Mother, Can You Hear Me?

By Joy Ross Davis

Join award-winning author Joy Ross Davis in this personal and heartfelt true story.

Joy's mother suffered from dementia, as well as acute hearing loss. Seeking release from the indescribable and never-ending demands of being a full-time caregiver, Joy began to write about her experiences.

She had no idea so many people could identify with what she was going through, people in much the same circumstances. She had no idea how many people were comforted by her words—and that humor and laughter could help in the most trying circumstances.

This book is an account of that time and those words, which provided much-needed help to so many others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press/Amber Horn
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386339809

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Mother, Can You Hear Me?

Copyright © 2018 Joy Ross Davis

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amber Horn

an imprint of BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number:

2018936819

Print edition ISBN: 

978-1-947727-58-8

Visit the publisher at:

www.bhcpress.com

Also available in trade softcover

649

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The Devereaux Jewel

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This book is dedicated

to my mother, the inimitable

Elsa Ross Frawley,

a Tennessee backwoods gal

who became the city girl

she wanted to be.

She touched lives and gave

me mine in so many ways.

Angels be with thee, Mama.

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Nursing homes don’t exist anymore. Now, they’re gently called skilled nursing facilities. But women like my mother, feisty eighty year olds, aren’t swayed by a new name. For them, nothing can offset the terrible stigma of the old one. A nursing home means only one thing: living death. How do we tell her?

It started with a fall in her bathroom then escalated to major surgery and a seven-week hospital stay. The shattered shoulder mended, but for inexplicable—and horribly unexpected—reasons, my mother has not walked since the surgery. She is unable to perform the simplest everyday tasks. Her doctors insisted that we find a suitable facility.

We turned to her discharge planner for help and learned that Medicare would pay for twenty days in a skilled nursing facility. Once we decided on the place, the case worker would take over. She’d arrange for an ambulance for transport and even talk to the doctor about prescribing a light sedative. What a relief!

We chose Plantation Manor, a family-owned facility on the Old Tuscaloosa Highway with lovely landscaping and rooms that smell like fresh flowers. The day before her scheduled arrival, we took a few personal items to her room and, with owner Gary’s help, installed her newly purchased, cable-ready TV.

Still, my brother and I feared our mother’s reaction to the news that she wouldn’t be coming home. Her fiery temper and colourful vocabulary are legendary. To a male nurse, she hissed, Get away from me. Your breath stinks. Smells like you’ve been eating… He didn’t stay around to hear the rest. And to a nurse’s assistant, That’s the ugliest haircut I’ve ever seen on a living human being. The young woman left in tears.

With her number of insured days in the hospital exhausted, I camouflaged the truth. Mother, can you hear me? She refused to wear her hearing aid. You’re leaving the hospital and going to a rehab facility where you can get stronger. She did nothing except stare at the ceiling.

On discharge day, we waited for the critical paperwork. At four o’clock, we learned that we’d have to transport Mother ourselves. No ambulance. No light sedative. No help from the case worker, either. In desperation, we called Gavin at Plantation Manor. Within twenty-five minutes, an ambulance and two jovial attendants arrived. They made jokes with Mother and called her darlin’. She laughed and patted one of them on the arm.

When she was settled into her room, she smiled. I like this place. I’m going to get better. Then she leaned forward. I’m gonna steal that TV. It’s nicer than mine. She was laughing as we left.

I expected to be relieved. Instead, I waited for the two a.m. phone call, for my mother’s other self (the part tainted by dementia) to emerge railing against being abandoned and imprisoned in some strange place full of strangers.

But I was touched by Grace. After a full night’s sleep, my first in almost two months, I smiled. Day Two offered a glimmer of hope.

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It was nothing more than a glimmer, a simple glimmer of hope that triggered my encounter with an angel at the Manor.

I peeped around the corner of Mother’s room. She seemed to be asleep, stretched out on the bed, blanket across her feet. She wore her favourite blue plaid blouse and knit pants. The faint scent of perfume lingered. Reluctant to wake her, I tiptoed a few steps forward and peered over the bed. She saw me immediately.

"Oh,