Taking care of Mama’s business

Dear Nephew,

Your Uncle Ambrose wants to jump off the Martha McGee Bell Bridge.

I told him the waters of Randleman Lake would break his fall. He said maybe he’d have a massive heart attack during the journey from pavement to pool.

The consternation of your uncle stems from his 99-year-old mother. He’s been caring for her night and day since his younger brother, Desmond, set her on our front porch, pressed the doorbell and skedaddled.

Now, I don’t like to use the word that starts with a “D” but your Uncle Ambrose’s mother is definitely memory challenged. When he walks into her room she asks, “Who are you?” Your uncle replies, “I’m your son.” And she screams, “Desmond!”

I understand that my mother-in-law is playing cards with a deck of 39, but dealing with her on a daily basis can tax the most patient of caregivers. She wants to eat five minutes after she’s devoured her supper, needs to go potty every 30 minutes and has to have the temperature at 85 degrees or she’ll simply freeze to death.

Your poor uncle has to strip down to his Bermuda shorts and T-shirt while he’s looking after her, which is pretty much 24/7. When he pushes her in the wheelchair out to the patio for a refreshing change from her four walls, she says, “I wish I hadn’t come out here.”

Then he pushes her back to her room and she says, “Turn around. I’m not ready to go back to bed.”

Your Uncle Ambrose appreciates that his mother had to wipe his backside on a regular basis during his formative years. But he never thought he’d have to return the favor. 

“It’s hard to know if you’ve cleaned everything when your eyes are closed,” Ambrose said.

Mother has been to the emergency room four times since she entered our lives. The first time was for swelling in her leg and the second was for a bad fall when she tried to get up in the middle of the night.

The third trip to the ER was after she accidentally imbibed some witch hazel that your uncle mistakenly left within her grasp.

“Get me out of here,” she told your uncle when they were awaiting results from the witch hazel tests. “I need to be back in my bed sleeping.”

“I know, Mother. But you know, you’re in bed now so just relax and try to sleep.”

“Get me out of here,” she said. “I need to be in my own bed.”

That’s when Ambrose asked for a sedative — for both of them.

The day she mistook decorative candles for candy, there was no damage enough to take her to the hospital. But her red waxy incisors meant that Ambrose had to brush her teeth with a Brillo pad and Q-tips.

The last trip to the emergency room was after I noticed her ankle was swollen. I told Ambrose his mother may have a broken or sprained joint.

So, after waiting 30 minutes for a cubicle, she was placed on a bed and the nurse began taking off Mother’s clothes. 

“What are you doing?” she asked with fury in her voice. 

“We need to undress you so you can put on this nice clean gown,” was the reply.

“Why do I have to get undressed? It’s my ankle, not my privates.”

Which showed that Mother still had some common sense.

When she was released and your Uncle Ambrose got his mother back home, she of course had to use the bathroom. Then she was ready for supper.

“You had supper two hours ago,” your uncle said.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re such a wonderful husband,” she said.

“Mother, I’m not your husband. I’m your son.”

“Desmond!”

Love,

Your Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Victoria

Larry Penkava, who salutes all those caring for their infirm loved ones, is a writer for Randolph Hub. Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.