Ticking The Boxes

“Does your mother like to cook?” the Activities Director at the nursing home asks me. I’m in the hall outside Mom’s room, where she’s occupied at the moment on the bedpan. “The residents are making homemade soup today!”

If Debbie knew my mom, she would not have ended that last sentence so enthusiastically. Sure, Mom did make a mean Irish stew in her day, but this isn’t…her day.

In fact, since Mom fell and broke a rib and three bones in her foot on December 23, her whole life has been a messy soup of ambulances, hospitals, casts, near-death misses, and two different nursing homes—a soup not of her own making, but which she’s been forced to swallow anyway.

To add insult to literal injury, Mom’s had to permanently move from her assisted living apartment, where she’d lived for nearly eight years, because they just couldn’t care for her properly anymore.

“Cook?” I say, thinking of the memoir The Glass Castle, in which the author as a three-year-old stands in front of the stove and boils the living daylights out of a hotdog. “She likes to eat, but as for actual cooking, I think she’s more of a spectator now.”

I say this with a hint of humor but cautiously, because we’re new here, and Mom will likely be living out the rest of her days in this facility. Everyone has been so kind to her, and I don’t want to tip any scales against her while she’s still in the mode of (hopefully) making a good first impression. I hear myself say the word spectator with a snap where the c meets the t, making spectating sound somehow more active than it is.

The truth is that I had to remove the manicure scissors from Mom’s room at the previous facility on New Year’s Eve. Mom was using the kind of language that forces thoughtful caregivers to expunge from her possession all implements sharper than a beach ball.

Should she be trusted with a chef’s knife?

Debbie smiles wanly and ticks off a box on her clipboard. “How about crocheting? Knitting? Sewing?” Her pencil is poised, eager. But I can only think of hooks and needles, pointy and painful things.

“Her vision’s not what it used to be, I’m afraid. Diabetic retinopathy. She made a lot of cross-stitched samplers in her time, though.”

Again, ticking a box.

“Cards, then? Board games? Puzzles?”

“That would be no, no, and no.”

I’m edging toward blunt and brutal honesty, as I always do eventually. I feel guilty, revealing the extent of Mom’s decline and lack of zest for life as I am. I scramble through memories, trying to grasp an elusive thread of any hobby substantial enough to weave through Mom’s current condition and pull her together for this personality profile. For the sake of, if nothing else, the Activity Director’s clipboard. I know how much Debbie wants to tick a Yes, or at the very least a Maybe.

I suddenly feel responsible for her job security.

“She may present a bit of a challenge,” I say, “but I’m sure you’re up to the task!” Oh, dear. Now I, too, have shown enthusiasm where none is warranted. “Maybe books on tape? She used to love to read Danielle Steel…”

I’ve finally given Debbie something she can put in the Yes column. I hear myself exhale. Mom has passed some kind of test. Evidently, she’s not dead yet.

“Books on tape, it is,” she says. Mom has no concept of how to use a cassette player, but I don’t need to go there now. It’s enough that Debbie will have definitely earned her next paycheck, when it comes.

She heads down the hall to get to know another new resident, and I take the opportunity, while Mom’s still busy, to run across the street to Starbucks. When I return, Mom’s not in her room. And the bed’s made. I get that mildly freaked out feeling, the way a character on a medical TV show acts when her loved one’s room is empty and she just knows the body’s already in the morgue.

I make the rounds of the wing, down to the physical therapy room and then the dining room, peeking into corners, searching for Mom. On my way back to her room, I stop at the nurse’s station to enquire.

She points to a narrow room, an after-the-fact offshoot of the hallway. “Your mom’s doing an activity,” she says casually, as if she thinks I hear those words every day. I try not to look incredulous.

“Oh, great,” I say. “It’s wonderful she’s getting involved!”

This time, though, I really mean the exclamation point. Sure enough, when I poke my head into the tiny room, Mom’s sitting comfortably in her wheelchair, with six or seven other ladies, listening to Debbie read a novel aloud.

Right then and there, looking at Mom’s back and hoping for her future, I tick a Yes box in my heart. The box next to the question, “Do you believe miracles happen in this day and age?”

Yes, I do. At the end of everything and everyone, I still believe in miracles.

Posted by Katy on 02/04/10 at 01:02 PM

Fallible Comments...

