This is not what I'd planned as my April post, but this is what I've got and I'm rapidly running out of April.
I'm in favor of outings for Mother, even though they're exhausting, just so she can see something different than four beige walls (We hang art and seasonal decorations, but still) although to take her on an outing anywhere is absolutely exhausting.
Before we even get into the transport.
I receive a phone call from Sequoia, which may be spelled differently, but that's what my ears heard, requesting that I be at the care home before 8 AM. I've arrived at the care home at 7:30.
Mother isn't in her wheelchair. She's in bed. Dressed, but still in bed. Visit the nurse's station. Enter aides. Conversation with aides. Phone call from Sequoia, wherein I explain the current situation as a response to "The transport is here, waiting for Miss Jackie." Procurement of Hoyer lift. Hoyer sling 404 Not Found. Aides converse with each other, in Tagalog (pronounced Tah-GAH-loh, the final g being swallowed), hunt for sling. Additional Tagalog conversation. Against regulations, the two manually manoever Mother into her chair, attach the leg supports, comb her hair. With snacks and an outer garment for Mother, I accompany one aide to the front of the building. "I'll push her," says the aide. This is a Regulation thing, probably. Terrance The Driver (not his rap name- it's how he answers his phone) greets me and asks where my 'other sister' is. That phrasing has always puzzled me. He lowers the lift apparatus on the transport. I climb in and take a rear seat, to be close to her in her spot. Terrance straps her in and loads in a gentleman who has speech but no feet. We greet each other.
The aide who is accompanying Mr. Williams to his destination lumbers aboard. She and Terrance have a conversation that indicates a long-time acquaintance. They discuss traffic and routes. I hear Northern Parkway. Soon, we pass the grounds of Pimlico Racetrack, which I had expected to be demolished by now, but I can still see, high in the air, observation towers. I wonder if they will have the Preakness balloon launch there, or from Laurel, (where Preakness will be held this year), which I am told is a fraction of the size.
Mother looks around at the interior of the transport, possibly seeing some scenery through the windows. I do not know what this disease has done to her visual perception. I speak to her occasionally but she does not respond to me. It's loud inside the transport. She occasionally speaks, but not as a response to me.
We're driving to GBMC, a route I know fairly well, as both of my children were born there. This well-planted, well-heeled area of Baltimore is less subject to change than the more run-down bits. We drop Mr. Williams and his companion at an entrance- he's having 'a procedure,' so needed first drop-off. Our destination is Columbia. We will not be on time. I do not have the bandwidth to find out who to contact to inform them that we are delayed. I do not know for sure what time our appointment is, or the name of the dermatological facility. I'm holding together the scraps of my sanity, concerned now not that I won't make it to Job #4, which I unexpectedly acquired, (I absolutely won't) but that I won't make it to Job #1, which I'm counting on for my main paycheck.
I have snacks for Mother, but I don't offer them. If I am too overstimulated to unwrap them, I imagine she is too overstimulated to consume them. We arrive finally at the facility. To my dismay, it is not a single building, or even part of a one-level strip-shop complex. It is a large four-story brick medical arts building with all the personality of a cinder block. I pop out of the transport to scout where we will go. Elevator required. Terrance has moved Mother out of the transport. I move her into the building, into the elevator, out of the elevator, into the office. The receptionist finds us in her appointment database. We are half an hour late. I apologize, and explain about the transport. They will see us anyway.
Now is the time to offer snacks to Mother. We share sandwich crackers, and she drinks a whole juice box. I feel a little badly about peanut butter inside a doctor's office, but I didn't think about it when I packed her snacks. Really, I am running on fumes pretty much all the time.
I discuss the reason for Mother's visit with a nurse practitioner named Mercy. I eventually remember about the packet that came with us from the care home, and hand it over. It is apparantly less than helpful, not listing meds she used to be on, leaving out great swaths of information that would have given these people something to go on as far as health history. I am aware that we are speaking ABOUT Mother rather than TO her, which always made her very angry, and may still do, only she can't say so anymore. I try to include Mother in the conversation. Mercy explains what they will do to determine situation and remedy, how they will communicate, and plans for future action. I find all of it acceptable. I do not know what Mother thinks.
While phoning Terrance The Driver, I manoever us back to outdoors. Outdoors is pleasant, and I'm pleased Mother has opportunity to sit in the sun. There is no bench anywhere. I park Mother's chair in a protected area of the car park and settle on the curb. Terrance has promised to be "right there" which turns out to be twenty minutes. I fall asleep in the sun more than once. I know, because the paperback in my hand falls to the ground, waking me. I should be interacting with Mother, engaging her. I cannot.
On the journey back, Terrance says that he will pick up "Miss Lady, who just wanna go shopping" after he drops us off. "She wanna go to Walgreens, and the liquor store." He does, however, need to fetch "my bougie lady. She too fancy to wait" before we all go back to the complex. The "bougie" lady who enters the transport doesn't seem all that bougie to me. As we approach the entrance for Mother (the ambulance door), she pulls out a bill for Terrance. I pull out a bill for Terrance. I don't know if this is what my 'other sister' usually does, but probably.
Through a door, another door, down a hall, up an elevator, to the dining room. I remove Mother's cloak and carry it to the closet in her room. Her breakfast, now stone-cold, is waiting. I bring it out, with additional snacks. She drinks juice and eats bacon, but the eggs and toast she doesn't want at all. Lunch will arrive soon, but not soon enough. I must leave for work. I tell the staff, thank them for caring for her.
I kiss her goodbye and tell her I'll see her next time. "Good," she says. I don't promise when I'll return. The jobs situation makes discretionary time an uncertain thing. In any case, it's been good to get her out of her boxy warren, which reeks of urine and despair. One of them I feel clinging to me as I exit.
The Police; Mother; Synchronicity, 1983
