I am four-plus weeks into my gig as an essential caregiver for my eighty-nine-year-old mother. Sitting in her dentist’s reception area while my sister scheduled a return appointment, Mom felt “dizzy,” so stood for reasons unknown. Up one moment, down the next, then an ambulance transported her to the hospital because she could not bear weight on her right leg.
She fractured her pelvis in two places. Neither break required surgery, but she was admitted for therapy and pain management. More lucid than not while she was in the Emergency Department (ED), Mom was not granted an essential caregiver beyond the ED due to COVID-19 visitor restrictions. A bed alarm, a video camera, and a room near the nurses’ station superseded having a family member at the bedside.
Three days later, I was allowed into the hospital for discharge instructions. COVID-19 visitor restrictions were in place at Mom’s senior living community too. But administration gave me permission—following a COVID-19 test—to quarantine with her and help with rehab.
Sometimes Mom remembers why we’re roommates in her assisted living apartment. Other times she does not. Some days I’m “Karen.” Other days I’m not.
She had a walker before her fall, but it sat—unused —outside her door. Mom was given a slower, two-wheel walker in the hospital, which she uses in her apartment. Last week she graduated to her four-wheel walker for outdoor treks and walks around the community. But she doesn’t always remember she needs wheels whenever she’s up.
“Who’s the little lady that belongs to that?” she asked days ago, pointing to the two-wheel walker parked beside her dinette table.
“You’re the little lady that belongs to that. Steady Eddie,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re Steady, and this is Eddie.” I patted the walker. “You two are a team.”
“Oh, my,” Mom said with a grin.
This Thanksgiving week, we’ll celebrate what would have been my dad’s ninety-third birthday. And we’ll offer prayers of gratitude for Mom’s continued healing and our sweet bonding time.