What a wonderful post. This touched my heart tonite. I needed it. hariette
Posted by hariette on 02/06/10 at 06:07 AM
What a sweet story, Katy. Thank you for sharing both your heart and a bit of the humanity left in the world. In fact, it gives me an idea of something I might enjoy doing in the years to come when I no longer have my kids' school to swallow up my volunteer hours!
Posted by D'Ann Mateer on 02/06/10 at 02:39 PM
P.S. I gave you an award on my blog!
Posted by D'Ann Mateer on 02/11/10 at 08:24 PM
Beautiful.
Thank you
Posted by Anne Krause on 02/14/10 at 04:36 PM
I'm reminded of my own granddad's final year, which he spent swimming in and out of confusion in a rest home. Those moments of lucidity and personal connection meant such a lot to us both. Glad to hear that you mum is in a caring place
Posted by Jon Craymer on 02/25/10 at 03:04 PM
Wow. I'm a little choked up. I'm guessing this is a good thing. Maybe.
Hang in there, girl. Love ya!
Posted by Cathy West on 03/03/10 at 02:55 PM
Katy, Itâ€™s been much too long since Iâ€™ve visited your blog. This post took me back four years, to the assisted living facility where my dad lived.

Youâ€™re an amazing daughter, but
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Posted by motorbikes for sale on 12/22/10 at 09:32 PM
What a cute story. Thank you for sharing both your heart and a little humanity left in the world. These moments of clarity and a personal connection meant so much to us. Glad to hear that your mother is a point of care. Its cute story with great character and everyone life where they find the word ironic.
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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Ticking The Boxes “Does your mother like to cook?” the Activities Director at the nursing home asks me. I’m in the hall outside Mom’s room, where she’s occupied at the moment on the bedpan. “The residents are making homemade soup today!” If Debbie knew my mom, she would not have ended that last sentence so enthusiastically. Sure, Mom did make a mean Irish stew in her day, but this isn’t…her day. In fact, since Mom fell and broke a rib and three bones in her foot on December 23, her whole life has been a messy soup of ambulances, hospitals, casts, near-death misses, and two different nursing homes—a soup not of her own making, but which she’s been forced to swallow anyway. To add insult to literal injury, Mom’s had to permanently move from her assisted living apartment, where she’d lived for nearly eight years, because they just couldn’t care for her properly anymore. “Cook?” I say, thinking of the memoir The Glass Castle, in which the author as a three-year-old stands in front of the stove and boils the living daylights out of a hotdog. “She likes to eat, but as for actual cooking, I think she’s more of a spectator now.” I say this with a hint of humor but cautiously, because we’re new here, and Mom will likely be living out the rest of her days in this facility. Everyone has been so kind to her, and I don’t want to tip any scales against her while she’s still in the mode of (hopefully) making a good first impression. I hear myself say the word spectator with a snap where the c meets the t, making spectating sound somehow more active than it is. The truth is that I had to remove the manicure scissors from Mom’s room at the previous facility on New Year’s Eve. Mom was using the kind of language that forces thoughtful caregivers to expunge from her possession all implements sharper than a beach ball. Should she be trusted with a chef’s knife? Debbie smiles wanly and ticks off a box on her clipboard. “How about crocheting? Knitting? Sewing?” Her pencil is poised, eager. But I can only think of hooks and needles, pointy and painful things. “Her vision’s not what it used to be, I’m afraid. Diabetic retinopathy. She made a lot of cross-stitched samplers in her time, though.” Again, ticking a box. “Cards, then? Board games? Puzzles?” “That would be no, no, and no.” I’m edging toward blunt and brutal honesty, as I always do eventually. I feel guilty, revealing the extent of Mom’s decline and lack of zest for life as I am. I scramble through memories, trying to grasp an elusive thread of any hobby substantial enough to weave through Mom’s current condition and pull her together for this personality profile. For the sake of, if nothing else, the Activity Director’s clipboard. I know how much Debbie wants to tick a Yes, or at the very least a Maybe. I suddenly feel responsible for her job security. “She may present a bit of a challenge,” I say, “but I’m sure you’re up to the task!” Oh, dear. Now I, too, have shown enthusiasm where none is warranted. “Maybe books on tape? She used to love to read Danielle Steel…” I’ve finally given Debbie something she can put in the Yes column. I hear myself exhale. Mom has passed some kind of test. Evidently, she’s not dead yet. “Books on tape, it is,” she says. Mom has no concept of how to use a cassette player, but I don’t need to go there now. It’s enough that Debbie will