Day #135 Writing Through COVID-19: Nervous Hostess

The central event of Wednesday was a visit from my sister and her husband Randy, who was hospitalized and intubated, yet survived COVID-19 back in April. He has regained some hearing in his left ear, which had lost function during his illness. His right-hand index finger cannot pull into a fist position. Again, this lingering ailment of his ordeal might seem minor--unless you are a  guitarist, like Randy. He is exercising daily to rebuild muscle and stamina, yet he's often tired and naps frequently. He hopes to return to work on August 9.
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My sister had asked if they could come for an outdoor, masked visit before my parents returned to Fort Dodge where they will at least for a time be restricted on visitors. We thought we could make this work. I guess we did?

Unfortunately, we miscommunicated on their arrival time. In the basement at noon, my mom had her table set for lunch--while upstairs I was preparing my parents' tray--when the doorbell rang. Our guests arrived almost two hours before we expected them.

I pointed them to the shade of the front porch, then ran downstairs to tell my parents of the change in plans: lunch on the porch!
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I have learned in the past four months to expect a mental lag in response when I need my parents to shift gears. But I didn't have much time to work with. I was scheduled to be in town at 1:15 for a sweet-corn drop before donating blood. I was still wearing sweaty running clothes. "Just go up to the front porch," I said. "I'll meet you there."
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I then ran back upstairs, wiped down the dusty outdoor table, and brought out their meal (five food groups!)--just as the nonagenarians toddled around the north side of the house, my dad on his scooter and my mom dragging Vern by his leash. Both of them carried a precarious stack of dishes. These dear ever-helpful people were trying to move their basement table settings up to the porch.
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My sister and Randy wore face masks. My parents wore see-through face shields. Afterward, my dad said eating was hard. He kept forgetting about the shield and whacking his fork against it.
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Later, my dad said that while he'd enjoyed the visit, my mom had been nervous and confused. She repeatedly invited the guests into the house. My dad then had to correct her, and she in turn responded with anger, embarrassment, or a combination of the two.
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My Mom is at her best when she's relaxed. When she's pressured, she shuts down or spirals into one of her jags. Today that jag was the repeated invitation to come inside.

As I shared this with my dad, I told him that during my visits to Fort Dodge over the past few years, I often felt Mom was stressed. She said little and deflected questions.

Yet after the first couple of weeks here on Eagle Avenue, she relaxed. When feeling calm and unpressured, she chats and laughs with magnetic goodwill.
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When my parents spent two weeks Newton, I always asked to talk to my mom when I called each day. I did not want to lose the familiarity we had established through our unpressured days together.
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As I look to Friday, when I will re-home my parents to Ft. Dodge, I am afraid my mom will lose the trust she has built with me during this precious interlude.

I will call, and I can zoom. After two weeks, I can visit them outdoors with masks and face shields.

But from a distance, we will not likely be able to sustain the easy comfort together that we have today.

Today. Hold it tight.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Who might this beautiful baby be? Wolf's
hand-knitted sweater was made by
the NZ grandma of his mama's dear friend.