfortunately" emotional but my emotional outbursts and leakage are not confusing to her anymore. This is a surprising development of her stay in the hospital and SNF and it's a welcome one. I think she now realizes that neither of us wants to be separated from the other and that I will do everything in my power, even when it appears as though I'm moving in the opposite direction as it surely must have seemed when I visited her only every other day at the SNF and when I despaired, out loud, just previous to the events beginning on August 1st, that I was afraid caring for her was beyond my abilities, I will do everything, and I will probably succeed, to keep us together right to the end. I think she also now knows she, too, can take steps (pun unintended but appropriate) to make sure we remain together. She has and she will.
Last night while I was rubbing down her legs and feet we had a conversation that inspired my first essay on Essaying the Situation. As we were talking I realized that her 90th year was only three years away. "Mom," I said, "you know, I'll bet that no one, not even any of our relatives, really believes that you will live into your 90s. You and I, we think of it as only three years away but I'll bet everyone else who hasn't seen us much thinks of 90 as..."
"As some far away time, someplace where almost no one goes."
"Yeah, that's exactly right. It's like, for those who haven't followed you to where you are now there's this huge ocean between where we are now and 90. When they look at where you are at 87 they can't imagine that you'll be exploring what's on the other side of the ocean. It's like 90 is beyond death even if it's only a day away."
"That's right," she said. "To you and me, it's just another three years, and then more years, after that."
"And we've already been together for ten years. Three years is nothing. It's been four years since doctors started screwing around with you trying to get us to believe that you were at death's door and wouldn't make it much further unless they could put a scope up your ass or down your throat or needles in your bones or more and more pills down your gullet."
She laughed a "we sure fooled them" laugh. "That's right! And look where we are now!"
"That's right. No more scopes, never any needles and significantly fewer pills."
"Just goes to show what's possible when you put your mind to it."
And your heart, Mom, and your soul. It just goes to show...
I'm assuming that tomorrow Mom will probably need to take a nap at some time while we're in Mesa. I'm taking my computer with me but I'm not promising anything. I might spend her nap time continuing to pack boxes. So posts tomorrow, on any of these sections, might be few to none. Just wanted to mention that.
Later.
Although it was primarily a practice session and she worked so hard her right knee began to complain, she enjoyed what she called, "the change of scenery". We had a bright 3/4 moon tonight. Our driveway is also well lit at night by a city light across the street and our porch and carport lights provide adequate illumination.
She was surprised that it was "as easy to walk at night as it is during the day."
"You know, Mom," I told her, "it won't always be daylight when we're out and about."
"Oh, really!"
"Well, for instance, the book club meetings. I'm hoping we can start going to those again in September. Those are always at night."
"Yes, that's right. I enjoy those."
"And suppose we decide to go out for dinner? In the winter, it will be dark both coming and going."
"Well, yes, you're right there."
"And, you know, they have evening concerts in the Square..."
"Really! When did those start?"
"They go on all spring, summer and fall."
"That would be interesting."
"I thought you might like the idea of going to some of those events."
"Why haven't we gone before?"
"Well, Mom, for two years we were stuck in Mesa and when we finally got back up here last September, soon after we arrived you hurt your back, then, you've been very weak and iffy this whole winter, spring and summer..."
"Oh, yes. That's right."
"But, best to forget all that now. I think Prescott is going to be seeing a lot more of us very soon."
"Well, I hope so. I'd like to see a lot more of Prescott."
Yes!
I'm still having trouble getting across the concept that one needn't work to use a walker, that the best way to use it is to relax, relax, relax. Tonight I tried several different ways of explaining it to her. When I explained that she does not need to push it with her arms she responded, "If I don't it won't move!"
So we spent some time in the carport on level ground having her "test" its mobility by "stepping up to the plate" (it has a fold down platform that can be used as either a carrier or a seat), literally walking into it, eyes forward, shoulders back, arms relaxed and feeling that it moves because the person using it is moving, not because the person using it is pushing it.
