The decline of an aging parent settles as soft layers of dust: first a forgotten name, a bothersome wart, a repeated story. Each increment is barely noticed, certainly not demanding commentary. Now and again something rises to the level of an "event”: a misplaced check, a fenderbender, a broken tooth.
As my 94-year-old mother-in-law Janet’s primary caregiver for the past several years, I visited her in the evenings, enjoying our shared accordion practice and rounding off the rough edges of her isolated days. She had lived independently a short mile from our house since her husband died in 2010. Our routine was manageable, even pleasant. Until it wasn’t. We were the proverbial frogs swimming in water heating too slowly to be noticed.
Then one day the water was boiling.
And that day--or more accurately, that month--Janet developed a blistering skin rash that required twice-daily application of ointment to dark crevices that she couldn’t (and I didn’t want to) reach. An added steroid to her medication list shook loose confusion that had hidden beneath years of an unchanging medication routine she'd managed by herself. Her worries, always plentiful, ratcheted up to all-consuming. And then the bloody noses started. Then the UTI. Then a week in the hospital.
In short, my dear mother-in-law had lived a life of physical and mental stamina well into her 95th year. And now she wasn't. November and December were a blur from hospital to assisted living, back to the hospital, back to assisted living. The experience sucked us into a swirl of measureless days.
Dan's sister flew in from Tacoma and stayed three weeks, sleeping on the hospital's pull-out bed(ish). His brother from Minneapolis drove down multiple times. Their help--and sanity--cannot be overstated. This work took many hands.
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So. Now we are here.
This afternoon, Sunday, I arrived at Allen Place an hour before dinner. Walking to Janet's room, I passed the exercise nook, where I met up with Annabelle as she climbed off the Nu-Step.
Before moving to assisted living two years ago, Annabelle had been our country neighbor for decades, which means she lived within five miles of us. My husband rents two of the family's grain bins and 230 acres of their land. We attended neighborhood corn boils in their shed. When Annabelle's husband passed away last year, he left a life-sized hole in the southeast corner of the county. Two of Annabelle's granddaughters work at my school, and I've taught several of her great-grandchildren, including one currently in my classes. Such are the tendrils of neighbors in rural Iowa.
During Janet's past six weeks of adjustment--perhaps the most daunting adjustment of her life--Annabelle has been my mother-in-law's guardian and cheerleader. Since I usually visit in the late afternoon, I often sit at the friends' table and get in on suppertime conversation.
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As we walked from the exercise nook to Annabelle's room (across the hall from Janet's), she gave me her perceptions of the day: Janet seemed more cheerful. She had eaten all of her noon meal--although after lunch she'd said "See you tomorrow!" and Annabelle had corrected her, "We'll have supper first!"
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When I knocked at Janet's door, she was busy at her ironing board, cutting fabric. Sewing continues to be her most meaningful and calming work. She has been making beanbags of late, but she said she was cutting quilt squares. Small confusion.
We then practiced accordion. Yesterday she played the right hand on her small instrument through two verses of "Edelweiss," but tonight she chose to sit in her chair and encourage me to "play that section again, four or five more times." Always the music teacher.
It was then time to head to supper. As usual, Annabelle knocked on Janet's door. Residents take care of each other here. No one is left behind.
As we've done nearly every evening for weeks, Annabelle (with her cane), Janet (pushing a small wheelchair as a walker), and I headed to the dining room.
Janet then turned to me. "Allison," she said, "Do you know Annabelle?"
"Yes," I said. "I do."
Enough.
Be well.
Allison
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