I'm still a kid

When I think of that day 30 odd years ago. I was on my way to school. I knew my mother was dying of cancer, but I didn't realize that I wouldn't make it there before she did.

I came into my grandmother's house and all I heard were laments. My father was silent and hugged us. He let my brother and I see Mom before my uncle called his friends at work (who were the undertakers). My father was always the one who was there, when his mother and his wife died.

My grandma was a mess. My mother was her youngest child.

There are a lot of things that are a blur, but a lot of things I will never forget. I learned much later that I could spend all my time thinking about the horrible things a teenager could have to witness (the stretcher, the body bag, the death rattle), or I could choose to remember the things my mother left me.

Her happy disposition despite many trials. Her stubbornness and relentlessness to see things right. Her wavy hair that always curled when you wanted and sometimes, when you didn't. Her enjoyment of the little things in life, like the salami sandwiches from our town's Italian section. The jello (red and green) that Santa left us at Christmastime.

My mother also left me her faith. Her faith that we are all actors in our own story and a little divine intervention never hurts. Sometimes we need to help and be helped. Those traditions of perseverance were more helpful than I ever knew later in life.

So while my mom is no longer here to be celebrated, I look every day for the places where she left her mark on my life. And I see her every day. I put a photo of happy times on my refrigerator, so I remember that. She and Dad took us to get family photos. It was the last group family photo we would get.

So I can mourn this day, or I can live it as Mom would want me to do. My mother always wanted me to be a nurse, so I know somewhere in Heaven she smiles. Even with my detours and stubbornness, she got her wish.

So eloquently said

While I haven't posted a RehabRN reading list lately, I'm still reading. Right now, I'm really getting into Atul Gawande's Being Mortal. It's a story about living, moving on, assisted living, aging and dying.

The stories are really vivid and I can just about picture the folks they are discussing in front of me.

There are so many things we need to learn about aging, death, and dying.

Stay tuned.

Choices

My travelling partner was not feeling well Monday. Her blood pressure was up when I checked it the other day, by machine and manually. She came in because we are short of staff. "This vertigo won't go away." she said. Yesterday, it was so bad, she went to the ER. They admitted her.

He was one of our regulars. A mustachioed man with a syrupy accent so heavy, I was occasionally called in to translate (because I'm good at translating) for the new nurses who don't recognize the  cadence and drawl from his part of the South. One nurse I worked with had known from the time he was injured. He knew our programs so well he could have taught them, she said. We were the safety net: if he got sick, he always came to us (even drove himself this time).

But he was more than sick:  he was septic, so the Hotel was not the place for him. We sent him on to Washington for more acute care, and he got worse. He survived some crazy cardiac stunts, but the last procedure set off a cascade from which he did not survive. His car sat on the parking lot when I arrived the other morning. The family came and picked it up yesterday.

Today, I read this story, passed along from one of my coworkers. He didn't want to live like many folks do at the Hotel. He just wanted to die, and with his family, he did. It was so sad because he chose to leave when his wife was  pregnant with his first child. "He'll never hold their child.", the article said.

He'll never see that child, either, or make a difference in his/her life. That is the part, to me, which is the saddest. I have worked with rehab patients who have raised children (yes, they need help), and they do parent them. They do discipline them. They do care, even if they cannot lift a finger.

The choices we make can change things forever.