The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 20: "Don't Do Much All Day Except Relax"

Dad calls me at home. Mom fell on the way to her bedroom. The second time in three weeks. Since he hasn't the strength to lift her, he asks if I'd drive over and help him get her to bed. I'm in the middle of dinner but promise to leave right away.

"Don't ruin your dinner." Rachel is annoyed because we had plans to watch a movie together. "I hope this doesn't become a habit."

The deluge of rain makes driving difficult and doesn't improve my mood. I remind myself to replace my windshield wipers before I have an accident.

Mom has fallen several times in the last year, usually on stairs. She's never hurt herself and, until recently, Dad has been able to help her up. Leslie and I had hoped that moving to an apartment would prevent these falls. Apparently not.

Forty minutes later, I reach the apartment. I use my spare key rather than ring the bell. I don't want to disturb Dad if he's sitting on the floor holding Mom's hand. Instead, from the entry hall, I find him in his recliner.

"Where's Mom?" I'm annoyed the emergency is over, and I've made the trip for no reason.

He points down the hall where Mom lies on the floor covered with a blanket. Her head rests on a pillow, her eyes are closed. For a horrible moment, I think she's dead.

"Is that you, Mark?"

"Are you in pain?" I kneel beside her. "Does your neck hurt?"

"I'm fine." She acts as if she's been forced to lie there against her will. "I tripped on the rug—"

Dad interrupts. "Because you refuse to use your walker. This is what happens."

"I'm sorry I'm late." I take her hand. "Did you think you'd spend the night on the floor?"

"I could have fallen asleep if your father had turned off the hall light shining in my eyes."

We lift Mom and help her into the bathroom. Her nightgown is damp and smells of urine. I return with a clean one from her bureau, hand it to Dad, and close the door. While waiting, I lie back on Mom's bed and close my eyes. I hear water running into the tub. When the bathroom door opens, I jump up and help maneuver her into bed. Dad counts out her pills, while I fetch a glass of water. "Better than sleeping on the floor," she says, yawning. I wish her goodnight.

Dad turns off her light and joins me in the living room. "Thanks for coming over." He's relieved, but his face shows how worried he's been.

"No big deal." I wonder how often he'll call me in the future. I can't run over once or twice a week to raise the HMS Queen Harriet. And one of these days, a fall will be serious.

I call Leslie the next day and suggest we hire a home health aide for the evenings. "She can give Mom a bath and help her get ready for bed."

***

When Leslie and I visit the next Saturday, Mom is taking a nap. The perfect opportunity to discuss our idea with Dad. But when we suggest an aide, he acts surprised. "We're not at that point yet."

Leslie will brook no excuses. "We will be if Mom starts falling on a regular basis."

Dad waves his hand dismissively. "The other night only happened because she didn't use her walker. She's trying to prove she doesn't need it."

"You need to insist." Leslie tries to be calm. "She'll fracture her hip if she doesn't use it."

Dad throws up his arms. "She won't listen to me—"

"Dad, you can't expect Mark to be available every time you call—"

"The home aide will take the burden off you," I interrupt, before Leslie or Dad lose their tempers. I don't want him to think I'm unwilling to help. "You'll be more relaxed in the evening."