October 17, 2010
Saturday evening, during my usual visit to the nursing home, after an enjoyable supper of potato salad and hotdogs, Mum and I retired to her room for our weekly catch-up conflab.
Since she got sick several years ago, my mother has developed a low tolerance for the cold.
Hence, when we returned to her room, I was hit by a wall of heat so intense I felt my eyebrows singe.
My mother was already wrapped in two sweaters, heat as high as it could go, when she asked me if I would mind getting her a warm blanket to wrap herself in because she was freezing.
Masking the astonishment on my face, I swaddle her in a blanket, and then begin stripping down so I could tolerate the warmth of her room.
As soon as she goes to the bathroom, I leap from her bed, open the window and let the cool night air dance over my bare neck and arms, taking as many lungfuls as I can before she comes out of the bathroom.
In the past, if not paying attention for her return, I am jolted into attentiveness when I hear,
"Dawne! Do you have that window open??!! It's FREEZING in here!"
Reluctantly, I close the window. I've tried in the past to leave it open just a hair, but she always knows.
Always.
When she used to come to my house for dinner, she'd come into the hot-because-Dawne-has-been-cooking-in-it-all-day-kitchen, wearing 3 sweaters and a winter coat, and sit beside the heater, which I always remembered to turn on before she arrived, with dogs lying on her feet, and she would still complain that every time she came to my house she froze.
"Its a wonder those kids aren't sick with pneumonia," she'd say, "cause its so bloody cold in here all the time! Feel my hands! They're like cakes of ice!"
"Cakes of ice" was a perennial favourite of my mother. . .still is.
So, last evening while we were conflabbing, I asked her if she thought she had enough sweaters for the winter.
She thought about it for a minute, and asked if she had any money left on her Pennington's giftcard.
Which is not what I asked her, you'll note.
I said that indeed, she did, and that I would be more than happy to get her a couple of sweaters.
Off to Penningtons I went this afternoon after Quaker meeting.
Sometimes I can convince her to come with me, but most of the time I fly solo on these vestment missions.
And if something is the wrong size, or the wrong color, or the wrong style, then I have to go back.
I have been known to make four trips trying to get things sorted out.
I may have gotten it all right this trip, two sweaters: a traditional navy blue cardigan, and a dusty rose fleece with a zipper in the front.
Only time will tell.
As in tonight when I take them to her, along with her box of granola bars.
It's Sunday. . Antiques Roadshow, All Creatures Great and Small, new sweaters and granola bars.
Does it get any better than that?
The last time I was able to get Mum to come shopping with me was the first really nice, warm spring day after a long, cold winter.
Sunshine always makes her happy.
There is nothing challenging about taking Mum out, except that mucho patience is required.
Ergo my father doesn't take her.
Patient he is not.
When they shop together, it gets very, very ugly.
So for the sake of family harmony, I take her almost all places she needs to go.
Plus I can get her wheelchair in the car without taking it apart.
She needed several things for the spring/summer: t-shirts, capris, and two new bras.
We wander around the store picking out piles of things for her to try on.
And remember, she wears a hearing aid in one ear and can't hear from the other, so, she tends to be loud when she talks to you.
Especially if we're out in public because she's convinced with all the noise outside of the confines of the nursing home, I won't hear her.
So there can be loudness.
She tried on a variety of shirts and pants and capris until she settled on what she wanted.
We were at the portion our shopping programming I had put off as long as I could.
The bras.
Managing to buy bras for me is something I avoid at all costs. I hate it. My boobs are too small for my ample body, so cup size and around me size are always at odds with one another.
And at 43 I am way beyond stuffing my bra with kleenex to make the cup size and around me size fit.
Besides, I don't want boobs that come around corners before the rest of me.
If I can't bra myself up, how can I possibly manage to locate appropriate bras for my mother????
She has the same problem: around size and cup size don't work together.
Plus, there isn't much in contemporary bras she is going to like.
Leopard print wire bras for maximum boob support and outage, electric pink peek-a-boo-bras, lime green padded bras to ensure false advertising, bras with hearts on them, or kissy lips, bras with straps so thin they're practically non-existant and don't have the capacity to hold up tissue, let alone an ample pair of breasts, baby blue lacy bras that cover nothing and show everything, bras with shiny doodads at the front, bras with stripes, flowers, kittens, puppies, black strapless bras with polka dots . . .
Janet was having none of that.
Beige or white, solid straps, no lace, no padding, no designs. . .
A bra whose sole purpose is to hold your boobs up.
And not for entertainment.
I am just so thankful we didn't have to buy underwear. I can only imagine how I would explain hi-cut, low-cut, no cut, boy cut, and thongs to my mother.
As it was, she had considered getting pjs, but was disgusted by the offerings.
How come the companies who make these pajamas think a 70 year old woman wants to wear pjs with lambs cavorting all over them? Or bowls of fruit? Or Betty Boop? Or sailing motifs?
This from the woman who wore 70s prints and stripes and colors that would render you blind upon first sight.
What about me says, "I want to wear night ware that has sayings on it like, "Bad Girls Everywhere" or "Come Here and Kiss Me" or "Team Edward!??"
She thought they were referring to Prince Edward.
I tried to explain but she just didn't care.
Whatever happened to simple flowered pajama tops and bottoms? she yells at me.
There must be a top and a bottom.
No nighties for my mother.
"They bunch up around my waist, " she say, "and I feel like I'm sleeping in the nude!"
No cute little pink spaghetti strap tops with barely there bottoms, either.
"If I wanted to sleep naked, why would I go through all the trouble of buying pajamas?"
No tank tops either.
T-shirt like tops with matching bottoms and no ifs, ands or buts about it.
We didn't purchase pajamas, let me tell you that.
The very patient salesperson listens attentively while I share with her the list of dos and don't that must be be met in selecting bras for my mother.
She then scours the store, the back rooms, corners, underneath counters, inside ceiling tiles, and comes up with three bras she thinks (hopes, along with me) that my mother will both like and buy.
Helping Mum try in t-shirts and capris was fine. I help her put her pjs on all the time, and I didn't see much difference between that and helping her try on clothes.
Bras, however, were an entirely different story.
I didn't even know where to begin.
Or how.
I get the straps over her shoulders.
So far so good.
The hard part was next.
And you know what the hard part was. . .so I am NOT going into detail.
Chafing at my attempt to be delicate, my mother takes the situation into her own hands, and yells.
Very loudly.
"Oh for God's sake Dawne! Just stuff them in! I have to pee! And I'm FREEZING"
Well.
I did as she said.
While listening to the titters and tee hees from the sales staff, the store, and everyone within a hundred kilometer radius of my mother and me.
We selected two bras, put them in the pile, paid for everything and then I took her to lunch.
Just when you think you know someone. . . .
Title Lyric: The Boob Fairy by Deirdre Flint
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