Saturday, February 15, 2014

Jailbreak! The Shocking Conclusion of Post-Op Adventures With Mom

The day was here. Time to spring my mom out of the rehab center (and by now, we all know not to call it a "nursing home," right?). It felt like a jailbreak. And, really, the residents treated it as a prison. Gangs were formed with much animosity between them. My mom was smart. She aligned herself with the toughest broad in the joint. Practically held onto her belt-loop. I don't know what she paid for protection. Her servings of applesauce or something, I imagine.

I can envision the gang of little old ladies rolling down the hallway, snapping their fingers like "the Sharks" and splaying their jazz hands.

Anyway, we made a fast getaway. My mom didn't care about anything other than freedom, her eyes on the prize. As we left, I heard one cranky woman from the opposing gang exclaim, "he looks like he should be riding one of those Harleys." She meant me. Her, I won't miss so much.

As we passed the eaterie, the resident bird-caller left us with a farewell turkey gobble, a new bird she recently added to her menagerie. Her, I'll kinda miss.

But before Mom got the "all clear," we had one last hurdle to jump. She would be released only if a scan on her leg showed her recently developed blood clot had gone away. So on a particularly cold, blustery and snowy day, I carted Mom off to the hospital.

The technician, Kathy (we'll call her "Chatty Kathy") took an hour on the scan. In the meantime, we discovered she was a football fan, a grandmother of twins, had no use for horror films, and thinks all books should have uplifting religious messages. Then it came time for the results.

The blood clot was still there. My mom's hopes sunk. She caved, giving into depression. I'd never seen her so full of despair. So I moved Heaven and Earth to make sure she got home. Calls were made. Appointments scheduled. Pleas, half-truths, and the selling of my first-born's soul ensued. The doctor finally relented if she would go to the hospital every day to have her blood drawn and receive more anti-coagulant shots. It didn't matter to Mom that I'd have to travel an hour-and-a-half every day to take her to these appointments. And honestly? It didn't matter to me, either. She had her goal in sight: home. It was worth it to see her perk up again. Hope springs eternal.

Back to "jail" for the final outcome! Navigating the snowstorm, we reentered the Big House. The warden said that Mom wouldn't have to continue the shots, that her doctor was crazy. And they arranged for in-home nurse care to draw blood. Suddenly, after two weeks of griping about the nursing home (er, sorry, "supervised nursing facility"), Mom had a revelation. The rehab center knew what they were doing all along.

Well...that's my mom for you. Picking and choosing who's right to suit her needs.

Home! We were both so exhausted by our five hour ordeal, we both fell asleep. All was right with the world once again.

Mom's doing better now. She can't wait to drive. The surgeon gave his approval. Of course I objected because she can't see. She has Macular Degeneration. But my mom shot me down. I just need to make sure I'm nowhere near her while she's out "Magooing" all over the roads.

It's just a matter of time now before Mom's dancing up a storm again in Florida. Fly away, snow bunny, and dance the night away!


  1. I'm happy to hear your mom is home and in better spirits! Good luck with getting her back up and driving (eep!).

  2. I'm glad your mom's doing better, too. And please know that you paint wonderful (as well as funny) mental pictures of this. Imagine, using Mr. Magoo's last name as a verb! ha!