I don't know about you, but when the ringing of the phone permeates the sleep fog enfolding my consciousness, I assume the worst.
Stumbling out of bed, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall as Tikka INSISTS on sleeping in the too- small-for-her-space on the floor of my side of the bed, Stephen mumbling, "Is that the phone?", I stagger to our home office and grab the phone as the answering machine kicks in.
Waiting for Stephen's recorded voice to finish his spiel, I spit out an anxious, "Hello?!"
"Dawne?"
"Mum! Is everything okay? Did something happen? Are you hurt?"
"Dawne?"
Okay, can't inundate her with too many questions at once. Better take this slowly.
"Yes Mum. It's Dawne"
"The next time you go to the mall could you get me some more underwear? The girls say I need seven pair, one for everyday of the week."
Immediately, my heart stops racing, the adrenaline coursing through me slows, and I am transported back to Saturday's excursion to the mall, in the lingerie department at Sears, looking at my mother and asking her if she thought perhaps she should get more than three pairs of new underwear, as there were seven days in the week.
She assured me three were plenty.
I should have overridden her decision, but I like to consider myself more democratic than that.
Clearly I need to be more dictator-like in some situations.
"More underwear. Okay. No problem."
"You remember what size I need and what kind I like?"
"Yes. That's not a problem."
"Okay then. I'll talk to you later. Have a good day."
"Bye Mum. Love you."
"Love you, too."
And then I return to bed.
Stephen asks me what's wrong.
Mum needs new underwear I say.
At 6.15 am?
She gets up at 4.30 every morning.
6.15 is her 10.00 am.
But it isn't mine.
The weekend.
Okay.
How much time have you got???
Saturday morning, 10.30 am Em and I pull into the nursing home parking lot, bracing ourselves for Shoe Shopping with Mum, Part II.
As she gets up at 4.30 am, she was most definitely ready for our excursion to the mall.
In fact, she called me at 9.00 am about her bracelet and remembering to bring it so the jeweler could repair it. . . .
already done thank you very much. . . .
but I think the real purpose of her call was to see that I was awake.
Em and I are a well trained team when it comes to my mother, so we had her signed out, all her lunch time pills pocketed, and her ensconced in the front seat of the car, seat warmer turned on, her buckled in, before she even knew what was going on.
"Oh that heat feels so nice on my back! It's always so cold in that place!"
Says the woman whose room is NEVER below 30 degrees, even in the summer, and just to be sure has a sign below the thermostat in her room that reads, loud and clear:
DO NOT TOUCH JANET'S THERMOSTAT. SHE IS ALWAYS COLD.
While driving, I reminder her that I was paying for her new sandals, so there wouldn't be any need to worry about getting the shoes she wanted, or how much they cost.
As we were leaving the nursing home, one of the staff members stopped us to remind Mum she was to get underwear.
Underwear?
My mother hasn't had underwear since she went into the hospital three years ago.
And I was always bothered by this because while my mother is many things, incontinent isn't one of them.
But she didn't want underwear. She wanted Depends.
And so I filed underwear under Picking My Battles.
Apparently, however, this nurse had a chat with Mum and they decided there was no need for Mum to not have her own panties, so this shopping trip would be a good time to get them.
Added that to the mental list of Things Mum and Emily Wanted to Do at the Mall.
But not without a small sense of dread.
All I could remember was the bra incident.
And that underwear is a bitch to return if it isn't the right size.
The shoes were no problem.
She picked a couple of pairs she liked, we tried them on, the decision was made and off we went with my mother's feet bearing new sandals.
At this point, she was getting a bit parched, so we went to Starbucks for coffee.
My mother likes her coffee scalding and strong.
We used to joke that it was so strong a spoon could stand up in the cup on its own.
And she is unable to have either scalding or strong at the nursing home, so she loves going out for coffee.
No problem.
I get the coffees, doctor them with coffee cream and sweetener. . .
. . .only for me. Mum likes coffee cream, but she would rather not have coffee at all than have coffee with any kind of sweetener. . . .
and we sat and chatted while drinking our coffee and waiting for Em to finish spending her money.
Of course, just like turning on the taps, as soon as the coffee hit my mother's system, she had to pee.
