“Hey Mouse!”

My mother peered over her glasses and smiled at me when I walked into her room. Her smile was bright, and her eyes were clear with recognition. It was wonderful to see.

“Hey Momma.”

“I’m moving up to rehab on the sixth floor. I’m just waiting on my sandwich.” As if on cue, a nurse came in with a small turkey sandwich. Momma deftly opened a packet of mayo with both hands (Hooray!) and then spread it on the outside of her sandwich. After realizing her mistake, she ate the sandwich with a fork.

“Yep, I’m moving on up to 468,” she said as she brought the fork to her mouth.

“638, Max.” Her friend J was there with us.

“Oh, yeah,” Momma brought her forefinger to her chin. It’s what she always does when she’s trying to figure something out. “That’s right. 638.”

Other than keeping up with minor details, like room numbers, days of the week, and where to put the mayo, she a is doing extremely well for a person who had brain surgery 14 days ago.

Momma starts “rehab boot camp” tomorrow. It’s intense physical and occupational therapy to literally get her back on her feet. She will be in the gym at least four hours a day.

“I get to use the treadmill!” She declared. If I had asked her two and and a half weeks ago to go to the gym or exercise in any way, she would have asked me if I had snapped. But, I think she has learned her lesson. Momma’s stroke was brought on by uncontrolled hypertension, so if she wants to keep another stroke at bay, she will have to make some dramatic changes in her lifestyle. And so will we.

The most challenging change for her, I think, will be staying from behind the wheel. She always said that she couldn’t imagine not being able to drive, and now she’s been put on restriction for a minimum of six months. I smiled and told her I’d take good care of her car while she recoups. (While I’m not happy about the circumstances, I’ll take the temporary reprieve from the one-car blues.) She rolled her eyes jokingly. I know using her car means that I double as her chauffeur.

I don’t mind at all. It just means we’ll have more time together.

My brother and I are 12 years apart, which, in a way, made us both only children. While I was looking forward to new adventures in college, he was making new friends in kindergarten.

I taught him how to organize his Ninja Turtle wallet, much to the chagrin of my parents, who used to sneak and borrow gas money when they didn’t have cash. As a four-year-old, B “counted” his money nearly every day. They couldn’t get over on him once he kept his bills in order.

I sent him letters from college, and he wrote back with an uneven hand on that extra-wide-ruled kid paper: “Hi. I miss you.”

We were as close as we could be, considering that I was in college and grad school while he was growing up. Which really meant we weren’t all that close.

Things changed last year when we went to our family reunion in Memphis. After the annual banquet, we hit Beale street for some drinks. My brother was drinking from a whalebone!! The 12 year difference faded fast as I had a few cocktails of my own.

We’ve been talking a lot more since then, and I’ve learned that my brother has grown into a fine young man. I know it sounds corny, but I couldn’t think of a more witty way to put it.

Now we stand as two adults facing a family challenge. Questioning physicians, handling household affairs, and shepherding Daddy back from bouts of extreme worry about Momma. This last one is a blog post or two in itself.

I don’t think I could get through this without him. This trying ordeal has made me think about my daughter, who is an only child. What support network will she have when it comes time to “parent” my husband and me?

I guess we still have time. My parents waited 12 years, and, as I’ve learned, that’s not so big a difference after all.

— Post From My iPhone

I’m sitting in a tiny room in ICU for the seventh day in a row. This daily hour with my mom is part of my new schedule.

Wake up at 6:30. Go to work. Leave early. Go to hospital. Go home. Go to bed. The 6:30 alarm goes off again all too soon.

I’m tired. Mentally more than physically. My mother is not the same, and it will be a slow process for her to come back to herself. The brain is unpredictable and amazing, so it cannot be put on a schedule. We will have to wait.

It’s scary to watch. My mother has always been witty and sharp. Right now, I’m listening to her tell me about Lady Astercat, a figment of her imagination. I want to burst out into tears, but instead, I ask what color bow she wears. Momma tells me pink and that she drew her. “She’s a well drawn cat,” she says. “It’s a really pretty picture. Lady Astercat is a prominent, significant figure.” I’m thankful for the solid, declarative sentence and that she still has a big vocabulary. One day it will all make sense again.

Until then, I will continue to wait and be prayerful. I must also be mindful to take care of myself.

Which has not been without its challenges. I forgot to eat on Monday, then I had 5 taco supremes at midnight. Not good. I know I have to do better.

“She comes from a strong line,” Momma says.

“Who?” I ask.

“Elyse,” she says. “It’s a real strong line.”

Yes, it’s a real strong line. We will get there in time.

— Post From My iPhone

I’m tired. Worn out, but ever so thankful. My mother’s surgery went well, and now we are on the road to her recovery.

This journey she will affect us all. Momma will be in the hospital a while longer, and we’ll need to work our everyday lives around her care. My father has to learn how and when my mother paid bills, and my brother is on a mission to rid the family refrigerator of evil. I have to add another plate to my juggling act — balancing a full-time job, teaching, and my own family with trips to the hospital.

I am so thankful for the second chance my mother has that I’m not even worried about it. Instead, I find joys in the little things. As Momma was coming out of slumber, she dug in her ear with her pinkie, then checked under her nail for debris. I know she’s done it a million times, and it’s not all that graceful of a move, but it’s a telltale sign that she’s coming back to herself.

Daddy asked me to look in her “pocketbook” for her checks so he could send in some bills, and I needed her car keys. I opened a cosmetic bag and found keys and a bunch of change. I also found an old fortune from a fortune cookie. I keep fortunes in my coin purse too. I didn’t know she did that. I couldn’t help but smile.

I will keep you posted on our journey. I’m not sure if my five minutes challenges will even be feasible in my new environment, but something tells me they will be more important than ever.

That, however, is a task for another day. Right now, rest.

— Post From My iPhone

Hospital waiting rooms never smell right to me. The mix of families, food, and the general hospital air leave an odor that is, in a word, unpleasant.

I’m sitting in a rather comfortable chair, and I’m the only one here. Friends and family have stopped by, but now there is a lull in the visits. Dad and my brother will be back soon.

The TV is blasting Maury Povich. A former couple is slinging obscenities back and forth. Maury declares “When it comes to three-week-old Will, Tracy, you are the father!” Tracey instantly changes his tune. I’m too worn out to look for the remote or get up to change channel.

Mom will be going into surgery soon to remove a brain hemmorrage, and I am still standing on my faith. But the waiting is hard. The mind wanders, and fear fights for a prime spot in the forefront.

Yet, I remain steadfast. I will keep the faith.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone