My mother is a man magnet.
Yesterday, my mother was spending her morning in her usual manner. . .watching the birds grazing at her bird feeder outside her window.
She finds this mesmerizing.
Loves it.
Squirrels and birds provide her with hours of entertainment.
She often says its better than television.
Perhaps I'll get her binoculars for her birthday.
Up close and personal.
When her bird watching reverie broke, she decided it was time to go the bathroom.
She turned her wheelchair.
And saw a strange man sitting on her bed.
Which was shocking enough.
With his pants down.
More shocking.
And my mother, the bird watching man magnet, simply looked at him and yelled at him to GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He did.
Never saying a word.
Seems bird watching is happening all over the nursing home.
Inside and out.
Late last evening we saw the final Harry Potter film.
Late for me. . .10.00 pm showing.
As with all the other films, it was very good.
Too short to cover the intricacies in the story, but films are noted for their ability to stay close to the book,
Of course, I bawled like a baby.
A lot.
Mer was even worse than I was.
And some people clapped during certain parts.
I won't say because I don't want to spoil it for those who have yet to partake.
Consequently, I am DRAGGING myself around this morning.
We arrived home around 12.30 am and by the time I was able to settle and fall asleep it was after two.
By the time Stephen settled and was able to sleep it was closer to 4.30.
Meaning from 2.00-4.30 I merely dozed.
Adding to my being completely knackered today.
Of all days.
The day I am taking my mother out to her house.
For the first time since she was initially hospitalized almost four years ago.
7.20 pm
Just arrived back home from our Sunday adventure.
There are several routes to my parent's house, and we decided to cross the river and through Maugerville.
A route motivated by my desire to stop in at the Big Potato.
Yes.
This is a 20 foot potato.
I think.
Remember, measurement challenged.
The giant potato has been a part of the riverside landscape for as long as I can remember.
And each summer, we shift from buying our produce from Victory and the Superstore, to making the once a week trek to the Big Potato.
Today was our first visit.
Salad cukes, field cukes, radishes, new potatoes, red peppers, yellow peppers, peas in the shell, lettuce, onions, yellow beans, green beans, sweet potatoes, carrots and more, all ready and waiting for me to fill my cart and haul out my cash.
And my mother?
She remained in the car, but, did request two field cucumbers and a red pepper.
We purchased so much delicious, fresh produce that I was eating lettuce leaves as we continued the drive to my parents.
The Big Potato was a welcome diversion, however, it was just that.
A diversion.
And the only thing left to do after we were finished ooohhhhing and aaaaahhhhhing over new produce was to do what we started out to do.
Take my mother home for the first time in almost four years.
I was not without reservations about this trip.
Okay.
Lots of reservations.
Tons.
But it didn't matter how I felt about it.
My mother asked me to take her to her home, the home she raised me in.
And I was going to refuse her?
I think not.
As we drove off the Burton bridge, heading into Oromocto, she became more subdued.
The closer we got to Haneytown, which is actually where my parents live, but it's just easier to say Geary, she moved from subdued to morose.
Once in the driveway, I turned to her and asked her if she still wanted to do this.
That we could just turn around and head back to Fredericton.
No harm.
No foul.
But no, she wanted to go inside.
Needed to go inside.
And as with everything else, once she wants something, there is little that will stand in her way.
I understand.
I really do.
She worked to provide that home for my father, brother and me.
My dad's work history, once he retired from the military (the worst decision he ever made. . .I know, this coming from me).
Which put much of the financial burden for our little family squarely on the shoulders of my mother.
Only now, as a mother myself, do I understand what this meant for her.
For all of us.
And I also see the repercussions of her working as hard as she did.
Perhaps what kept her going was the knowledge that one day, when she retired she would be able to relax and enjoy the home she worked so hard for.
For some, a bungalow in the middle of nowhere.
For my mother, home.
And now one she is no longer able to live in.
Absolutely unfair.
That she cannot live in the home she provided for everyone else, while my father can stings in a way only such irony can.
Going out there, for her, was something that had to happen.
She had to see her house.
She left in an ambulance with a broken hip, and never returned.
No official moving out experience.
Just being shuttled from here to there, her small pile of things accompanying her.
But she has a home.
And she wanted to see it.
No matter how bad it felt.
As soon as we got her into the house, and sitting in the kitchen, she burst into tears, repeating over and over again, "my home, my home."
My dad and Stephen went into the living room, while I stood there holding her while she cried.
When she calmed down and everyone was sitting around the kitchen table, where we always sat for family visits, the epicenter of our little family, I went outside with the camera to take pictures of things I had already taken pictures of but it didn't matter.
I needed to be outside for just a few minutes.
While I was outside, my brother arrived, his canines in tow.
My first thought was, Thank God! The dogs will give me something to do with my hands.
I did try to get pics of the dogs, but they're little firecrackers and don't hold still long enough to even pee.
They just keep moving as they do what they need to do.
Once the initial shock of being home had subsided, we were able to sit around the table and just visit.
Talk.
In spite of the emotional turmoil, there was a semblance of the way things were.
But the fact that my mother was unhappy at being home, unhappy at not being home, unhappy with the way her life has turned out was never far from the surface.
She sat in the kitchen for most of the visit, until she needed to go the bathroom.
Once in there, all she said was "I don't have it in me to tackle the bedroom today."
She's already planned her next visit.
In the fall.
When the leaves are in full color.
Shortly afterwards, she announced she wanted to leave.
Was ready to head back to Fredericton.
But there were more tears.
Many more tears.
And as we drove out of the driveway, a few things that she had wanted in the back of the car, she was resigned, I think, to knowing that she wasn't able to live in the house with my father, just the two of them.
A harsh reality to accept.
I knew I didn't want to leave her on her own.
That she wasn't ready to go back to the nursing home.
Stephen and I had planned on going to Swiss Chalet for dinner.
Nothing major.
More of a the-kids-are-all-working-and-we've-had-a-rough-couple-of-weeks-so-let's-do-something-nice-for-just-us.
I asked Mum to join us, because it seemed more important to make sure she was okay than it was for me and Stephen to eat club wraps and Caesar salad alone.
At first, she refused.
So I did what any good child would do.
I pulled out the big guns.
French fries.
My mother loves them.
She told Stephen I must really want her to come with us if I was resorting to bribery.
It worked.
She joined us.
And over dinner we discussed the afternoon's events, about her worries regarding my father, and with me promising to go to the house once a month to make sure that everything out there is alright.
I see him often.
But at the nursing home.
Different from seeing him in his natural habitat.
I left her around seven pm.
She insisted she was okay.
I think she just wanted to be alone, think about the day, reflect upon things.
So even though I didn't want to, I did leave.
I'll call her shortly.
But I'll call my dad first.
Because this was just as hard for him as it was for her.
Both had visions of their retired lives.
None of what they're experiencing now was part of that vision.
But really, when you think about it, how often does what we plan mirror what we have?
Title Lyric: Returning Home by Sammy Hagar
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