Foggy Days
My days this week have been foggy; I know I worked, and I know I spent time with my boys just like I always do, but distraction was ever present. A colleague came to my door Tuesday as I gazed at my binders, trying to figure out which one I needed for class. He said hello, and his greeting registered, but several seconds passed before realization of my rudeness kicked in and I looked up to say hello. I apologized for being impolite, to which he laughed and said no problem. That's how the entire week has been: going through the motions while being somewhere else.
I visited Mom yesterday. Last Saturday when I left the hospital, she was responsive, able to identify each of her six children, able to answer questions. Yesterday, she was a little slower in answering the questions, taking quite a long time to process the information before responding. In addition to her processing of information having been affected, so has her short term memory. It is gone. I was sitting next to her for a couple of hours then moved to a chair beside my dad. After several minutes, she demanded to know who was sitting there. When I stood and smiled at her, the puzzled look on her face told me she'd forgotten I was there. Dad said she does that often now.
The physical therapist worked with Mom, helping her learn how to roll onto her side then push herself to a sitting position. Mom fussed, insisting she was going to fall off the bed. Her sense of balance has been knocked out of kilter. The therapist wouldn't say if it would return. I sat across from mom, at the ready just in case she toppled forward. Afterward, Mom commented she must not be doing well, she must be much worse than anyone is letting on because they took her IVs away. Dad and I assured her she was doing fine and didn't need the IVs because she was eating and drinking. Dad held her hand, telling her that because she was able to sit up with help, he is certain she will be going home soon. The doctor didn't seem as hopeful as my dad.
All we can do is wait. Mom waits to see if she will improve further. Dad waits for the moment he can take his wife of 54 years home. I wait for the fog to lift.
I visited Mom yesterday. Last Saturday when I left the hospital, she was responsive, able to identify each of her six children, able to answer questions. Yesterday, she was a little slower in answering the questions, taking quite a long time to process the information before responding. In addition to her processing of information having been affected, so has her short term memory. It is gone. I was sitting next to her for a couple of hours then moved to a chair beside my dad. After several minutes, she demanded to know who was sitting there. When I stood and smiled at her, the puzzled look on her face told me she'd forgotten I was there. Dad said she does that often now.
The physical therapist worked with Mom, helping her learn how to roll onto her side then push herself to a sitting position. Mom fussed, insisting she was going to fall off the bed. Her sense of balance has been knocked out of kilter. The therapist wouldn't say if it would return. I sat across from mom, at the ready just in case she toppled forward. Afterward, Mom commented she must not be doing well, she must be much worse than anyone is letting on because they took her IVs away. Dad and I assured her she was doing fine and didn't need the IVs because she was eating and drinking. Dad held her hand, telling her that because she was able to sit up with help, he is certain she will be going home soon. The doctor didn't seem as hopeful as my dad.
All we can do is wait. Mom waits to see if she will improve further. Dad waits for the moment he can take his wife of 54 years home. I wait for the fog to lift.
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