Still chugging along . . .

2 February 2020

At 60 years of age, I am fortunate to still have my parents with me. My dad recently turned 86, and is in excellent health, unlike his twin brother and their older brother, both of whom passed away after suffering with Alzheimer's. My mom, on the other hand, will be 89 in a few short weeks, and she is not so fortunate. Mom was diagnosed more than 6 years ago with pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that causes lung tissue to become thick and stiff, resulting in the build up of scar tissue in the lungs, making breathing increasingly difficult and eventually impossible. This is considered a fatal disease, and life expectancy from diagnosis is generally 3 to 5 years. I have heard my mom say she is on borrowed time.

Circa 1955

My mother used to be the kind of woman who was always working. Always moving. The only times I remember seeing her sit and relax when I was growing up was in the evenings. At the end of the day, she would curl up in her chair and watch TV and smoke. As a matter of fact, those few cigarettes each evening, were about all I remember her smoking, unless my parents were socializing with their friends. Mom was never a heavy smoker, unlike my dad, who at one time smoked two packs a day. Thankfully, both parents quit decades ago. Mom, however, did not escape unscathed.

Before retirement, my parents took up golf, and once retired, golfed multiple times each week. They had worked hard, saved and invested, and happily retired in Florida. They lived the good life for several years, remaining active, taking trips, and going on a few cruises. Eighteen years ago, they moved from their first retirement residence an hour and a half south of me, to a gated golf community just a mile from my house. It's been nice having them so nearby. We have spent holidays together, and celebrated birthdays and special occasions.

I don't even remember what led up to my mother's diagnosis. My dad recalls that Mom had had bronchitis, and was having difficulty breathing, so their primary care physician referred her to a pulmonary specialist. That doctor ran breathing tests and ordered imaging and delivered the diagnosis. My parents told my husband and me that Mom had this . . . condition . . . I don't know if  they called it a disease. Pulmonary fibrosis.

Daddy learned about Mother's life expectancy, and mentioned it often. I used to get frustrated with him for talking about it so much. It wasn't possible that she had such a limited future, when she didn't really seem that sick. I remember when my mom began daily oral steroids because it seemed that overnight my ever-slender mother, looked as though her face had been inflated with a bicycle pump. The change was dramatic. Eventually she had to go on oxygen. In time, walking into her bedroom caused her to be winded. She started using a cane, then a walker as she began to weaken, and as losing her breath from activity worsened. The woman who used to move about the kitchen with ease and speed, cooking and baking, now needed a stool on which to perch when she worked at the sink.

My parents downsized from a lovely pool home to a small villa, where they lived for just over three years, and where Mom's condition worsened at an exponential rate. Her legs grew weaker, and would sometimes give out on her. More than once my dad needed help getting her off the floor where she had fallen. No longer able to trust her own legs to support her, she started using a wheelchair to get to and from the bathroom or bedroom, and ultimately to get anywhere she needed to go.

Five months ago, my parents moved into an assisted living facility; my mom needed extra care, and my dad needed help. Plus, Daddy wanted to be sure Mom would be well taken care of, so he moved in to be her watchdog. It's a nice place. They have a two-bedroom apartment, and plenty of amenities. All meals are included, which means that a few times a day they get out of their apartment and head to the dining room where they can socialize while eating their meals. I go almost every day and spend about an hour with them, often without much to chat about. But I go because I still can. I won't have my parents forever, and I feel like I need to be there for them while I have them. Dad still has his car and he drives to Walmart for odds and ends, or to the grocery store for prescriptions, or to the barber shop for haircuts. It's important for him to maintain a measure of independence.

For the most part, I don't focus on what is ahead for my mom. I focus on today, and talking about what she ate for lunch, and reminding her what day it is, and telling her I love her and that I'll see her again tomorrow. And each day I wonder just a little if she'll be there when I ride the elevator up to the second floor and walk the long hallway to their new home. I wonder if she'll be here to celebrate her 89th birthday in 20 days. On the bad days, when she appears to be little more than catatonic, it doesn't seem possible. But the next day, she wakes up and it's a better day. She's my energizer bunny, losing steam, but still chugging along.

I know that I am approaching life in a world without my mother in it. But for now, she's still here. She's still with me. And I will be there with her and for her. Because she's my mom.

Until next time . . .