have definitely earned her next paycheck, when it comes. She heads down the hall to get to know another new resident, and I take the opportunity, while Mom’s still busy, to run across the street to Starbucks. When I return, Mom’s not in her room. And the bed’s made. I get that mildly freaked out feeling, the way a character on a medical TV show acts when her loved one’s room is empty and she just knows the body’s already in the morgue. I make the rounds of the wing, down to the physical therapy room and then the dining room, peeking into corners, searching for Mom. On my way back to her room, I stop at the nurse’s station to enquire. She points to a narrow room, an after-the-fact offshoot of the hallway. “Your mom’s doing an activity,” she says casually, as if she thinks I hear those words every day. I try not to look incredulous. “Oh, great,” I say. “It’s wonderful she’s getting involved!” This time, though, I really mean the exclamation point. Sure enough, when I poke my head into the tiny room, Mom’s sitting comfortably in her wheelchair, with six or seven other ladies, listening to Debbie read a novel aloud. Right then and there, looking at Mom’s back and hoping for her future, I tick a Yes box in my heart. The box next to the question, “Do you believe miracles happen in this day and age?” Yes, I do. At the end of everything and everyone, I still believe in miracles. Posted by Katy on 02/04/10 at 01:02 PM Fallible Comments... What a wonderful post. This touched my heart tonite. I needed it. hariette Posted by hariette on 02/06/10 at 06:07 AM What a sweet story, Katy. Thank you for sharing both your heart and a bit of the humanity left in the world. In fact, it gives me an idea of something I might enjoy doing in the years to come when I no longer have my kids' school to swallow up my volunteer hours! Posted by D'Ann Mateer on 02/06/10 at 02:39 PM P.S. I gave you an award on my blog! Posted by D'Ann Mateer on 02/11/10 at 08:24 PM Beautiful. Thank you Posted by Anne Krause on 02/14/10 at 04:36 PM I'm reminded of my own granddad's final year, which he spent swimming in and out of confusion in a rest home. Those moments of lucidity and personal connection meant such a lot to us both. Glad to hear that you mum is in a caring place Posted by Jon Craymer on 02/25/10 at 03:04 PM Wow. I'm a little choked up. I'm guessing this is a good thing. Maybe. Hang in there, girl. Love ya! Posted by Cathy West on 03/03/10 at 02:55 PM Katy, Itâ€™s been much too long since Iâ€™ve visited your blog. This post took me back four years, to the assisted living facility where my dad lived. Youâ€™re an amazing daughter, but Posted by Cheap Evening Dresses on 04/11/10 at 04:29 AM Its been the sweet story and been amazing with its words and its character where all the lively and feels like reading it whole in one day.The presentation of the words and ironic words make the story a lively one. Posted by Candy Wrapper on 06/04/10 at 03:50 PM It is sweet story with great character and all live where it thinks it ironic words.The whole presentation is like reading the story to make living. <a href="http://www.bailzoom.com"> bail bonds </a> Posted by smithabravo on 12/17/10 at 06:31 PM What a wonderful post this is. it is very nice and its touch my heart. I hope u always upgrade your best snuff! Posted by las vegas bail bonds on 12/17/10 at 07:56 PM A new exact aim study found that 70% of Face book users who â€œlikeâ€ at least one company on Face book donâ€™t consider they have given companies consent to market to them. Posted by motorcycles for sale on 12/21/10 at 05:21 PM This story with in best words and all live in ironic words. The whole appearance is like reading the story to make alive. Posted by motorbikes for sale on 12/22/10 at 09:03 PM This beautiful story, great characters, and all live, if it thinks it is ironic words.The to stay alive for the performance of all is how to read history. Posted by motorbikes for sale on 12/22/10 at 09:32 PM What a cute story. Thank you for sharing both your heart and a little humanity left in the world. These moments of clarity and a personal connection meant so much to us. Glad to hear that your mother is a point of care. Its cute story with great character and everyone life where they find the word ironic. Posted by York Escorts on 12/23/10 at 09:01 PM Each time I visit this site. I learned something new and different which is very important and beneficial. So I can not resist me to comment here. Posted by Modular Buildings on 01/21/11 at 09:38 PM It is a sweet thing, and it was incredible, and the nature of the words with all the lively and feels like reading the entire presentation in one day.The ironic words and words make the story lively. Posted by NCH Corporation Australia on 09/30/11 at 02:03 PM Page 1 of 1 pages Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: Some Things, You Know Previous entry: Happy Ninth Blogiversary to ME! << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Ticking The Boxes

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri