I tell you the truth, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." John 21:18
Time has certainly happened quickly to Gramma. It seems to have gone so slowly for the rest of us as we've watched her go from a feisty o'l lady determined to "get better!", to a scared, ailing women in constant fear. The past few months were chaotic and our days were busy deterring aggressive, demented behavior with latches, locks, medication and distractions. Now she's mostly silent and has a blank gaze. I remind Gramma to drink water and how to put one foot in front of the other so she can move in the direction she desires to go. She can often get the hang of it and wander through the house but, if unsupervised, she likely forgets what she's supposed to do somewhere in the midst of a vacant room and falls. The pain doesn't even seem to register with her anymore. She's got a large bruise on her forehead from losing her footing, overreacting and falling head first into the metal frame of her hospital bed.
As much as her silent gaze has been a minor break from the chaos of aggression and fear, the change has made me sad. Tonight, I changed her clothes and undergarments like I always do. I cleaned her floor, put clean sheets on her bed, gave her meds, helped her into bed and then pulled up the guard rail. I would normally tell her I love her and turn out the lights before closing and latching her door, but tonight, I stroked her hair and told her that I was glad she was there. I hugged her and she thanked me and told me she loved me. I knealed at her bedside and prayed with her. She thanked God, in the only intelligible way she could, for the children and the events of the day when the little ones ran all over the house and Sarah spent time brushing her hair. We closed and she smiled. I felt good leaving her, knowing she had a moment of peace and comfort. Forgetting to spend time with her weighs on me. I guess it's the same guilt parents have with their children at the end of the day. I realize that each moment could be her last and each day whittles away at her mind and body. I am thankful for today and I remembered that I love her dearly.
Time has certainly happened quickly to Gramma. It seems to have gone so slowly for the rest of us as we've watched her go from a feisty o'l lady determined to "get better!", to a scared, ailing women in constant fear. The past few months were chaotic and our days were busy deterring aggressive, demented behavior with latches, locks, medication and distractions. Now she's mostly silent and has a blank gaze. I remind Gramma to drink water and how to put one foot in front of the other so she can move in the direction she desires to go. She can often get the hang of it and wander through the house but, if unsupervised, she likely forgets what she's supposed to do somewhere in the midst of a vacant room and falls. The pain doesn't even seem to register with her anymore. She's got a large bruise on her forehead from losing her footing, overreacting and falling head first into the metal frame of her hospital bed.
As much as her silent gaze has been a minor break from the chaos of aggression and fear, the change has made me sad. Tonight, I changed her clothes and undergarments like I always do. I cleaned her floor, put clean sheets on her bed, gave her meds, helped her into bed and then pulled up the guard rail. I would normally tell her I love her and turn out the lights before closing and latching her door, but tonight, I stroked her hair and told her that I was glad she was there. I hugged her and she thanked me and told me she loved me. I knealed at her bedside and prayed with her. She thanked God, in the only intelligible way she could, for the children and the events of the day when the little ones ran all over the house and Sarah spent time brushing her hair. We closed and she smiled. I felt good leaving her, knowing she had a moment of peace and comfort. Forgetting to spend time with her weighs on me. I guess it's the same guilt parents have with their children at the end of the day. I realize that each moment could be her last and each day whittles away at her mind and body. I am thankful for today and I remembered that I love her dearly.
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