I received a phone call yesterday from my brother. My mother had fallen and broken her wrist. She was in the hospital. The doctors were doing surgery. I asked my brother what I could do. He insisted there was nothing I could do. They weren't sure what the situation was at that point. I just needed to wait, and be patient. They would call when they knew more.
My husband immediately said, "You need to go down there." Going back home is always a logistical nightmare. There is no room for me anymore. My tiny space is gone, now used as storage for old memories and lots and lots of dust. You might say, when I left at age eighteen, the weeds took over. And no one has bothered tending the garden since. In other words, when I go home, I stay in a hotel.
So, I do as my brother says. I wait for word before I pack my bag. In the old days, the girl child always tended to the aging parents. But I am the youngest of the four children. I am the only one who moved away and joined the circus (also known as the military). Well, my youngest brother was in the Army too, but he came home after three years. He was homesick. Me? I never got homesick. As a matter of fact, I get antsy if we don't move every few years.
I barely slept last night...worrying about my mom. And when I worked out this morning, I was in a perpetual fog. I still did what I normally do, but my mind wandered. Why do we have to grow old? Why do we become such fragile creatures in our latter years? If we take care of ourselves, can't we turn back the clock, slow down the inevitable degeneration of our once strong, healthy bodies?
I felt helpless. I can reach out to people, help them find clever ways to eat right right and exercise, but when it comes to my own mother...I can do nothing. She is in her 80's and she grows more and more fragile every day.
After my workout, I showered, and tried waiting patiently on the call from my brother. But I couldn't sit still. I got up and went to grocery store. My thought was, if I needed to go South, I wanted my boys here to have food in the fridge. By the time I came home, my brother still had not called. So I called him on his cell. He and my eldest brother were at the hospital (the youngest of my brothers was at work) still waiting on word from the doctor. They said the surgery went well. She would be fine. They were going to keep her a few days for rehabilitation. They were researching bringing in a nurse to help out when she goes home. She will have to be in a wheelchair, can't use her walker for a while. Might have to renovate the house, move some furniture, put in some ramps. He says not to worry.
As I listen, I wonder if he even knows about my issues, my anxiety disorder? I worry. Its what I do. As long as I don't go into panic attack mode, I am in control. But then, I also have control issues...and then there's the PTSD. Ugh. Breathe... That always helps....breathing.
But I trust my brother to be completely honest with me. He always has been. When I remember that, I worry less. He will call when he knows more. While we are chatting, my eldest brother gets on the phone and asks about the kids, wants to know how everyone is doing up here, up North. I think maybe he is trying to change the subject, so I play along. I fill him in as best I can. It worked, his changing the subject. The three of us even have a laugh. I feel better...calmer...less anxious.
In the old days, I would be there...nearby...nursing our mother like a good daughter. My brothers would be out in the world. But our family never did things like normal families, and its always been one of our strengths. Maybe, our mother isn't normal either. Maybe she will heal quickly and be back to herself soon. I hope so.. I know that growing old is part of life, but wouldn't it nice if people were like those perennials that flower each year over many seasons in their lifetime. All we would really need is some sunshine, a good rain now and then, and someone to be there to pull our weeds.
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