Grandma's stay at home

 

"I'm coming, I can't do everything at once," my mother shouted when she heard her mother-in-law's moans.

My mother-in-law was seventy years old, had good nonverbal cues, and had been lying flat for two years. She was strapped to a "therapy" bed, and all she could do was emit a dizzyingly high-pitched squeak, which, depending on the situation, meant either a pee or, you guessed it, a pee. The situation she found herself in was unenviable. Overall, hopeless. At that age, you can suffer from various ailments. When my friend's grandfather had it, it was called hardening of the arteries. When my friend's grandmother had it, it was called senility. And when my grandmother had it, it was Parkinson's and Alzheimer's disease, with 90% paralysis. Her day unfolded somewhat differently than mine. She couldn't complain about anything, except perhaps for a few rare exceptions, when the television was on or the chandelier with the fan on three would bother her. It wasn't surprising that she didn't go to the bathroom alone—though most family members often hoped she would.

"See, you can do it if you want to," they'd shout excitedly, watching her take tiny steps in the direction dictated by logic and her body.

Well, one small step for one person, one big step for the cause. The atmosphere in the house was, let's be honest, not encouraging. Each family member was doing their best to get through the next day. A day full of responsibilities, arguments, and disappointments. My mother—an English teacher since the child was two—single-handedly raising me—a twenty-two-year-old—as some in the family say, an old man who, as the saying goes, "a mother spends the first twenty years teaching her son to grow up, and he spends the next twenty years making her realize that he's already grown up." She does everything from being a lifeguard for the Volunteer Water Rescue Service (WOPR) to other equally interesting jobs, but she just refuses to get down to work. I admit, I don't like working. But I also know I have to like it. He he. A lot depends on attitude.

It was Thursday, 4:30 a.m., when I was woken by my mother-in-law's shrieks. There's no other way to describe it. Short, cyclical shrieks, every dozen or so seconds. So I wake up. Now I have two options. I'll tell you right away, both hopeless. Option one: as an adult, I go downstairs, since my room is two floors above my grandmother's, leading her out with courage—because I must admit, it takes a lot of courage—to the bathroom for a brief, truly brief, encounter with the toilet seat. Option two: I wait, listening to see if my parents can also hear that terrifying moan. If they do, it's strange that I always wake up first, a moan that indicates reluctance, and then only the sound of footsteps going downstairs. Then comes step one, but I lie quietly in bed, waiting for sleep to take me. Now, as I think about it, there's a third option.

When the inability to sleep has taken its toll, or rather, when I've been woken up, I can simply wander to my parents' bedroom and clear my throat gently, a little louder than my mother-in-law, signaling the need to go underground. For those who don't understand, underground means the guest room with the mother-in-law's bed. This option is best for two reasons. First, you don't have to worry about not working out with your mother-in-law; second... hmm... you don't cause another paralysis in the woman in need, who's terrified of going out with you, thinking (I read it all in her eyes) that you're too skinny a guy who might not be able to cope at a critical moment. And that critical moment is easy to come by, I swear. The first such moment happened about two weeks ago. It was a beautiful day, it was almost three in the afternoon. At this time, my grandmother's caregiver, who at the time was Monika, the wife of my brother (my cousin, so to speak), was supposed to finish her duties and go home. She usually finished at four, but today she had to be home early. Besides, she was probably six months pregnant. The baby was due in October or November. The doctors weren't entirely sure. More importantly, the new member, or rather, family member, was to be a girl. There wouldn't have been anything unusual about it, except that she would be the first girl in the family in I don't remember exactly which year, but certainly a very long time. Long enough that the news that it would be her, not him, caused such excitement among the family that it seemed the child was more important than the mother. But let's not stray from the topic. The critical moment was to arrive as unexpectedly as fish caught on bait. Original analogy – I know. It started, as usual, with a normal shhh. Monika approached the bed (she had this option in the contract signed until the child, or rather the girl, began to show the first significant signs of leaving the cozy confines of her mother's belly). So she approached the bed, and here, as should be mentioned, comes the turning point. As it later turned out, as the mother of the unborn girl herself "testified," she sensed that something was wrong. I don't know how she could have sensed this, since she didn't practice tai chi or even have a second-degree Reiki adept, let alone a third-degree one, but the fact was a fact. Master Padmasambhara would have been impressed (I admit, I'd have to look it up in the dictionary). To avoid overshadowing the form, I'll move on to the story of what happened next. My mother-in-law decided she could handle it herself. It's worth noting that "she can handle it herself" means roughly the same as "I'll try to walk holding on to you with both hands, without the aid of a stroller." The advantage of the wheelchair was that the woman's entire weight was immediately absorbed by the handicap—the wheelchair. The disadvantage was that the mother-in-law had to learn,Or at least try to walk alone. Whether you know it or not, it was like tilting at windmills. No matter what you did, the final push belonged to your mother-in-law. And that push was far from ideal. I can already picture my mother reading this.

