The good thing about bad housekeeping...
...is that it keeps a person's immune system strong and active. That's supposed to be a joke, sort of. Neither my mother nor I are known for our housekeeping skills. Rarely do we notice dirt, or clutter. When either of us does, we mention it to the other, talk about how we should clean and "put away" and vow to do that "soon". We do scramble to present a fairly decent "cleanliness is next to godliness" image when we're "threatened" with company, but I'm sure we don't get away with our efforts. At any rate, the last four days have proven that my mother's immune system is hanging in there, despite her various chronic ailments, including the lung cancer. She apparently caught a cold either at the facility or, maybe, at the care home. Who knows. It marshaled itself into full attack late last weekend and started taking out one improvement made the week previous after another. By Thursday she seemed to be back where she started with her legs and incrementally losing all her other gains. It was horrifying for me to watch. I was certain that her pneumonia had not been completely addressed and was returning for a second run. I actually begged a few nurses, the FNP and the doctor handling her at the rehab facility to repeat the antibiotic regimen to which she had been treated at the hospital. They ran tests, took X-rays, determined that the problem wasn't pneumonia and refused. At one point, on Tuesday, when she was obviously fighting something but the "what" hadn't been determined, the doctor mentioned that, especially in the case of terminal illnesses like lung cancer, pneumonia (and other incipient infections, I assume) can be "a friend to the elderly", as they spare the person from what can be an ugly, painful, lingering, messy death. I agree with this, I told the doctor, but by Thursday I was arguing that I did not believe that this episode was the "friend" for whom we were looking and, at this point, did the risk of over treating her with antibiotics matter? Yes, the doctor responded, it did. He was very thorough in his analysis of his comparison of the tests done on Mom and the hospital and those he ordered this week. He didn't talk down to me. He insisted, though, that he felt it was important for her to overcome what was probably a virus with her own immune system. Turns out, he was right. I don't know whether he had an innate confidence in my mother's immune system. I can report that although I had clear evidence that my mother was fighting hard against the virus or whatever it was, I didn't have the confidence I should have had. Her worst day was yesterday. She couldn't help herself stand. She could barely stay awake. She ate and drank well but only because I stayed after her to remain awake until she'd satisfied her obvious appetite and consumed enough liquid to please me. I knew, by evening, she was done for. I had to leave the facility an hour earlier than I usually do because I had begun a crying jag that I couldn't control. I returned this morning, heavy of heart at a little after 0800 to a woman looking bright and ruddy, sitting up in her wheelchair at her beloved window sopping up the dregs of her breakfast with her roll. She looked good. She sounded good. She was up for anything. Maybe cleanliness isn't as close to godliness as we think, considering that some god, somewhere, sometime, made dirt. Maybe our fey housekeeping leanings have kept her immune system in good repair despite everything else.
    I should have had more confidence in the woman I purport to trust. We did her hair today, for which she'd had no energy for the last three days. That's how low her energy level was. She didn't even want someone else doing something for her; the thought of activity, anyone's, was exhausting for her. After her hair was washed, set and styled I suggested that we finally escape the institution and tour the area, her in the wheelchair, me as her driver. She was more than enthusiastic, she was impatient to get started. We wandered all over, including a visit to the church on the hill close to the facility that has so fascinated Mom since the first day of her stay at the rehab center; and a stroll through a neighboring, well kept assisted living complex. She couldn't crow enough about how good the sun felt, how beautiful the plants and flowers were, how good it was to "be out in the world", how sultry the breeze was, how blue and cloudless the sky. We returned about an hour later. She was pretty tired, but we made plans to explore a "kept" wilderness area on the grounds of another assisted living facility in the neighborhood tomorrow. Since there are scary signs forbidding entry to anyone but "residents and guests", I called the facility this afternoon for permission and received it.
    I spent yesterday in dolorous contemplation of how a tumor we've lived with for four years and that has only gently and indirectly been affecting her can suddenly, in three weeks, so challenge her that she might not make it through the night. Turns out it isn't challenging her, it's challenging me. I almost wish I still didn't know about it. And, funny, the doctor mentioned, on Tuesday, that it's probably best that we didn't know about it, since treatment at its inception would have made her just as miserable and been just as potentially deadly as it would be now, considering her health profile. Since we didn't know about it, though, we went on about our lives as though we had a right to do this, which, he said, has been best for her (and, I think, for me). It's preserved our "quality of life".
    Now, I see, I have to forget about the tumor until it begins to play obvious havoc with her body. If we're lucky, something else will take her out before that happens. Seems we've been unbelievably lucky so far, so the odds are, definitely, on our side.
    In the meantime, on our adventure today I uprooted one of those orange flowering plants I think I previously mentioned. Turns out they are colloquially called "Indian Paint Brush" and are actually weeds/wildflowers; they spread exactly the way they look: Like wildfire. I planted our specimen immediately after pulling into our driveway this afternoon to take my "exchange supplies at home" break while Mom takes a nap. It's sturdy, it looks good, and with a little more luck it will be Mom's "Welcome Home Weed" in a couple of weeks.
    Trust Mom's body and spirit. Trust in our continuing luck. Trust in life, and live it while we can, no matter what it asks of us. That's how we've been living the last few years...no reason why we shouldn't continue until Mom just can't anymore. I remember telling Mom, "It happens to all of us," during that discussion in which I was referring to death and she intimated to me her immortality and mine as well. Now I'm wondering exactly what "it" is. I guess Mom and I are about to find out. Well, we've always been curious sorts, not prone to labeling. All I have to do is forget about the Little L label, "lung cancer", and, if I must pay attention to labels, keep my eyes on the Big L label, "life".
    That should do the trick.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 15:25   email  this post