No One Ever Feels Ready, Right?

Many of you have asked how she's doing at home and I've been struggling with an answer. The simple answer is that she's fine. I think she's happy to be home. Happy to have her bed. Happy to have her closet. Happy to go to sleep and wake up in a familiar place. Nothing surprising there.

I don't think it's easy. It will take a while for my dad to get into a routine that feels natural for both of them. She has two different caretakers - Elma and Solome - who my dad says are lovely and mom likes them both. Patty has been with my dad since Wednesday and in his words, she has been a "real blessing." Nothing surprising there either. 

All of this feels like great news. Predictable and promising. So why don't I feel excited? 

Fear.

Mom likened it to the moment you bring your baby from the hospital for the first time. "Shit. What do we do now?" You're on your own. It's time to figure it out. But on top of that terrifying scenario there's the other piece that is nagging me. Essentially the last 7 months has been a bit of an alternate reality. To me, she hasn't been my mom, she has been my mom in the hospital. The collision of the old world and the new world is at a head and the two may take a bit to blend into a distinguishable vision and the vision is ours to create. No pressure or anything.

Home, Sweet Home

Only Pam would have one large suitcase and two extra large shopping bags worth of stuff in her hospital room. It almost didn't fit it in the car. But we both agreed it was poor form to say goodbye and then come back several times to pick things up. There was so much stuff that there were many "oh-right-I-forgot-I-had-this-cute-top" moments.

When dad and I got there this morning the ICU angels were visiting. They finally got to meet the legend they helped us save. The perfect amount of magic to begin our grand send off. I rolled mom through the halls so she could say her goodbyes. There were tears. Lots of laughter. She thanked Claudette and Nadine for all of their help and told them how much she would miss them. We stopped to talk to Deborah - her first friend at the stroke unit. "Bye Deborah. I'm leaving today. If you want out of here, you need to be more of a nuisance. I had two alarms. If they don't put alarms on you, you're not doing it right." And after imparting that wisdom, we wished her luck and went on our merry way.

So what now?

Well, there's no rest for the weary. Out-patient rehab at RIC starts tomorrow. Six hours, 3 days a week. Each Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday she will be picked up at 7:15 with a packed lunch, ready to do 2 hours of PT, 2 hours of OT and 2 hours of speech. She's been clear that she has no intention of participating in speech, but I'm pretty sure that's not going to fly. Her caregiver starts tomorrow and will spend every day with her. She's already told me that she's going to miss the ruckus of the hospital. There was always someone to talk to there, so visitor's welcome. Nap time is usually 1ish-3ish. Sense of humor required.

I leave in a few hours to go back to New York. It's definitely going to be hard, it will be the first time in 7 months that both my mom and dad will see me off which will make it easier.

It's Been 175 Days

July 15th was 175 days ago. I'm sitting exactly where I was sitting that day. That day I had missed a call from my mom and tried to call her back. She didn't answer. So I texted "just called you back" to prove her wrong that although I may never answer my phone, I DO call her back. Didn't hear back. Not surprised. She probably answered her own question or called DM to ask him the technology question. But that's when my dad called. And when dad calls in the middle of the day, it can't be good.

"Hi, what's going on?"
"Your mother..." and then tears.

Then just panic. I remember the car home. I remember sitting in my living room talking outloud to my grandmother and Aunt Virgie. I remember pleading with them to tell my mom to turn the hell around and go back to earth. (Thanks by the way ladies.) I remember being at the airport. I remember crying across from Auntie Anne's. I remember people staring at me. I remember not caring. I remember all the voices on the other end of the phone. Every. Single. One. I remember the announcement that my flight might not leave. I remember crying to the man at the desk. "I have to get to Chicago, my mom is in the ICU. I can't miss her." I remember apologizing for sounding angry with him. I remember the stars in the sky on the way to the ICU. I remember hoping I'd make it to say goodbye. I remember walking into her room. I remember her bruises, her swelling, her bandages, her machines. I remember her breathing.

Fast forward 175 days. In the last week she has stood up on her own...TWICE. In the last week she has walked the hallway four times with just a cane and her therapist's oversight. And in this last week she moved her left leg on her own. So all of those memories which could have been painful. They're worth it.