Monday, March 2, 2009

A Close Call

Most of the time I believe I have come to terms with my mother's dementia. Well, maybe not most of the time, it's more like some of the time. Probably closer to a short amount of time, something that borders on moments. But that aside I do know we fast approach a time when she will be gone, cognitively and physically although we have no way to know which we will face first. I know this with the same sense all children come to this knowledge about their parents not because I am more in tune with life or because my years of Nursing experience have taught me this. I know this is a fact.

So while I anticipate this parting with my mother (anticipate it kicking and screaming all the way!) I lull myself into the false sense of security that this loss will be the next one. In the natural order of things it will be my mother who 'goes' next. This morbid security was shaken to its core this weekend when my daughter called to tell me she and her husband had been in a car accident. Hearing her voice I rushed to the conclusion that a small fender bender in the snow was nothing to be concerned about. As the details of the accident traveled through the phone they brought with them the realization that this day could have ended differently, that my daughter and son-in-law now stood among the statistics of survivors and our family remained whole.

Through the night images of the accident replayed in my mind and sleep did not come. (Dozing doesn't count.) As their truck slammed into the concrete wall of the median on the interstate there were people behind them who must have watched their spin out of control on the black ice with horror. These people, strangers to my family and to each other, stopped and ran to the aid of my daughter and son-in-law. Ran to help. Called for help. A couple of them were Nurses. Nurses who helped.

I hear stories about how no one cares anymore, that our society is filled with people who think only of themselves and care nothing about what happens to others. These people must exist, must live somewhere. They do not live in my world. They are not present in the CNAs who blow kisses to my mother as they pass her room. Or in my staff who leave no stone unturned to access care for their patients. Or in my friends who continue to ask how my mother is, even though they know the answer in advance. These people do not live in the strangers who stopped their cars on a snowy day and ran to the aid of a young couple in need.

Tonight, if the images once again disturb my sleep I will change them. Instead of what could have been I will see what was and what is. I will see strangers help my family. I will see my staff, amazing women who find resources where none exist. I will see my mother, asleep in her bed, a bed she is helped into every night by people who care. I will see all these things and I will be grateful.

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