The first fall

I was ever-so-thankful for the extra quiet time on this cold, rainy and raw morning.

I would have loved nothing more than to have gone back to my nice, warm bed for an hour or so, too.

But my mother-in-law Jane had back-to-back visits scheduled with her physical therapist and her occupational therapist. These two ladies have been coming to my house once a week for the past three months, teaching Jane ways to be more independent and less dependent on us.

They've shown her how to get into and out of chairs properly, how to go to the bathroom alone, how to get out of the bed without help, how to manuver around my cramped house with too much furniture and two crazy dogs. Given her exercises to strengthen what little muscle she has left.

And they have helped tremendously.

Just two weeks ago, Jane could not get out of her bed at all. In fact, she couldn't even sit up in it. She has no strength in her arms. At all. Not enough to push herself up to a sitting position.

So just last week, I got her a rail that attaches to the side of the bed. On the second try, she managed to use her stronger arm to pull herself up and push her legs over the side of the bed. Then she would use the handy beeper we bought her to summon me to come help her up.

Today she got ambitious.

Today she decided to get up. She pulled herself up and, before putting her beeper necklace on, she tried to stand. In her white socked feet. On my hardwood floor.

She slid. Right to her butt.

And while I sat in my living room, scanning the Internet news of the day and enjoying the last few minutes of quiet before becoming her waitress and nursemaid, she sat on the floor in her bedroom, trying to yell loud enough that I could hear her.

I finally did. I kinda knew something was wrong when she didn't beep.

I found her sitting on the floor, her back to the bed, holding on to the rail for dear life, a look of terror in her eyes. I wonder if she saw the terror in mine.

"Are you hurt,"  I asked her.

"No. Just my butt hurts from hitting the floor."

I saw no blood. No bruises. No tears. Well, maybe the start of a few tears.

I pulled her to standing. A little harshly, perhaps. Yes, I admit it. I was a little angry at her. Like the mom who wants to kill her kid after he almost gets hit by the car.  She had done something stupid. Something scary. Something that could have been tragic.

She could wear little socks that have rubber skids on the bottom, but she says the rubber bumps her her feet. She does have neuropathy. But she could wear them until she can get her slippers on, don't you think?

She wants a rug at the side of the bed. I'm afraid a rug will trip her.

"I'd rather trip than slide," she says.

And I want to strangle her.

This was the first fall on my watch. The first almost. The first near-miss. It made me want to cry too.

Just beep me

Well, I thought I was doing us a favor.

Just days after my mother-in-law, Hurricane Jane, moved in with us from her assisted living center (she needed too much assistance, they said), The Coach and I discovered that baby monitors are, indeed, meant for babies. They are meant to keep a watchful ear (or eye, if you dole out the extra money) on cute, sweet little babies who make soft, sweet cooing noises at night. NOT 82-year-old grandmothers who moan, and groan, and snore, and fart, and have to get up to pee every hour and a half.

We learned this after about the second night of no sleep. For any of us. And after about the third day of her calling into midair for my husband, "Mawty" or simply, "Help!" and expecting us to come running. Let's just say it got real old, real quick.

So, Internet junkie that I am, I scoured the webs for an alternative. I quickly found one at this web site called Activeforever.com.   Think of it as a BabiesRUs for old people. Seriously. It has everything you could possibly think of to make life a little easier for senior citizens and those who end up taking care of them. Including this handy dandy little gadget.

It's a pager. Grandma wears the button part around her neck. When she needs "Help!" she can just push the button and the pager will beep or buzz. We were so excited.

For about a minute.

After insisting, "I'm not using that," Grandma got the hang of the button really quickly. And it was cute. We turned the monitors off and got a GREAT night's sleep on Friday.

Then came the weekend. While I was off covering volleyball, and the person we hired to help us during the week had the weekend off, The Coach was on Grandma Duty.

He spent the day Saturday answering her every "Beep."

"I want ice cream."

"I'm finished with my ice cream."

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"I'm hot."

"I'm cold."

"My butt hurts."

At one point, she beeped him from across the room.

"I didn't think you'd hear me," she said.

By the time I got home Saturday evening, half the Bourbon in the house was gone and The Coach was ready to smash that pager to smithereens.

Then came Sunday.

While The Coach and I sat in our living room watching the New Orleans Saints destroy the Atlanta Falcons (WHO DAT!) and my fantasy football team, The Lyons Lions, score mucho points, Grandma sat in her room with her button.

Which she pressed 18 times. Between the hours of 10 a.m. and 11 p.m.

18 times.

I know because he kept track. He kept score is more like it.

She wanted toast.

She wanted in her chair.

She wanted out of the chair.

She wanted to go to the bathroom.

She wanted bologna.

She was done with the bologna.

She wanted socks.

She wanted back in the chair.

She needed to go to the bathroom.

18 times.


By the end of the day, The Coach was ready to stick that button where the sun never shines and I think he was ready to kill me for finding it in the first place.

"I thought I had done good," I said.

He just shook his head in wonder.

At least we slept good. But we need more Bourbon.