The Up That Is
Feb. 17th, 2021 08:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mama_kestrelOkay, this is take 5 on figuring out how to start this. That's how amorphous and generally scattered my thoughts are.
It's done. Mom is now a permanent resident at the facility she was getting rehab in. I finally framed the choice very simply: I could have her home but unsafe, or safe but not at home. The two did not coincide any longer.
She's been moved to a different, larger room, with a view out over the large park that borders the nursing home property. The social services director promised that she would do her best to get mom a room with a good view, and she did. This is an excellent place, probably the best in the area. They don't take outside Medicaid placements; the only way this could happen is the way that it did, with mom coming in for rehab and reaching a plateau before she regained her previous level of function. She could walk, but only with a spotter in addition to her walker, and she simply can't stand up on her own. It takes two people to get her to her feet, and there's only one of me. Making the house wheelchair accessible would have taken months and a full downstairs remodel. The 1953 doorways and halls simply aren't wide enough.
I talk to her almost every day, and her best friend calls every other day. But that isn't always enough to keep her oriented. She forgot that our son's fiancée lives with us, and has for a couple of years now, though as my beloved husband pointed out, at least she remembers who his fiancée is.
And I'm slowly wrapping my head around it. I don't have to be on high alert all the time. I'm not solely, or even primarily, responsible for her care and well-being any more. I'm still her advocate. The folks at the facility have spoken to me so often they know my voice when I call. On the one hand, I feel like I ought to have tried harder to find a way to make bringing her home work. But on the other hand, it's a relief. My head knows that doesn't make me a bad daughter. My heart is proving more difficult to convince.
It's done. Mom is now a permanent resident at the facility she was getting rehab in. I finally framed the choice very simply: I could have her home but unsafe, or safe but not at home. The two did not coincide any longer.
She's been moved to a different, larger room, with a view out over the large park that borders the nursing home property. The social services director promised that she would do her best to get mom a room with a good view, and she did. This is an excellent place, probably the best in the area. They don't take outside Medicaid placements; the only way this could happen is the way that it did, with mom coming in for rehab and reaching a plateau before she regained her previous level of function. She could walk, but only with a spotter in addition to her walker, and she simply can't stand up on her own. It takes two people to get her to her feet, and there's only one of me. Making the house wheelchair accessible would have taken months and a full downstairs remodel. The 1953 doorways and halls simply aren't wide enough.
I talk to her almost every day, and her best friend calls every other day. But that isn't always enough to keep her oriented. She forgot that our son's fiancée lives with us, and has for a couple of years now, though as my beloved husband pointed out, at least she remembers who his fiancée is.
And I'm slowly wrapping my head around it. I don't have to be on high alert all the time. I'm not solely, or even primarily, responsible for her care and well-being any more. I'm still her advocate. The folks at the facility have spoken to me so often they know my voice when I call. On the one hand, I feel like I ought to have tried harder to find a way to make bringing her home work. But on the other hand, it's a relief. My head knows that doesn't make me a bad daughter. My heart is proving more difficult to convince.
