When my mom has an upcoming doctors appointment I try to get all lab work done a few days earlier, so the results will be available to the doctor at the time of our visit.
Well it started on Sunday, ending with Monday being one of my worst days in a while.
I had planned everything out in my mind, I left no stone unturned, and everything was to go smoothly, like clockwork. I reminded my mom on Sunday that we were going to the lab for tests.
“Mom, tomorrow after you get up and have your Ensure we need to go to the lab for blood work.”
“We’ll see how I feel in the morning.”
“Mom, we don’t have to go early, but we do need to go tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
She got up after ten, had her Ensure, then it happened, the beginning of one, of my worst days.
“Mom, its eleven-fifteen, why don’t you take a shower, and we can get to the lab before it gets hot?”
“I don’t feel like going today.”
“Well, I really don’t want to go either, but we need to.”
Since my mom’s wheelchair was dusty, I had Paul put the transport chair in the car, I normally don’t like to use it, while it’s lighter in weight, its harder for me to use, it has four wheels and is a higher profile, then a standard chair so it’s actually harder for me to control.
We got to the lab at twelve-thirty, no one in the waiting room, I checked her in;
“Did your mother fast, for twelve hours?”
“No, I wasn’t aware she was supposed to fast, she had Ensure this morning.”
“You need to come back another day, when she has fasted.”
(Yeah great, no problem, I’ll do this again tomorrow, have a nice day)
“Ok.”
“Mom, we have to come back tomorrow, I shouldn’t have given you the Ensure this morning.”
“You never get anything right.”
“Well, at least we can have a nice breakfast or lunch, then we’ll go get you a haircut.
“I’m letting my hair grow long, so I can wear it in a bun.”
“Mom, you can’t comb your hair now when its short, it needs to be cut.”
We, had breakfast, then I pulled into the parking lot for the beauty shop, she turns to me and says;
“I don’t want a haircut like yours, you look like a man.”
(What the hell)
“What?”
“Your hair is too short, you look like a man.”
“Mom, why do you always have to say hateful things, can’t you just say, I don’t want my hair as short as yours.”
“I did, I don’t want my hair short like a man’s.”
“Well, maybe you should cut it short like a man’s because now your sides are sticking out like Bozo the clown.” (Yes, I feel better.)
After they washed my mom’s hair, I get her back in the transport chair, I tell the stylist, she wants it short, but not as short as mine.
“WHAT, I SAID I DIDN’T WANT MY HAIR AS SHORT AS YOURS!”
“Mom, cool your jets, I said not as short as mine.”
The poor stylish just looked at us. I helped her into the chair, and then sat down by the window. After her hair was done, I put her back into the transport chair. Mom was already on me about the haircut. Another bad choice I made.
While I was paying, mom was complaining. I smiled and said “thank you, don’t worry being mean to me is her hobby, I’m used to it.”
I backed out the door, when I cleared her feet; I turned the transport chair so I could go down the ramp. I don’t know if I made a sharp turn on the ramp, or if the ramp was a little to steep for me, I could feel the hand grips coming out of my hands, Going forward I held onto the hand grips as hard as I could, but I couldn’t stay on my feet. I fell flat, legs behind me hands outstretched like superman, in flight. I must have slid four feet, but I never let go of my mom’s transport chair, I did however take her down with me. She was still safe in her chair sitting up looking at the sky; my tight grip broke off the handles on the chair. Thank God, she never felt the pavement, the wheels, my hands and my body kept her and her chair from slamming into the ground.
So here I was laying on the ground, crying, I felt as if I broke my fingers from the death grip I had, I felt as if I shattered my knee and my arms hurt. Then it happened my mom turned her head towards me, keep in mind she’s sitting in her chair facing the sky I’m flat on my face, crying;
“What were you thinking, letting me fall?”
“Mom, I fell.”
“Why did you drop me?”
“Mom, I didn’t drop you, I fell.”
“Why would you take me down with you?”
“Mom, if I let you go you would have ended up in the street.”
By then two hairstylists and two other people from the hamburger stand next door came out, it took all five of us to upright the chair. The whole time my mom kept saying “why did you drop me, why did you let me fall?”
They just looked at me and asked if I was ok, it was obvious to everyone but my mom that I was hurt. I got her in the car, drove home, honk the horn told my husband to get her butt out of the car, took off and drove around the block three times until I stopped crying.
I’m bruised, my knee is giving me trouble and I’m barely able to close my left hand, but mom is ok.
She did finally come out an hour and a half later and said;
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m alright.”
“I still don’t know why you dropped me?”
