God Knew

            I should have known.  After all, it’s happened before.

            Yesterday I finished writing my monthly Random Reflections column for The Log, our church newsletter.  Titled “Hindsight,” it was about turning to God’s promise in Romans 8:28 as an antidote for regret.  I wondered if there was a specific person who needed this particular reflection.

            As it turned out, there is:  me.

            On this warm and sunny afternoon (April 24) of Mom’s 86^th birthday, I go to visit her at HomePlace, the memory care facility where she has lived for over a year.  I bring in magazines for her to read, a new acrostics puzzle book, a picture of her great-grandchildren (Benjamin and Joelle), a box of Russell Stover chocolates, and a birthday card from my brother John and me.  My other brother, Bob, who lives in Kentucky, sent a lovely bouquet with yellow roses.  

            Mom sits in her recliner with her lap quilt, the window blinds down to block the sun.  She shows none of her old enthusiasm, in which she practically leapt from the chair to greet me, and accepts my gifts with more incomprehension than interest.  After a bit, I suggest we go outside to enjoy the sunshine, remembering that a year ago, I took her out for dinner and a drive on her birthday; today, she is hard pressed to walk out of her room with me to the courtyard.

            Mom has always been an outdoors person.  John and I used to joke that she was solar-powered.  Now, as we sit in the sun, she does not show her usual interest in the flowers and blossoming fruit trees.  There are distractions, though:  one resident trying to find a way out through the tall wooden fence, another speaking nonsense syllables as she gestures at a lawn decoration. 

            Suddenly Mom decides she cannot be outdoors anymore, and we walk back inside.  Eventually, she says she is really tired, so I accompany her back to her room where I cheerily remind her again that today is her 86^th birthday, that the pretty flowers are from Bob, and that the chocolates are from John and me.  I open the box of chocolates for her, but she is not interested.  I wish her a happy birthday once more, give her a hug, and leave.

            Regret washes over me for not having taken her on more rides while she was still able to enjoy them, for not having visited more often, for all the missed opportunities to brighten her life.   Even as I repent for my sins of omission, the undertow of loss threatens to drag me out to sea.

            And then I remember Romans 8:28 and the words I penned so recently.  God knew I would need them.

April 17

Next week is my mother’s 86^th birthday.  Today she is no better than yesterday or the day before.  I hoped that a day’s worth of amoxicillin would clear up the extra confusion that appeared with her urinary tract infection.

            At 3:45 p.m. I knock on her door and go in.  Lying down on her side, she acknowledges my greeting.  I stand at the end of her bed and attempt conversation.  From this perspective, I see the sharp ridge of her hip and the skeletal frame of her body.  She cannot get comfortable and restlessly shifts her legs.  She coughs, pushes back her hair from her eyes, adjusts her pillow. 

            She still calls me by name.  But she wonders where I live and is not sure about where she is, either.  She tells me she is very, very tired.  Eventually, I come around to the head of the bed and pat her shoulder.  She turns to give me a hug.  I encourage her to get some rest, and I leave.

            Heart heavy, I walk the shoreline path at City Beach, searching for words . . .

If I were an artist

I could not splash my canvas yellow with daffodils,

nor could I create spring shades of green.

Today my brush would stroke gray clouds and gray waves,

the seascape of grief.

Flashlight Adventure

            Suddenly I was awake.  The house was too dark and quiet.  The power was out.

            “No problem,” I thought, “I’ll just grab the flashlight in my nightstand drawer.”

            Sitting on the side of the bed, I fumbled around with the flashlight.  It’s one of those handy purse-size ones, with the push-the-end design to turn it on and off.  However, no matter how I pushed, nothing happened.  Finally, I unscrewed the cap.  Putting my hand over the end, instead of catching batteries, I felt something soft, squishy, and wet.

            “Oh, no!” I exclaimed out loud, thinking of the damage battery acid does to skin.  I blindly walked in the dark to the bathroom to wash my hands.  Fortunately, there was a trickle of water.  (When the power goes out, so does our water pump.)  Then I groped my way down the hallway to the coat closet where I keep the big flashlight.

            Finally, there was light to guide me back to the bathroom where I had placed the little flashlight on the counter.  Except there was no flashlight:  instead, a Cortizone-10 cylinder with its spongy applicator (perfect for itchy mosquito bites) sat on the counter. 

           

Grandma Time

            In March, I had many quiet evening hours in the Hemminger household, holding Joelle so everyone else could sleep.  Sometimes I dozed, but mostly I read books or played games on my Kindle.  It didn’t take long to learn that Joelle needs to wiggle around until she finds that perfect place of repose.  My job was to assist, shifting her around to good sleeping spots on my shoulder or cradled in my arms.  When she started out on my shoulder, invariably she ended up on my lap.  I allowed that controlled slide, one infinitesimal shift at a time.  My tummy made a comfy pillow and provided soothing digestive sounds for her newborn ears.

            I also enjoyed my share of not-so-quiet early evening hours alone with Benjamin.  After playing on the floor with him and singing my repertoire of songs to him—always starting with his request for “The Wheels on the Bus”—invariably, I would get out his favorite toy, the See and Say.  Initially, it was used to motivate him to walk and to climb up on the couch.  He loved to have me snatch it away and hold it at the top of the couch.  He laughed with joy and rubbed his hands with excitement before clambering up to fetch it.  Then he would practice walking with it, crawling with it, standing with it, lying down on the floor with it—all the while pulling the lever like a pro.

            All that cuddling time and playing time allowed for no writing time.  There were also diapers to change, meals to make, dishes to do, walks to go on, and errands to run—it took three adults to barely keep up with the daily business of caring for children and running a household.

            Back home now, I have plenty of time to write, but how I miss the cuddles with Joelle and the play time with Benjamin.  I don’t mind the break from diapers, though.

Memorable Evening

            It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I would babysit for Benjamin while Dana and Shawn went out for dinner, taking one-month-old Joelle with them.

            By 7:45 p.m. Benjamin was getting sleepy.  I walked back to his bedroom to fetch his pajamas, and he toddled right on behind me and crawled up on his bed.  Never one to discourage bedtime for a three-year-old, I decided to change his diaper right there on the bed. 

            I had just unfastened his diaper when everything happened at once:  my left arm was suddenly soaked in warm pee; I shouted out in surprise, which scared Benjamin so he started to cry; and the front door opened. 

            Dana and Shawn quickly took my place so I could wash my arm.  Both laughing, Shawn finished the diaper job and Dana stripped the now-wet fitted bed sheet.  Benjamin stopped crying, and Joelle kept sleeping.  Unfortunately for them, she had not exactly cooperated for their dinner date.  Earlier, while she screamed in the car seat, they had driven around town for twenty or thirty minutes in the attempt to help her go to sleep, which she finally did.  Naturally, though, she woke up in the restaurant just as their meals were served.

            Let’s just say it was a memorable evening.