The test

It's always a pleasure to be with JBL's mom. She is eccentric and warm. She showers the girls with gifts and hugs. Though they may go months without seeing her, K & J go running into her arms without the slightest bit of shyness or discomfort. She holds them on her lap and whispers to them, making them laugh and kiss her before jumping up to explore the tchotchkes that fill every corner of her home.

She's the kind of person who remembers everything you have ever told her, and will buy you the perfect gift based on what you want most deep in your heart - even if you've never put it to words. When you talk with her, she listens intently and makes you feel like you're the most important person in the world at that moment. I often find myself telling her very personal things because I am so comfortable with her. She makes me feel safe.

She is also fiercely independent, and knows what she wants her world to be like. She has recently taken the reins of her life, to the extent that she can, after decades of living with demons. In a way I have always felt the need to take care of her, to shelter her a bit from the parts of her world she cannot control, but she herself has never made me feel this was expected or necessary. After the tumultuous times with my own mother, I have been grateful for this freedom from responsibility.

Sunday's visit, however, was different than most. We brought the girls up to have lunch with her, and to see how she was faring after a recent surgery. She was slow-moving, and obviously chagrined at being without makeup. She had made an effort to be 'up' for us, wearing dressy-casual clothes, and lots of her usual fun and funky jewelry. She expressed her discomfort openly as she sat or stood, and made it clear that she was still dealing with the anxiety surrounding the hospital stay. Understandably so, I would say.

Over the course of the afternoon, though, it became clear that JBL's mom will need my help, and sooner than we all thought. The question is, can I answer the call? She put her feet up repeatedly, exclaiming with nervous dismay that she's been struggling with edema. I tried to soothe her by saying how her feet and ankles didn't look that bad. "My mom's legs would swell all the way up to her knees, and the blood vessels just under her skin would burst, making her legs look totally bruised. Yours look good - lets just get you a soft stool to rest your feet on, though."

When she disclosed that she had also had trouble breathing in the hospital, even on oxygen, I began to feel uneasy. "The doctor said I have...what is it? OCD? That's when I finally decided to quit smoking." My eyebrows shot up. "You mean COPD?" "Yes! That's it. And those inhalers are SO expensive, my insurance turned me down.... Can you picture me trying to mow the lawn this summer trying to drag an oxygen tank behind me?" Her attempt at levity fell a bit flat. Maybe it was the expression on my face. My own mother had been on oxygen 24/7 for the year preceding her death.

"Yikes," I said, "well at least they have those nice little carts!" I felt my gaze slide off into the distance as I thought of the future. She had been having growing back pain due to scoliosis long before the surgery, and now with the COPD, I felt certain she would have to move to a single level home. This was a possibility I'd considered for some time anyway. But so soon?

I talked with her about the need for a move, and she was at once petrified and accepting, flat out asking if I could 'make it happen' for her so that she could avoid as much stress over the ensuing upheaval as possible. I declared, "I will do everything in my power to help you." But I realized our discussion made it seem real to her, and she was already retreating behind a wall of fear.

When we left, we did the dishes, took out the trash, got her in bed and made sure she'd taken her medications. She looked frail and small to me. There on the nightstand sat a bowl of chocolates. "You know, I usually eat a bag of those a day? Since the surgery I haven't been able to because of the nausea." Eating loads of chocolate and smoking to deal with stress, while ignoring the obvious physical repercussions? This was all beginning to sound too familiar.

I sense another crisis looming out there on the horizon, and this crisis may be the only incentive for her to move. Why must it come to that? I've seen this movie before, and I don't like the way it ends. At least I have another opportunity to effect a difference - to truly bring peace of mind and perhaps a sense of safety. If this is a test, I hope I more than pass for once.