Mom Is Making Progress—and Apparently I’m Her Husband Now

This morning after dialysis, I went to visit Mom at the skilled nursing facility.

When I got to her room, she wasn't there.

That's actually a good thing.

She was doing rehab.

I was told that Mom is making progress, which was great to hear. She still needs someone blocking her left leg because it continues to buckle, but progress is progress.

After everything that's happened, I'll take it.

Eventually, Mom made her way back to the room.

And that's when today's visit took a turn I wasn't prepared for.

There's a New Roommate

Mom got a new roommate on Saturday.

Her previous roommate, Jenny, left last Monday. I don't know the name of the new roommate yet, but I do know that she broke her hip, had surgery, and is now there recovering.

The new roommate came into the room while I was there.

There was some banter.

I'm not particularly good at banter, but I participated.

She mentioned that she's also hard of hearing, so apparently Mom and her new roommate already have something in common.

Everything was going fine.

Normal conversation.

Normal skilled nursing facility visit.

And then she looked at us and asked a question:

“Is that your husband?”

Excuse me?

I'm sorry.

What?

GROSS!!!!

I believe there are moments in life when the human brain protects itself by temporarily refusing to process information.

This was one of those moments.

Of all the possible relationships she could have guessed...

Son?

Nephew?

Relative?

Friend?

Random bald guy who wandered into the wrong room after dialysis?

Nope.

Husband.

I guess...Good for Mom?

Once I recovered from the initial trauma, I had another thought.

I guess that's a compliment to Mom?

Maybe?

Apparently, she looks young enough to be my husband.

Good for her.

Unfortunately, that means the other half of the equation is that I apparently look old enough to be married to my mother.

Not good for me.

I'm choosing to focus on Mom's rehab progress instead.

She's working.

She's improving.

Her left leg still needs support, but she's moving in the right direction.

She has a new roommate.

And apparently, sometime between dialysis and walking into the skilled nursing facility, I aged several decades.

Anyway, I'll be back.

I need a few minutes to clean the vomit out of my mouth.

Then maybe I'll introduce myself properly to the new roommate.

“Hi. I'm Niel. Her SON.”

Let's make sure we've got that established early.

My Mother Is a Horrible Patient

My mother is a horrible patient. The irony of the word “patient” is not lost on me.

When I was in the hospital, I hardly used the call button. Yesterday, during the roughly three hours I spent visiting my mother, she used hers four times. Clearly, we have different approaches to that button.

Today, I tried to explain that she’s in a facility where everyone needs help, and more people need assistance than there are people available to provide it.

She told me she needed help right away.

I pointed out that everyone asking for help probably feels they need it right away, too. Staff has to work through those requests. She needs to have some patience.

Now, I’m not suggesting she shouldn’t ask for help when she needs it. That’s what the button is for. But needing assistance and expecting someone to appear immediately are two different things. That was the point I was trying to make.

Apparently, a different message arrived.

When we got to her room, her roommate asked how she was doing.

My mother replied, “My son said I’m a bitch.”

“What??? I didn’t say that.”

There’s quite a distance between “You need to have more patience” and what she told her roommate. Somehow, my mother covered it in record time.

I explained to her roommate that I had said she needed to be more patient because she was in a place where everyone required help. That was the conversation. No name-calling. No insult.

My mother has always had a tendency to tell stories that, from where I’m standing, aren’t based on the facts. This time, I was right there to hear myself become the villain in a conversation I’d actually participated in.

I understand that needing help is frustrating. Waiting when you’re uncomfortable can feel endless. I can sympathize with that and still wish she’d recognize that the people helping her are also helping everyone else.

And I’d appreciate it if, when quoting me, she used something I actually said.

I went there trying to explain patience to my mother. By the time we reached her room, I was getting a lesson in how much of it I still needed.