This is my mother’s house. On October 24, 2008 she pulled up the driveway and stopped to adjust a gutter drain by the red bush. She turned to go back to the car and fell.
Immediately aware her hip was broken, she dragged herself back into the car, drove it into the garage, got herself into the house and called my sister.
After traction and surgery and rehab and two months in recovering in a nursing home, she is back in her house. I’ve been with her for a week, helping with the transition home. My patience is thin.
Mom is tired, weary and while my patience is thin, hers is non-existent. She expected to come home and be able to put this experience behind her. She thought coming home meant her recovery was complete.
In some ways it is. Her hip is healed and strong. She walks as she always did, not even the slightest limp. But the tiredness, the uncertainty, the anxiety are taking a toll. Today we spent the afternoon and evening at my sister’s. After dinner Mom was tired and needed to lie down. Later, when I tucked her into bed, she expressed frustration over not being able to be present.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “I wish I believed in miracles.”
“Three months ago, you fell, broke your hip and managed to get into the house and dial the phone. You’re telling me you don’t believe in miracles?”
“I should never have gotten back in the car. I could have driven it through the house.”