"From perfection? What are we even talking about? She didn't even move a leg," she would say in a single breath. She was the only one who knew her mother-in-law inside and out, and just as she disliked disobedient youngsters, she equally hated it when her mother-in-law didn't follow her orders. To this day, I don't know where this comes from.

And so, halfway to the toilet, her mother-in-law, carefully gliding across the... hmm... very slippery floor, held by both of Monika's hands, involuntarily turned eagle. She flew for about three-quarters of a second before her head touched the floor, as slippery as a little girl's bottom after a pee. The rescue operation was swift. First, a call to Mirek, Grandma's son, then a careful rescue—how could she have been careless when lifting the injured woman? First, onto a wheelchair, which was in the right place within half a minute, and then onto the bed, which was the patient's final resting place. Mirek was accompanied by an ambulance, two paramedics, and a doctor. I testify because I saw it myself, six stitches were applied. The incident is etched in the memory of the residents. My mother-in-law didn't pee... in the toilet.

Another incident—very similar—occurred on Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week. It was all the more important for recounting this critical moment because I witnessed it myself and even participated in it. Well, maybe not entirely, but a significant part of it. I was just returning from the city, and at that moment, one would say, the house where I live, as well as where my grandmother lives, is located no more or less than five kilometers, some say nine, outside the city. So we drove, me and my grandmother's therapist, a certain Szymon from the metropolis of Ch***—a city famous for, let me put it mildly (if you're under eighteen, skip to the next paragraph), spirits, sweet tobacco, best friends, and amazing moments. And let's not forget my first general secondary school, where I spent the best moments of my life – endless vacations, shared "projects," and simply great teachers, but I'll write about that another time.

(This is where you should go if you're under eighteen, and be glad we're not in the USA; there you'd have to be twenty-one.)

It was (horror of horrors) almost 3 p.m. Now I'm starting to suspect it was some larger operation, carried out at a predetermined time, which usually was 3 p.m. We arrived. The workers were in the process of finishing the roof, but more on that in the next installment. I selfishly went upstairs, where a game of Starcraft awaited me, and Szymon went off to do his duty. It's worth noting that on that day, my mother-in-law was being cared for by an unknown person (I apologize in advance, I don't remember names). She was a woman in her fifties, and her face showed a love of Brazilian TV series and crossword puzzles. Don't ask how I know this. It's also worth mentioning what such a therapist does. Well, massages, bends, and squeezes—well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. For the unwary, I'll recap the situation he found his mother-in-law in (I'll also add that there may be two). As befits the time (remember, it was almost 3 p.m.), she was halfway to the bathroom. Szymon couldn't help. No one could. Grandma had to do this alone. Her, her, and her new help (don't tell me you're probably noticing inconsistencies here). When the moment finally arrived, when she finally sat down on the toilet, it happened. My mother-in-law began to shake, her head started tossing back and forth. And it should be made clear, this wasn't her intended reaction. As it later turned out, it was epilepsy. But let's get back to the bathroom. My mother-in-law shakes her head, tossing it around in an indeterminate manner. Suddenly, her new help realizes that the target might be the washing machine, standing just half a step in front of her (kudos to whoever put it there). She grabs her head, thinking she'll save herself from what she (and others) considers a dangerous situation. Unfortunately, things are getting worse. Szymon, like Data from "Star Trek: The Next Generation," remained calm and composed. Seeing his pale mother-in-law, whose whites were almost bursting through the air, nearly losing control of the situation, he rushed upstairs, shouting (already on his way) "Michaaał..." As it was about me, I rushed downstairs, reluctantly "stopping" my beloved Starcraft.

"Come on, help me save my mother-in-law," he shouted. That's all I remember. After that, there was only darkness...

The morning promised to be fantastic. As for yesterday's critical moment, I'll just say that Grandma survived, and the new help was so excited that she spent a whole hour talking about her achievements for the good of humanity. Szymon admitted that he was scared at first and that he thought it might have been epilepsy. The workers who also had a small part in the incident said they would come back tomorrow at their normal time, and as usual, I was wondering whether to choose plan A, B, or C.