No problem.
Starbucks has a wheelchair stall.
Which was conveniently out of order.
She said we could go to the other bathroom.
"The men's bathroom, Mum? Are you sure?"
Because I would have taken her into the men's bathroom if it meant not having to try and get her into a too-small-for-the-wheelchair-stall.
"Oh no! I can't do that!"
So too small stall it was.
Luckily, she can move her feet in a motion similar to walking, but not for any length of time.
Just long enough, with my help, to get her into the bathroom for what she needed to do.
And then back out again.
By the time we got back to table, Em had returned.
Which meant we could now tackle underwear.
But, wait. . . .
The child implanted GPS located in an unknown site on my person alerted the always astute Mer that I was in her vicinity, which meant we had to make a pit stop at the theaters for Mum to see Mer.
Once the hi-Nanny-how-are-yous? were finished, we were able to leave for Sears.
And then it started.
The clock watching.
Or watch watching.
My mother is loath to go out on Saturday for fear she will miss bingo.
At 2.30.
Hence why I was there at 10.30 am.
Because sandals, three pairs of underwear and lunch couldn't take more than 4 hours.
By noon she moved into her time keeper role.
"Dawne, it's 12.15."
"So that gives us two hours and fifteen minutes Mum to get your underwear and have some lunch. Lots of time."
And so it went, every 15 minutes for the next two hours and fifteen minutes.
Trying to find a 71 year old woman underwear in a mall geared for teenagers is no easy feat.
At one point, it looked as if we may have to look elsewhere.
Because the racks of underwear closest to the aisles were full of lacy, skimpy things in colors no decent woman would even consider appropriate and I could tell by the set of my mother's mouth that she was having NONE of that.
And then I spied a wall of underwear in the far corner of the room.
All we had to do to get to it was slalom the wheelchair through the tightly packed racks of skimpies.
A couple of lower racks of lacy black thongs may have been injured in the process of weaving the wheelchair through the pantie marked enclosures, but we made it.
I only had to pull a couple of pairs out of the wheels of her chair.
And there before us was a wall of granny panties that made my heart swell.
White, beige, and the lightest shade of pink and blue you could image greeted us.
Full briefs. . .ones that would cover you from head to toe should you wish such a thing.
No lace.
No thongs.
No boyfriend cuts.
Just plain, old fashioned, run of the mill underwear.
In all kinds of sizes.
Eureka!
It only took us another 20 minutes to decide which three pairs she wanted.
With me asking her, over and over again, if she didn't think it would be wise to get a few more pair while we were there.
Nope.
Three was plenty.
And she wasn't going to budge.
So three it was.
Wheeling out of Sears, towards Smitty's, she again reminded me of the time.
1.00 pm.
"Mum, it won't take us an hour and a half to eat lunch. Not even at Smitty's."
Smitty's isn't the most wheelchair friendly place.
But we managed to get a booth in an area where I was promised Mum wouldn't be banged around by servers running hither and yon.
First order of business: coffee.
She was parched after the pantie pondering.
I was just tired and grateful to sit down.
Coffee ordered and served, cold drinks for me and Em, lunch items chosen and relayed to our server and then. . .
That's right.
Coffee hitting system = I have to go to the bathroom.
Off we went to the Smitty's bathroom.
Which thankfully had a fully functional wheelchair bathroom.
It's the little things.
Lunch was fine.
There were no sweet potato fries to be had so she was content with the standard fries and a BLT.
By the time we finished lunch, got back to the car, and took her back to the nursing home, I was exhausted.
But she got back in time for bingo so all was well with the world.
I had planned to get groceries after we had finished, but once we got back into the car, I wasn't certain I had the energy to drive home, let alone tackles the Saturday Superstore crowds.
Home it was.
I had to have a nap.
Two hours.
And then up to get ready for dinner with friends.
Which was lovely.
By the time we arrived home, after midnight, I was barely able to get up the stairs to my bed.
Only to remember that Sunday was Convocation.
Which will have to wait for tomorrow.
Because just recounting Shoe Shopping with Mum, Part II has worn me out.
Especially when you factor in the 6.15 pantie call.
Title Lyric: I Wanna be Your Underwear by Bryan Adams
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