Mother's Day

It has been a Mother's Day themed Saturday. I started the morning chatting with another soccer mom while watching our daughters play in the cold Spring air.  I reminded a soccer dad, also noting the chill, that we will all have a hard time conjuring up this momentary complaint of shivering when the summer humidity is showing us little mercy.  After the game, Imogen and I stopped off at the bank to close a custodial account for Imogen that included James's name on it. We are consolidated assets to prepare for the process of applying for medical benefits for James.  The women in the bank, working on a weekend morning, were discussing their Sunday mother's day plans. There were complaints of having to endure crowded restaurants and excitable grandchildren--it took everything I had not to tell them, treasure this Mother's Day--do not complain about the wealth of love in your family!  Do not jinx it!

James wants to go outside every day now.  I only have the authority to take him around inside the hospital. I need another special pass from the doctor to take him outside without a therapist or nurse with me.  I explained this to James on Friday but he did not recall it.  We agreed to take a tour of the atrium area of the hospital instead and the nurse told us about a special sitting room with trees and natural light on the seventh floor of the other building.  We had to go through what I like to think of as the strange elevator portal (fourth floor becomes the second floor, once you cross over from one building into the next).  We remembered the mental map by recalling the directions that included landmarks from Jack, the occupational therapist (notice the change of wood panel floors to linoleum, walk past the vending machines, dentist offices on your right, avoid the direction of the big yellow wall).

Imogen came along with us. Her presence makes James uneasy.  I think she signifies the responsibilities and obligations that James is not capable of tackling right now.  He intuitively wants to protect her and be responsible for her welfare but instead, he is the vulnerable one, the man in the wheelchair that has cognitive difficulties. He does not want to wear a mask or present a brave face to anyone because it exhausts and confuses him. James is unsure how to be around her.  He can only be one self.

I think we all take for granted how malleable our personalities are to fit appropriately in the different environments we encounter every day, whether it be professional, personal, or simply, out in the world.  I have so many interchanges throughout the day with a myriad of people--the principal at Imogen's school, the man that sells me hard boiled eggs from a food cart outside my office, the attorneys at the firm, the nurses at Mt. Sinai---on and on all day, changing gears, conversations--altering myself slightly each time.  It is all me but not the completely comfortable, eating-chocolate-cake-by-myself-in-front-of-the-tv me.  I am a rather transparent, consistent person by nature because I am a bit of a dolt with my social skills and somewhat incapable of being subtle.  Even so, I am constantly making adjustments.

James does not have command of such things right now.  Even his premorbid self had a tendency to become very involved with the person set before him to the exclusion of everything else.  His attention is very focused now and on an emotional level too. Small children are similar--they will become upset if another child is upset. James has a hard time keeping up with his own feelings and sense of self. It is difficult to even contemplate building a self with others projecting onto you.

Richard, one of James's fellow patients, stopped by his room today. Richard will be discharged on Thursday and he wanted to remind James that he was serious about wanting to take his class at the 92nd Street Y.  Richard excitedly began to talk about his experience at Mt. Sinai and group therapy--he truly found the experience enriching on a level that surprised him.  I could see that James was becoming overwhelmed by Richard's enthusiasm but he stayed with it as long as the visit lasted. After Richard left the room, James let out a sigh.  He said to me, "Wow, that was intense." 

I can only imagine how James will feel reconnecting with the variety of friends in his life.  James told me he was scared.  I told him he can take it as slow as he needs to go--he does not need to feel pressured to perform or behave in any way that is outside his realm of comfort. I told him he should practice telling people that he needs space or letting me know that he needs to remove himself from an environment.  Everyone will understand that cares for him that he will need to be around others in small doses. 

We recorded James giving mother's day messages to his mother and mine.  I think that will make them happy.  He really looks and sounds great now. I think my mother will be blown away!  When she last saw him, he was intubated and in intensive care.  He has come such a long way in just one month's time. 

Sending a message of peace and love out to all the mothers out there and to those mothers that have passed on--they remain with us in innumerable ways.