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Show Nursing home/6 as we tried to meet our parents' stressful needs and the requirements of raising our teenagers, keeping a home and managing a career. On a pre-Christmas visit, as I walked into my mother's room, Rachel and her daughter were sitting together, looking out the window for the tenth day. "We've had our Christmas present already," her daughter announced. "Today Mother said she could see the snow bending the trees outside. She can even see the icicles hanging from the roof." The daughter's elation was contagious. Seeing was miraculous. So were words. I shivered with excitement for Rachel because I had watched her writhing and groaning every day before, prerequisites to progress. I had even doubted that Rachel would ever have a positive experience again. Her success became ours. Someone had one glimmer of hope that day. Another time as I sat with my mother, an 85-year-old lady wheeled into the room, her head down, her feet providing the power to propel the wheelchair. Her arm was in a sling and both hands were crippled. I could see why she didn't use them to turn the wheels. "Mind if I come in?" she asked, heading right for my chair. "Not at all," I whispered. Sophie tried to look up, but her gnarled body allowed only a horizontal approach. I was charmed by her assertiveness. She was making the system work for her. If she had to be here, she was going to see that she met new friends. No sitting in a wheelchair staring at the wall for her. "Can't stand that room. Too depressing," she admitted. "I'm going to get better and go home where I belong." I hoped she could, though I wondered how she would ever manage alone. She told me about herself, her 15-year widowhood, her fall on the ice, her hospital stay. When we had exhausted our conversational options she asked |
