1. I am a little more than 12 weeks into recovery from my rotator cuff surgery when my mom goes in for her own shoulder repair. My recovery is going well. My cousin Bill has had the same surgery and regained complete use of his arm. I think my mom believes she will also come out 100 percent or at least 75. And why wouldn’t she? The doctor told her as much. We all have our doubts – except for mom. She sets off for her surgery like a woman bound for a tropical cruise.
“I am going to go in and have one shoulder done, then I have six weeks in rehab and then I am going to have the other one done and it will be six more weeks,” she tells me a phone call. “And that’s that.”
I know it is nuts for a 79-year-old morbidly obese woman newly reliant on a walker to even consider it. But I also know all too well what it is like to function with only one arm. Thanks to arthritis and years of wear and tear, she is without both. She can’t dress herself, can’t fix her own hair, can’t reach above her head. The doctor tells her he can replace both shoulders, give her new ones as good as those she was born with. She thinks it is her miracle cure.
2. Hours long after my mother should have been out of surgery, my niece Tabitha calls. The surgery took much longer than anyone expected, and they weren’t able to do the replacement as planned because her joint was in such bad shape, there wasn’t anything to attach the new shoulder to. This wasn’t something they could have figured out beforehand?
The second call from Tabby, who is five months pregnant, is decidedly grimmer. My mother isn’t in good enough health to go to the new rehab facility she expected, but will have to go to a nursing home. And that means not the shiny new place close to her home where people go to get stronger and healthier, but a nursing home where people begin the descent into dying. It means she will go to whatever nursing home that will accept her insurance and has a bed when she was ready. It could be hours away from home. It could be the government-funded place we all speak of with dread. It will almost surely be a place that smells of bodily functions gone awry and haunted by the grief of the confused and ailing. How had we not seen this coming?
Days into her recovery, they move her to ICU. She’s not breathing well, her kidneys aren’t functioning and she’s come down with a nasty stomach infection that, if not brought under control fast, could kill her.
In her quiet, accepting way, she tells my niece that if the water that is already seeping into her lungs and robbing her of her breath moves over her heart, she’ll be going to meet my father.
Not long after, comes the call from the nursing home advising my niece to get power of attorney, pre pay my mother’s funeral and take care of her finances so the money will be there to pay for the nursing home.
“But she’s not going to stay in the nursing home,” Tabby tells her. “She’s just going in for rehabilitation.”
“Let me be frank,” the woman says. “When we see someone your Grandmother’s age and weight, we know they are probably not going home.”
3. One week after her surgery, we talk on the phone. Her kidneys have started working again. She sounds weak, but her spirits are surprisingly good. We talk about her planned move to the nursing home. It’s the one next to the funeral home that handled my dad’s arrangements. It is small, with a courtyard fountain and a good reputation for physical therapy and caring nurses. Tabby arranges for her to have weekly hair and podiatrist appointments.
Mom says, “She signed my life away.”
I laugh. She laughs with me, then says, “She signed yours away, too.”
4. She has 100 days to get better, but weeks into rehab, she still can not get out of bed by herself, can’t walk and has become so huge with water, they can’t get her out of bed without a special sling. When the 100 days are up, her insurance will cease covering rehabilitation and we will have to find a permanent bed in a nursing home that takes patients who can’t foot the bill on their own. I am pretty certain it won’t be this nice, small home with a fountain outside.
But finally, they coax her to get up and get moving. She loses the water weight and after two months on antibiotics, the stomach infection is finally gone. She moves from her bed and then from the recliner. She takes a few steps and then a few more and finally she is walking on her own with a walker. She grows strong enough to sit up herself, and then strong enough to stay sitting up without extra support.
One evening, my niece visits and mom tells her she owes the nurse $7.
“Why do we owe the nurse $7?” Tabby asks.
“Because I had her pick me up dinner from McDonalds,” she says.
“So much for the weight loss,” my niece says, and for once we can laugh.
5. Somehow, my mom keeps getting better. As her 100-day deadline nears, they set a date to send her home. But when the physical therapist visits her house to see how she will manage, they find she can not walk up the ramp into her house. It is too steep. She can’t open her kitchen cabinets, or get into her bed or use her new $6,000 walk-in tub. Her muscles have atrophied. She has no strength. And now, the few things she could do for herself before the surgery she can no longer do at all. My sister – the one who could never do a damned thing right – gives up her job, her apartment, her friends to move in and care for her. My niece lives next door. There will be nursing assistants and physical therapy and whatever else can be managed to keep her going.
6. Finally, like a miracle, she is home. I call to talk about my upcoming visit – two months later than originally planned so I can help her get adjusted. She tells me how good she is doing. She is walking again, though still with a walker and she is beginning to work her new shoulder.
“That’s terrific, mom,” I say.
“But you know, dear,” she says. “I don’t think I’m going to have the other shoulder done.”
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