June 4, Just Another Saturday

From my journal:

Today was mostly just another Saturday.  The boys played basketball in the early morning and came back for a dip in the pool.  The aunts were cleaning the house from top to bottom.  The daughters, daughter-in-law, and our kids gathered too.  The grandkids played and bickered and ran and laughed.  By noon we were all there.   Things looked good.  Mostly things looked like they always look.  There were just a few foreign items to remind us of the changes happening.  An oxygen tank here.  A pile of unsorted mail there.

We were waiting (as we have all become accustomed to).  It has a familiar anxiety to it.  But today was not the agonizing wait like before or after surgery.  Or like waiting for word from an appointment.  Or waiting on the latest lab result or CT scan reading or whatever other numbers or words would determine our moods for the next while.  Today we were waiting for Mom to be home.

The phone rang—it was Mom!  But it was just to report that like us, they were waiting.  And waiting.  With that, lunch was served.  Rook was played.  The house was cleaned again.  “Quiet time” was instituted for the grandkids.   

Then suddenly, the call we’d been waiting for.  They were minutes away.  Somehow we found more things to clean and put away.  Balloons were floating.  Flower arrangements were centered on every table.  Gifts were set out.  The minutes passed, the car was sighted.  And just like thousands of other times, Mom walked in the door.

A collective sigh floated through the air.  It had really happened.  She was home.  It was exciting.  We were all smiling and laughing and hugging her.  She seemed to visibly brighten as she walked in.  She notices the balloons.  “Whose birthday are we celebrating?” she asks.  Of course it’s for her.  But her birthday’s not for another month.  We say we are celebrating today because all of the sisters are here and Tobi’s birthday is this week anyway so it’s for both of them.  And of course that’s part of it.  No one speaks of other reasons to celebrate early this year. 

She sits down and we take pictures.  Of this momentous ordinary occasion of coming through the door.  I tear up as she sits smiling with her five sisters.  Immediately I brush them away and take a breath and move on.  Not because there is shame in the tears.  Just because there will be time for tears on less-happy days to come and I want to revel in the joy of THIS day.  We take a few more pictures.  Mom with the grandkids.  Mom with all of us there.  Mom with just Dad.  We need one of them kissing--they happily oblige.  And make sure to kiss a few more times to make sure we got it on camera.  

She notices the neighbors swimming.  So she gets a little purse to hold her bag full of drainage from her new g-tube, continues sucking on her fentanyl-laced lollipop and heads out to graciously welcome them.  She has an entourage with her as she tours the backyard to see the new landscaping (a gift from a longtime friend).  And as she tours the house, she takes in the cleanliness of it all and thanks her sisters profusely.  She notices the dusting and straightening and love that have been poured into it. 

We let her sit for a minute before we bring in the cake and sing Happy Birthday.  Again, I tear up but get it together by the end of the song.  We eat Blue Bell and have cake.  She sucks on her lollipop and has some ice water.  Too soon, the hospice nurse arrives and heads down the hall with Mom and Dad. 

Some of us swim.  Some of us watch movies.  Time passes and we find we are waiting again. 

Shad and Amy take their tired kids home.  I feed my tired kids dinner.  Our waiting pays off—the nurse leaves and Mom comes down the hall.  I am getting ready to leave and my girls are crying because they want balloons.  Mom goes into Granny mode and of course wants them to each have one—no wonder all her grandkids adore her.  They get them and dance and giggle as they bounce them on the ceiling and show them proudly to their Granny.   

I revel in the minutes that are so ordinary.  She chats with her sisters—they are fussing over her and making sure she has her cornstarch pudding and pureed soup (that is too spicy, then too hot, then finally given the stamp of approval).  Tyler shows her his new boots for scout camp.  I show her my sewing project from this week (dish-towel bibs)—she pores over it, talks about how much she likes it, and gives an explanation of it to her sisters.  I love to hear her teaching them. 

Too soon, it’s time to go.  Once more, the camera is out.  I want a picture of my Mom and me together on this day.  Kisses are given.  See you soon.  So ordinary.  And yet I know that suddenly, days like this are precious and should be treasured as the miracles that they are.  Just another Saturday with Mom at home.