When the Rubber Hits the Road

Just this week I had a discussion with someone about how young couples with babies and toddlers think that the early  years of child rearing are the hard part of marriage. The truth is that  the later years in life present the biggest challenges. For example, when the Mother of the Bride joins the household.  And six and a half years later, she's still there.

The Mother of the Bride has had quite a six weeks. Mary Frances, with the help of the docs and nurses at Duke Medical Center, the strength of her own will, and the generosity of the Good Lord, survived a major GI bleed, completed five weeks at rehabilitation, and moved back home. Mercifully, the confusion that enshrouded her in the hospital (so-called "ICU delirium") lifted and we are blessed to have Mom's dry wit and always wise counsel once again.

Physically, though Mom is more challenged than before. She continues to work hard with the physical therapist and the occupational therapist who visit our home every couple of days. She does her exercises without complaint, including those prescribed by the speech therapist. She sallies forth, but with a good bit more hands-on help. In fact, we've installed a twin bed in her bedroom so that I can help her in the night.

Today was a red letter day. Less than a week from her return home she had an appointment for a perm. She managed getting in and out of the car like a pro, walked with her walker into the salon, and settled in for "the works." Our friend and stylist, Earl, did a marvelous job with her hair and she once again acquired her "Barbara Bush" looks. She, Earl and I were in good spirits as we headed collectively towards the door with the promise of the requisite chocolate chip cookie on the way home. (If you've not had a Hardee's chocolate chip cookie, you really should.)

But to my surprise, to Earl's surprise, and mostly significantly, to Mary Frances' surprise the back legs of her walker got tangled up in a small throw rug as she approached the door which Earl was holding open. I was at her side. Earl cried out "rug!" and I had time to glance back and see the rug tangling a millisecond before Mom started to go down. Earl  was on one side and I  was on the other  so were able to change her fall from one that was ass over teakettle to one that was a slower collapse leaving mom's legs tangled in her walker. I remember it now in  painfully slow motion, but it happened in a mere matter of seconds.

First Earl and I untangled Mom from the walker and she sat upright, inventorying her limbs. We breathed a collective sigh  of relief when she confirmed everything was intact. So now the question was "What do we do next?" Mom sat on the floor, inside the door of the salon, legs straight in front of her like a Barbie doll left by a careless child. Earl volunteered to grab Jackie (Yes, Jackie is another stylist, a male stylist, at the Salon.) Now Earl is no slouch; in fact he's a tall, strong Air Force veteran. And Jackie exudes a wiry strength. And then a guy named Scott,  a hale and hearty fellow from the business next door, poked his head in and volunteered to help.

But I would only have it one way. I called Earle. My Earle, that is, who was at work a mere two miles away. He answered  his phone softly and by that I knew he was in a meeting. "Mom's fallen at the salon. Can you come get her up"  And so he came, telling his co-workers that his mother-in-law had fallen and couldn't get up. (Which, I surmise was met with a few guffaws.)

Earl and I hovered around Mom, watching for Earle, and Jackie grabbed towels and capes to warm her up while she waited on the cold floor. Soon enough I spotted the grey Ford Fusion as it wheeled into a parking place.

Young women from time immemorial  dreamed of their  handsome knights on  beautiful white steeds, but no-one could look as good to me as my husband of 36 years, unfolding out of his simple sedan and striding over to our collective huddle around my mom. I ran next door and motioned to Scott to join us.

And then, as quickly as Mom had fallen, she was lifted,  by these four, Earle, Earl, Jackie, and Scott, this time like a rag doll ,and placed gently on her feet. And then she was escorted by entourage to the car.  Those four guys, no, those four men, looked like the best of heroes to me.

But the best of all was my Earle, who, not once, has complained about having my mother live with us, who twice now, has swept her onto her feet after a fall.  Who cooks for her and provides for her, who jokes with her and brings her the News and Observer , who pushes her in her wheelchair, and who genuinely cares for her.

 So young couples, lean in together to raise those babies, teach those children, encourage those teenagers, but wait, dear ones, wait,  for the rich warm years of middle age. Because those years, my friends, are when the rubber hits the road.

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