At the rehab there is a constant
white noise of aimless calls of “Help”, not really desperate as much as
confused. Many of the patients have no idea who they are, where they are and
the question that keeps popping up in my mind, the existential one that lingers
each time I exit the rehab doors is, why they are. Initially, my mom, an extremely gregarious person, took a stab at being the
rehab’s social gadabout, waving to the blank faces that stared at her as I
pushed her in a wheelchair along the bustling corridors of care, greeting the
empty stares with “hello, how are you today”, like a queen in her carriage
greeting the adoring crowds. On the day
of New Year’s Eve I made arrangements to have my guitar teacher, Sandy DeVito,
of whom she was a big fan, stop by her room to play her an hour or so of guitar
tunes she was particularly fond of.
Every month on a Sunday evening the Sandy DeVito Trio played at a local
Mexican restaurant and mom was a devoted follower, so his appearance in her
room with guitar in hand was a treat. As he serenaded her, wringing out of his
baby Taylor some of her favorite tunes, we noticed a visitor in a wheelchair
hanging out in the threshold of mom’s room. As the music continued playing our
uninvited but not unwanted guest wheeled herself toward Sandy, face blank but
intent.
“Come in,” my mom said after the
fact. “You are welcome to listen to the music.” No response. The woman wheeled
herself slowly by Sandy all the way to the window sill, where there were three
potted poinsettias sitting on a ledge still showing their finery post Christmas.
She proceeded to feel the moisture level of the soil in each pot. Then, just as
randomly as she arrived, she left slowly exiting my mom’s room, her soiled
fingers perhaps a reminder of what once was, the residue of a happier time.
Sandy broke up that sobering moment by reeling off one of mom’s favorite tunes,
“If I Love You”, a Rogers and Hammerstein classic from the musical Carousel, which she and my dad saw in New York live with original cast when they were first married. While she has always semi-swooned upon hearing this sentimental favorite, I have noticed as of late that she questions the "If" part of the song, the subjunctive leaving too little clarity on the subject of love.
After a few weeks negotiating the rehab
routine mom started wheeling herself in the wide and onerous wheelchair down
the hall to the Physical Therapy room, limiting her greetings to only the few
that could respond, working her charms on all of the attendants instead as she
cheerily breezed by them in her new found independence. Her upper femur had
knitted nicely to the point where she could now put 50% of her weight on the
left leg as she exercised daily on an institutional walker under the tutelage
of the various members of the physical therapy staff. The candy-apple red
walker, the one at home that she didn’t use which got her into this speck of
trouble in the first place, was replaced by an unattractive one with wheels on
the front and tennis ball covers on the back legs in order to keep the
contraption well under foot. A runaway walker would not do for an old gal with
an upper femur still healing and a set of staples running down her left flank
from hip to knee. She was trained to
walk in a very prescribed way: walker slides ahead, left foot moves forward,
upper body holds 50% of left foot’s weight as right foot slips ahead and takes
full weight as it meets its mate. At first this new walking gait was too much
strain on her upper body and the length of her walks were very limited,
interrupted by constant breaks in the wheelchair that was dragged behind her by
the PT. The man with the crooked hip, whose existence seemed to consist of
walking around the circular corridor for several hours each day, would lap her
several times around the perimeter of the corridor and upon seeing him she
would lift herself out of the wheelchair and get back into her new walking
pattern, determined to be amazing at the task at hand. The man with the crooked hip never noticed. The daily outings with
the PT crew exhausted her as they peppered into her workouts thera-band upper
body work and stationary cycling in addition to daily walking excursions that
expanded ever further down the corridor. By the time she was escorted back to
her room she was spent and barely able to stay awake for her lunch, although
she will never fess up to being tired, no doubt a sign of inferior physical
stamina. And so it went, the daily routine of PT treatment punctuated by long
shuffling strolls down the corridor twice a day, a bath every other day, a
visit from Millie, the stalwart dog every morning in which institutional
breakfast bacon bits were saved for her as a treat, crossword puzzles when I
came to visit, heavy gummy bear consumption (her favorite candy) throughout her
tenure, Australian Open Tennis on the tube, which frequently went on the blink
before a match was completed, a daily 4 p.m. phone call from a 97-year old gent
she called a phone friend, and the constant comings and goings of the ever
bustling and cheerful staff. This went on for a few weeks until she was given
the green light to put full weight on the left leg, just about six weeks after
the mishap in the closet.
The adventure at the rehab is now
in its waning few days and although mom is excited at the prospect of returning
home in a week’s time, the exuberance partners with a bit of trepidation. She
wonders if things will be as they were before or will she be more needy and
feel less confident, more vulnerable. All questions that anyone might have
following a serious physical trauma but when that anyone is someone who is 95
(she also anointed her 95th year at the rehab) it becomes weightier.
This also means that my days visiting
the rehab will be coming to a close. But, one thing is certain. The adventure
continues.
