The Marguerite Chronicles ~ February 6, 2018:

Marguerite’s ups-and-downs over the past week have been epic — several times we thought she was checking out. Still, her physical condition didn’t meet Medicare guidelines for general inpatient status, so we paid for five expensive nights to give ourselves some breathing room. She enjoyed all manner of relatives visiting over the week-end, though she seemed barely conscious through much of it.  Two daughters, two sons-in-law, a sister, a niece, a nephew, four grandsons, two great-grandsons, and a great-granddaughter stood in loving prayer at her bedside. We didn’t think she’d last till  her Tuesday morning discharge time.

And then, last night, she woke up.  Somebody recharged the Energizer Bunny, and this morning, we found her trying to climb out of the bed — after four weeks of being unable to use her arms or legs or even to roll over.

So, as previously planned, a hospital bed and other hospice-at-home equipment was delivered, and a transport brought her back to the condo. She was awake.  Joking. Talking in sentences. And listening to her grand-nephew who happens to be a bona-fide composer, symphony pianist, and Uber driver tinkling the ivories from the living room.  “I just love you more every day!” she said to him.

People in their last days often rally for a little while before entering a final downturn, so we don’t know for sure if this is a rally or an actual improvement after finally detoxing from the medication that made her comatose.  Time will tell.  But no matter, we’ll take it.

So, drop by anytime.  The Queen is holding court!

The seizures are attributed to shrinkage of the aging brain, so if you have longevity genes, take notes.  Years ago, during one of Daddy’s laps around Baptist Hospital, we coined the term “oldage,” pronounced ‘oldige’ as opposed to ‘old age.’

You had to be there I guess, but Daddy was a real pain when his blood sugar was up.  And with all the chocolate pie he demanded from every Greek restaurant in Winston-Salem, his blood sugar was always up. And rooms in Baptist Hospital weren’t private.  A doctor was interviewing a hard-of-hearing patient in the next bed, and shouted, “DOES THE NUMBAGE GO ALL THE WAY UP YOUR LEG?”  And Daddy answered, in the booming voice that learned to whisper in a sawmill,  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO HOLLER — I CAN HEAR YOU ALL THE WAY OVER HERE.  AND THERE’S NO SUCH DAMN WORD AS ‘NUMBAGE!’

We cringed, apologized, and attributed his outburst to oldage.  So now, Mama’s got a serious case of it, but instead of hollering, she turns on the charm — still the Homecoming Queen, the Belle of the Ball, General Eisenhower’s Dance Partner, and Real Estate Broker Par Excellance.

She’s always had a severe case of gadget-itis.  She had the first microwave oven in town, and the first of everything else, too.  We had an electric ironer, for goodness sake.  You probably don’t even know what that is — but it was a commercial grade ironing machine that pressed sheets, tablecloths, and the like on a big roller, operated with knee-and foot-controls. She and our maid we experts — they could even do shirts on it.  And  every electric cookware gadget that came on the market found its way to our kitchen:  steamers, crockpots, electric skillets, fondue pots, food processors, seal-a-meal machines, you name it  — hence, extra cabinets added on every wall, whether they matched the originals or not.  One year — I think it was the year of the electric comb —  I asked Daddy what we should get her for Mother’s Day. It was the age of under-counter everythings — can openers, radios, toaster ovens.  Daddy shook his head.  “Heck, honey, she has everything.  I can’t think of a thing — unless you can find her an electric  a** wiper.  But it’d hafta be the undercounter model.”

She is still very particular about determining front from back when putting on her clothes — though she might try putting her panties on over her pants.  And I think of  the beautiful clothing she made, the gorgeous wedding gowns, the draperies, and the furniture she upholstered, and wonder at how a brain that could fashion such complex items can get so mixed up.

But when it comes to her shoes, she’s careful about right and left.  And  obsessed.  It’s as if there’ll be some kind of Cinderella catastrophe if one dainty little toe touches the bare floor.  We go to the restroom.  I say, “Ok, Mama, now take off your shoes.” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but the deer-in-the-headlights look tells me she’s lost hers, too, and she asks, “Why?”

 I explain that she needs to take off her pants, and they won’t come off over her shoes.  So, she carefully slips them off.  I take her pants off,  and turn my back to fold them up. And before I can turn back around, those deft little dancing feet slide back into the ruby slippers — and I try not to cuss, and have to say again, with as much patience as I can muster, “Ok, Mama, now take your shoes off.”  And again, she looks at her idiotic daughter and says, “Why?”  And we put new pants back on, but before they’re pulled up good, the dadburn feet are already feeling for the shoes.

And I say, “Mama, if you would be half as concerned with keeping your underwear dry as you are with your shoes, I will be soooo happy.”  And we laugh and carry on,  and the next trip to the loo, we do it all over again.

When Chip and Katie visited her on Christmas Eve, she looked at them and said, “Where are our parents?” and made several other really off-the-wall comments, so I think some medication changes plus the disorientation of being in nursing care takes a toll on her brain function.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” She asked me — several times. I told her I’d be at our regular condo in NMB, and she said she needed to go up there so she could see what it looks like — never mind that she has practically lived here for the past two years.

Thanks for all your care, prayers, and encouragement. She’s getting torqued up. I hope soon it’ll be my turn, ’cause I’m in need of some serious torque-ing, like on a cruise ship…