Learning

Rarely do members of the same family grow up under the same roof.

Richard Bach

I'd just put a hook in the vise when my phone rang. I looked at the number, didn't recognize it, but answered anyway. Turned out it was one of my mother's friends. Almost every Tuesday for the past many years has been Mah Jong day. Well, almost every Tuesday. Sometimes stuff gets in the way. Lately, doctors, sickness, and untimely, but inevitable death have been among the biggest reasons for the cancellations, but, for the most part, the nucleus of this group, although smaller now, has remained intact and on schedule. So it has, for the survivors, become so much more than a simple weekly Mah Jong get-together.The voice over the phone was strained, and the words came haltingly;

"Steve, something's wrong with your mother and we think you should come over here immediately and take her home..."

I know I sat there stunned, for a moment, I don't know how long, before my senses returned to the point where I could ask some quick questions, the first of which was, of course, "Is she okay?" which had to be true otherwise surely they would've first called 911 and then me?

"Well, she's all disoriented and can't speak. And when she does we can't understand her. She seems all confused and is upset."

My mind formed the word (STROKE).

" Oooh man. Okay. I'm on my way", and grabbed my car keys, took the 3 flights down 4 stairs at a time, jumped in my car and took off. Then and only then did it occur to me that I had no idea where I was going, so I flipped open my phone and called back, hoping that the scene there was calm enough that some one could give me directions, or at least an address...

I know Spokane like the back of my hand, especially the South Hill. Problem was, I was coming from the extreme northern edge of the city limits. No matter how light the traffic was, I was 20 - 25 minutes away. So I called back again to tell them I was coming as fast as I could make my way, and asked how she was doing. Turned out she was improving; could speak, and was responding to questions and faces again. By the time I arrived, she was seemingly totally normal again, save for a pair of very shaky hands.

She could stand, had good balance, so we gingerly helped her out to her car. After figuring out who'd drive and follow, we got her home, and her condition continued to improve.

The next couple of days were a blur of waiting rooms, tests, questions, more tests, and faces. After finally seeing her primary care giver, a Dr. Kerkering, I cornered him as my mother waited at the receptionist's desk.

And found out what I'd suspected for quite awhile. Turns out that strokes are a multi-faceted animal. Seems logical, in that although we feel the need to establish parameters (for our own sense of well-being) as far as our loved ones are concerned, meaning, partially, that a 'stroke' will undeniably always be severe, therefore easy to detect... well, the reality of it is that a stroke can be so minor that the person affected never knows that he/she has suffered one. And this can happen more than once, and over an unbelievably short period of time. Or, it can happen just once, and slip back into the shadows for years. But, for all of its seeming harmlessness, these are a harbinger of things to come. And the sooner they are detected, the more effectively they can be responded to if/when it happens again.

Nearly every day for the past several months, from the time of my dad's death, as a matter of fact, I've been journeying across town to be there for my mother should she need things done. I stay for a couple of hours. We have begun, probably for the first time, probably since I was very young, to enjoy a somewhat viable, equitable relationship. We actually carry on conversations. I was fomerly very impatient with her, and have been quietly working on my ability to sit and listen, which still taxes me as she is prone to exaggeration and pure fantasy, even in her interactions with me. I used to call her out on that, but have settled it within myself to strive for understanding and patience. It may be that I will never know why she is driven to be this way, and yet, I see in her things I can relate to if I really look. It is not for me to judge why she is the way she is. The flip side is that I think that it's allowed me to see myself more clearly.

My adolescence was a troubled period in my life, because of the tension in our household. My father, bless his heart, was not an easy man to live with, or to please, and I acted this out on the stage that was my life, seeking attention and approval from any and or all I could. And I sought it in many ways. One way, among others, was to tell the biggest and best story, give it so much detail that the listener had to believe it was true. I was dying for acceptance, not knowing that it was from my father I wished it would come.

I believe now, after all that has passed, that my mother, partly due to her upbringing, and underlined because of her relationship with my father, was looking for the same things I sought. It makes so much sense now. It's so clear. She was looking for a man just like her dad so that she might have a second chance at that acceptance. And she married a man who'd been brought up looking for perfection. I feel bad for my mother. It's not her fault she is the way she is. I think I was hard on her for so long because what I saw reminded me of the way I was. Now, well it's a bit late for her to understand and facilitate a change, I think. Not at her age. But, I finally get it. So be it.

In talking with my brother shortly before this incident and subsequent events, we agreed that we didn't see her, or hear from her that she was getting enough to eat. And, as time passed, it became clear to me that she was basically skipping over the mealtime thing more often than she ate.

So, I am now the breakfast chef. First thing every visit, I whip up a big (for her) breakfast. Omelets, French Toast, Pancakes, you name it. It really amazed me the first time I set breakfast in front of her how much and how fast she ate. I learned something from my father's last few months; stop worrying about how healthy it is! Just get them to enjoy the idea of eating again. I think back to the 'chat' I had with the diminutive Iranian doctor outside dad's hospital room... " eating healthy is all well and good", he said in his perfect Iranian lilt, "but it is for him to be happy with what he eats now...".

So be that, too. I understand. Perfectly. Sometimes we are blinded by our need to make ourselves feel good. There comes a time, sometimes sooner, most times later, when we finally realize who the patient really is.