Then I demonstrated that the walker "works" even when one doesn't grip the handles but simply lays one's spread hands on top of the grips. She tried that but didn't trust the device enough to keep her hands spread.
I demonstrated that it's kind of like dancing: If you keep your eyes on your feet or on the ground you restrict your ability to move.
We practiced slow. We practiced at normal speed. Back and forth, back and forth, from one end of the carport to the other.
I reached around her and demonstrated how when one turns with the walker one pulls it close then relaxes the arm opposite the direction in which one wants to turn and pulls the walker toward one's body with the arm on the side toward which one wants to turn while pivoting in place. I think the pivoting practice is what got to her knee. She did, however, finally seem to "get" this concept at a body level.
Finally, to relax her I told her to go ahead and walk one more time down the driveway (which is on a slight incline) and back up anyway she wanted, at any speed, without my comments and without my company. That's when I noticed her limping on the right.
I think it's going to take a little time for her body to completely absorb what I'm trying to teach her. I even compared it to using a shopping cart, which probably wasn't the best idea because when she used to use shopping carts she leaned all over the handle. Although she did push it forward with the momentum of her legs, the practice of leaning on it is part of what compromised her back so badly that she was ripe for a severe lower back sprain.
We've got a ways to go. I have to say, though, she is trying so, so hard. I see the look of determination on her face as she works through her therapy and on walkering with me, I detect the underlayer of utter trust in me and what I am telling her, the deeper layer of desire to please me and do as much as she can to keep us living together without threat of being separated and, well, today, I started tearing during her workout, my heart simply melted at everything I observed in her face and her demeanor. I saw that she noticed but she didn't say anything, she just smiled and continued lifting her weights in the air as I did the same. I think she's finally beginning to appreciate that, yes, I may be "unfortunately" emotional but my emotional outbursts and leakage are not confusing to her anymore. This is a surprising development of her stay in the hospital and SNF and it's a welcome one. I think she now realizes that neither of us wants to be separated from the other and that I will do everything in my power, even when it appears as though I'm moving in the opposite direction as it surely must have seemed when I visited her only every other day at the SNF and when I despaired, out loud, just previous to the events beginning on August 1st, that I was afraid caring for her was beyond my abilities, I will do everything, and I will probably succeed, to keep us together right to the end. I think she also now knows she, too, can take steps (pun unintended but appropriate) to make sure we remain together. She has and she will.
Last night while I was rubbing down her legs and feet we had a conversation that inspired my first essay on Essaying the Situation. As we were talking I realized that her 90th year was only three years away. "Mom," I said, "you know, I'll bet that no one, not even any of our relatives, really believes that you will live into your 90s. You and I, we think of it as only three years away but I'll bet everyone else who hasn't seen us much thinks of 90 as..."
"As some far away time, someplace where almost no one goes."
"Yeah, that's exactly right. It's like, for those who haven't followed you to where you are now there's this huge ocean between where we are now and 90. When they look at where you are at 87 they can't imagine that you'll be exploring what's on the other side of the ocean. It's like 90 is beyond death even if it's only a day away."
"That's right," she said. "To you and me, it's just another three years, and then more years, after that."
"And we've already been together for ten years. Three years is nothing. It's been four years since doctors started screwing around with you trying to get us to believe that you were at death's door and wouldn't make it much further unless they could put a scope up your ass or down your throat or needles in your bones or more and more pills down your gullet."
She laughed a "we sure fooled them" laugh. "That's right! And look where we are now!"
"That's right. No more scopes, never any needles and significantly fewer pills."
"Just goes to show what's possible when you put your mind to it."
And your heart, Mom, and your soul. It just goes to show...
I'm assuming that tomorrow Mom will probably need to take a nap at some time while we're in Mesa. I'm taking my computer with me but I'm not promising anything. I might spend her nap time continuing to pack boxes. So posts tomorrow, on any of these sections, might be few to none. Just wanted to mention that.
Later.
