ALSO BY JOY ROSS DAVIS Emalyn’s Treasure The Devereaux Jewel
mother, can you hear me? Copyright Š 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 ISBN: 978-1-947727-58-8 Visit the publisher at: www.bhcpress.com Also available in ebook
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.
DAY ONE
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ursing 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 9
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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, cableready 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. 10
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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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DAY TWO
I
t 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, Joy,” she cried, “how did you find me? Get me out of here!” Her hands trembled, her voice quivered. She came to life in tears. “Look here.” She lifted the edge of her blanket. “They’ve got me strapped into this bed. I can’t even move. Please,” she sobbed, “get me out of here. I’m a prisoner.” I felt a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat. 12
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“It’s all right.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “You’re not strapped in. You’re okay. This is a hospital.” She whimpered then gritted her teeth. “What do you know? You think you know everything, don’t you?” Her voice got louder. “What kind of daughter are you that you’d abandon your own mother in a place like this?” She was yelling now. “You’re sorry, you hear me? Sorry as the scum of the earth!” I thought I had become accustomed to the sting of her words, but I was wrong. She can’t help it, I told myself. It’s just her way. She doesn’t really mean it. Still, I fought to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. Then a young CNA came bouncing by and stuck her head in the door. When she saw the expression on my face, she came in and stood by my mother’s bed. “Mrs. Frawley,” she said in a sweet Southern drawl, “is something wrong? Can I help you with anything?” “Oh, Laura,” my mother said, “I’m so glad you came!” The sobs vanished. A broad grin spread across her face. She pointed a finger at me. “This is my daughter.” The CNA’s name tag read, “Brittany.” “Mrs. Frawley, is something wrong? Can I get anything for you?” As she talked, she stroked my mother’s hand. “No, Laura, I’m fine. Just visiting.” The young woman bent down and hugged my mother. “You sure do smell good.” My mother giggled. “You’re so beautiful,” she said. Brittany straightened the covers, plumped the pillows, and positioned the tray so that Mother could reach it. As she 13
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worked, she glanced over at me. “Do you know who Laura is?” she asked quietly. Suddenly, I remembered. “Laura was one of the nurses who cared for my mom at UAB hospital. Mother loved her so much.” Brittany smiled. “Oh, how sweet. She thinks I’m Laura.” “Sister!” my mother yelled, “can I go home with you tonight?” I leaned close to her. “As soon as you’re stronger.” I touched her arm. “Mother, can you hear me? I said you could go home as soon as you’re better.” But she wasn’t paying attention to me. She was smiling up at Laura. “Okay,” she said then cut her eyes in my direction. “You’re not gonna snitch, are you? We sneaked out of here a little while ago and walked out on the front porch. We sat in one of those big white rocking chairs, didn’t we, Laura. Had the best time.” Brittany shrugged then grinned. I smiled at her. By whatever name, she was sweet, kind, and loving, and in her face, my mother saw not the face of a nurse, but the face of an angel. Her very own guardian angel. We’d both been touched by Grace, my mother and I.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Joy Ross Davis is of Irish descent and a student of the lore and magic found in the hills of Tennessee. After a twenty-five year career as a college English professor, she traveled to Ireland and worked as a writer and photographer, publishing numerous travel articles and photos for an Irish travel agency. She has been a contributing feature writer for a local newspaper and has published articles in Southern literary magazines. She lives in Alabama with her son and beloved dogs. She loves to speak at conferences, book club meetings, and events to share her connection with angels and the stories behind her books. Visit her at:
www.joyrossdavis.com & www.bhcpress.com