Sadness sometimes prevails in this journey

I saw my mom again yesterday for the first time in a week, although I had talked with her some on the phone while I was sick.

I felt wary of returning, just because I had become so overwhelmed with feelings of responsibility for her daily well-being and for whatever she might be feeling. I also felt extreme sadness at my mother's situation. I prayed a lot before I walked in that door.

In fact, when Mom was still at the nursing home, I would talk to God while driving. I asked for three things: right thoughts, right actions, right words. 

And I would pray that God comfort and help my mom through me that day.

When I did this, the days ran pretty smoothly. On days I felt stressed or frustrated, I could often trace my morning back to a failure to get the right God focus. I drove too preoccupied to pray that day. 

The good news, however, is that I knew I could stop at any point in the day and ask for those three things. In my world, it's called pausing when agitated. 

As I began to have trouble dealing with the nursing home system, I learned to pray those three things in dealing with staff, as well. I grew better at this with some time. But definitely not perfect. 

So yesterday, I returned to my routine request for right thoughts, right words and right actions.
When I walked in the door, Mom was seated at the table with a caregiver. She was eating Oreos. I walked up to her and gently said, "Hi, Mom."

She did not respond. She did not even look at me. 

I bent over further and looked at her in the face and said, "Hi, Mom," again. She looked at me but didn't smile. Didn't react. Nothing.

Her face looked droopy and sad; her eyes were watery.

I told her she looked sad, and let's go to her room and see what we could do to fix it up now that I'm back among the living. 

She didn't speak at all ... not once. I just kept talking to her and straightening up around her room. 

"Right thoughts, right words, right actions," traveled through my brain all morning. 

Dad arrived, and we talked to Mom and to each other, just about happenings in my life and some good things on the horizon. Mom remained quiet. We talked about Jordie.

And I read my blog post about Jordie to my dad (he doesn't do computers). 

Firecracker Tawny came in about half-way through the reading. She listened quietly as I read.

I looked up when I was finished, and my mother was smiling!

The day's direction changed at that point.

She had her physical therapy, which consisted of stretching and loosening her left leg and arm (to keep them from becoming paralyzed in one position), while I massaged and worked on her neck. (She leans her head to the left, which strains her neck muscles. If allowed to stay that way, her neck also will become paralyzed in one position.)

My mother loves neck and foot rubs. This perked her up. Tawny always brightens her day, too.

And my dad's buddy Dale Blout showed up in all his orneriness to visit and then take my dad to lunch, while my mom had yummy enchiladas and a brownie, courtesy of Chef Mike.

What started as a potentially terrible day ended well. I fixed up my mom's room so it looks super homey now, and got the tiny TV and DVD player hooked up. (I have plans for that TV and DVD player.)

By the time I left in the early evening, Mom was napping. I had noted several times throughout the day how loving and responsive the caregivers are to my mother. I feel so grateful we found Good Life. 

While I baked chocolate chip cookies last night for the residents' Valentine's party today, I reflected on my mother's condition and who she was as my mother growing up. I made the little bags and Valentine's tags that each resident would have with her cookies.

Sadness overwhelmed me and tears fell as I thought, "This is the kind of thing my mother loves. This is what she would do for me. This is what she did for me even in adulthood when I was too busy. And this is how she showed her love."

I am her daughter. She is my mother. 

Our roles are reversed now.

Sometimes realizing that is more than I can handle.