The Light at the End of the Tunnel
Four more days until Mom’s next doctor’s appointment. Soon we’ll put it into hours and minutes. I’ve suggested that she might want to stay in rehab for a little while after she gets out of the brace just to get some SERIOUS physical therapy. What they’ve been doing up until now has been minimal due to her restrictions.
Mom says she’s coming home. And the way she says it leaves little room for argument. Fine by me.
So there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Then again, it could be a train.
I had nightmares the other night. I had brought Mom home and as soon as I turned my back, she was dusting and trying to run the vacuum. I kept pleading with her to stop before she dislocated again, but she just brushed me off saying “I’m fine!”
I laughed when I woke up. It’s not hard to figure out the “hidden” meaning in THAT dream.
I’ve contemplated giving her house a quick once over before she gets home. But I’m not the immaculate housekeeper that my mom is. That gene skipped my generation. And I can’t find time to clean my own house these days, so who am I kidding?
I was a teenager back in 1976 when Mom had this left hip replaced the first time. She was home in a body cast in a hospital bed in the middle of the dining room for six weeks back then and I was given the responsibility of keeping house, fixing meals, and changing bedpans. I cleaned just as much of the house as Mom could see from where she was. The rest…Well, not so much. So when she got out of the cast and made her first voyage through the living room and into the bedrooms, she discovered that the ceiling will not cave in if the house gets dirty.
The house hasn’t been occupied since she went into the hospital. I’ve been going over there frequently to check her phone messages (mental note: if the plants are still alive, I should probably water them) and the place looks fine to me. But I tend to not notice dust until it’s gathered into an army of killer dust bunnies.
I fully expect to be put into the role of maid once I get Mom home. Hopefully, I can convince her to sit in the recliner and just tell me what she wants done instead of trying to do it herself as she did in my nightmare. A few more weeks and then I will gladly let her take on the care and feeding of her own house. But until the doctor gives the okay, I want her to behave herself and deal with MY interpretation of clean.
Such as it is.
Mom says she’s coming home. And the way she says it leaves little room for argument. Fine by me.
So there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Then again, it could be a train.
I had nightmares the other night. I had brought Mom home and as soon as I turned my back, she was dusting and trying to run the vacuum. I kept pleading with her to stop before she dislocated again, but she just brushed me off saying “I’m fine!”
I laughed when I woke up. It’s not hard to figure out the “hidden” meaning in THAT dream.
I’ve contemplated giving her house a quick once over before she gets home. But I’m not the immaculate housekeeper that my mom is. That gene skipped my generation. And I can’t find time to clean my own house these days, so who am I kidding?
I was a teenager back in 1976 when Mom had this left hip replaced the first time. She was home in a body cast in a hospital bed in the middle of the dining room for six weeks back then and I was given the responsibility of keeping house, fixing meals, and changing bedpans. I cleaned just as much of the house as Mom could see from where she was. The rest…Well, not so much. So when she got out of the cast and made her first voyage through the living room and into the bedrooms, she discovered that the ceiling will not cave in if the house gets dirty.
The house hasn’t been occupied since she went into the hospital. I’ve been going over there frequently to check her phone messages (mental note: if the plants are still alive, I should probably water them) and the place looks fine to me. But I tend to not notice dust until it’s gathered into an army of killer dust bunnies.
I fully expect to be put into the role of maid once I get Mom home. Hopefully, I can convince her to sit in the recliner and just tell me what she wants done instead of trying to do it herself as she did in my nightmare. A few more weeks and then I will gladly let her take on the care and feeding of her own house. But until the doctor gives the okay, I want her to behave herself and deal with MY interpretation of clean.
Such as it is.
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