Taking Care of Mom

Last week, I had to take care of my mom.

For the first time.

I find it ironic that the same woman who changed my diapers, fed me for 18 years, laughed with me through my early mom foibles, and provided wisdom when the kids were sick - she needs me now.

She was a nurse for many years.  She helped people have babies, took care of the elderly, watched scads of monitors, made people comfortable, and walked millions of miles up and down hospital halls, tending to her patients.

Every time I had a baby, she'd come and stay with me a few days.  She'd catch me up on the dishes and laundry, hug and cuddle my babies, then travel back to Ohio.  I always had a warm, comfortable feeling when she was there.  I wasn't alone.  I could do this.  I would make it through this parenthood thing.  Mom was only a phone call away.

Last year, my mom caught an illness that is yet to be diagnosed.  She is on all sorts of medicines and on oxygen all the time.  When I walk into her house, I hear the "hissss pop" of her oxygen concentrator.  I find the little green hose that delivers her oxygen and follow it to find her.  She is propped up in her new favorite recliner chair, snuggled down with comforters.

We chatted and laughed.  We shared funny childhood memories - hers and mine.  We played Dr. Mario on the Wii.  It's sort of a family obsession.  So is Scrabble.  I've got to figure out how to play her online.  She'll beat me soundly.  She always does.

While she slept, I washed her dishes, straightened her bed, and cleaned her floors.  I brought her mugs of ice water and we discussed whatever was on Fox news.  Politics, mostly.  I let her dogs out and chased them through the woods (they're cute, but they don't listen to me.)  Dad washed the laundry and I folded it and put it away.

"The tables have turned, haven't they?" she said, matter-of-factly.

"Well yes, they have!"  I answered.

There was no more to be said.

The whole time, all I could think was, "This isn't supposed to be how it is.  My parents aren't old.  It isn't time for this part of our lives yet, is it?"

We are hoping she will recover from this and continue on with life as usual, but I don't really know what is in store.

For now, it's my turn to be the caregiver, the hope giver, the friend and confidante.

I'm just a phone call away.