A Casual Conversation

On the heels of a long weekend, a fainting spell, a trip to the E.R. and the death of her room mate, she awoke in a fearful state this morning. A bit insecure about the medication dosage she received, so she called us first thing to tell us that she got too much medication and it was going to 'put her out'. After some assurance we'd follow up to make sure they were staying within the parameters set forth for her medications in connection with her blood pressure, she relaxed a bit and said it might be alright. Then, with loud exhalation, she said, "this dying all the time is rough!"

Upon arrival in the afternoon, verifying that all was well with the medication, a plan was set forth for the staff to begin writing on her note pad (as she has done for 30 plus years herself) each blood pressure taken, the time and the medication dosage provided. As the CNA stood at the foot of her bed assuring her that they would write down her blood pressures for her, she pleasantly and articulately said, "that's right, because I'm not a statistic, I'm an individual". It wasn't harsh or accusatory, just a fact and one that we all must remember.

This evening, I arrived after my mom (blipper, grammapat, on the left, and my husband, Paul, otherwise known as Sheepish Contraptioneer on blip. Mother Comfort's pleasure with the continuous conversation this evening was obvious. She was content with the note taking the facility staff were doing and had settled in to a long reminisce. Eventually, the others left and she and I had another girl chat. We talked about everything from the strategies we were using to organize our project at her house to the various ways people disciplined their children. She mentioned her own mother and a few relatives and described each of their methods. From the dad who would make the child go get a stick to spank them with, to the one who sent them to bed without supper. I tiptoed a tiny bit out on a limb, and joined her in the story telling. First describing the "board of education" that hung on our wall (except when my sister and I hid it in the laundry hamper) then mentioning the story Paul has told me about how she would spank him with her hand, then tell him he made her hurt her hand. She found this very amusing and laughed whole heartedly as she said it again and again..."and blamed him for hurting my hand!" She'd forgotten, but the part she remembered was that she always used her hand so that she would know how hard she was hitting him and wouldn't hit too hard.

After a long and friendly reminisce, it was time for me to go. I stood to put on my coat and she automatically got up like she used to in her home, to walk me to the door. She looked behind her toward the hallway and said, "I think I left something on the stove". She looked around a little confused then, realizing where she was. She said she'd had such a good time, she thought she was home.

Now, that's what I'm talkin' about....home is a feeling.