Still Scooter Pooping after all these years...
Hank, Ethan and I packed up on Friday afternoon and made the 8 hour drive to Birmingham, Alabama to visit Hank’s Mom.
Mary, aka, Gram.
I don’t know many people that can say this of their mother in law, but she has indeed become one of my most favorite people.
When Hank first took me to meet her, I really didn’t know what to expect.
Hank told me stories of a woman who was loving yet firm, strong willed and stubborn. Raised two boys to be good men by whatever means necessary when dealing with people twice your size.
“She still gets onto me if she thinks I’m getting out of line.” Hank tells me as we walk up to the drive to meet her. He is half joking and half serious.
I can’t determine if she is going to be an aged Mary Poppins or the woman off the Goonies.
Afraid?
A Little.
I’m meeting my future mother in law for Gods sake.
Hank senses my nervousness and wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side.
“Don’t worry, she’s gonna love ya.”
Right. That’s what they all say.
Hank slides his door key that allows him passage down into the hall where Mary’s room is.
“Remember…”
He starts,
“Ever since the stroke, she has not been able to say very much, just a few little words here and there. She will say a lot of gibberish that will not make any sense, but I can help you understand her, just be patient.”
We walk into her room and Hank greets her warmly,
“Mama, this… is Megan.”
There she sat, a plump, pretty, silver haired lady in a wheelchair.
I will never forget the look on her face.
Mary puts a feeble hand out toward me to pull me closer. Her red lipstick lined mouth is in a great big grin.
Her eyes are wide and bright, even though her mouth may not cooperate; her head knows what’s going on better than half the people I know.
“OOOOhhhh!”
She squeals and looks excitedly up at Hank.
“She’s pretty isn’t she Mamma?”
“YES!”
She says clear as day with a sweet southern drawl.
I later learn this is one word she uses well and often.
I just smile at her,
“Thank you.”
I say, feeling like a little girl.
I never know how to react in these situations, I feel hot and nervous at the attention.
Mary just beams at me, and squeezes my hand.
Hank tells her about our experiences that morning in Birmingham and Mary looks over at me frequently, just smiling, and squeezing my hand.
We take her to lunch and I soon learn how to have a conversation, asking her questions she has a better chance of answering with “yes” or “no” or pointing, sometimes even using little easy words.
Sometimes I ask complicated things and I get gibberish in return.
Since that meeting, I’ve gotten much better at talking to Mary, and I have come to “Love her to Death” as I put it to Hank.
I’ve also learned that much of our communication requires very little speech.
She is full of spunk and life, waving that finger and furrowing those eyebrows of disapproval when Hank does something she doesn’t like.
She is fun to be with and sweet and loving to both Ethan and I.
She has friends that come pick her up and they go off, “Scooter Pooping” as Hank calls it. They eat and shop and do their own thing till she’s tired and ready to come home.
The stroke left her disabled in many ways but she prefers her independence, even wanting to live at the nursing home so that she could have her own room and her own space as opposed to living in ‘someone else’s home’
She would rather pay people to take care of the intimate details than have her family do it.
I respect that.
I respect her.
Every time we leave, I ask Hank.
“Do you think she is ok?”
“Oh yes, he says, this is what she wanted. This is what makes her happy.”
Mary is a darling to me.
This last visit, she gave me something very special.
A charm bracelet from her trip to Europe the summer she graduated from the University of Alabama, 1955.
Her family gave her two choices, the trip or what was at the time, much more popular for a southern lady coming out – a Debutante Ball.
She chose the trip.
The bracelet is to me, a reminder of who she was and still is.
Her own woman.
Mary, aka, Gram.
I don’t know many people that can say this of their mother in law, but she has indeed become one of my most favorite people.
When Hank first took me to meet her, I really didn’t know what to expect.
Hank told me stories of a woman who was loving yet firm, strong willed and stubborn. Raised two boys to be good men by whatever means necessary when dealing with people twice your size.
“She still gets onto me if she thinks I’m getting out of line.” Hank tells me as we walk up to the drive to meet her. He is half joking and half serious.
I can’t determine if she is going to be an aged Mary Poppins or the woman off the Goonies.
Afraid?
A Little.
I’m meeting my future mother in law for Gods sake.
Hank senses my nervousness and wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side.
“Don’t worry, she’s gonna love ya.”
Right. That’s what they all say.
Hank slides his door key that allows him passage down into the hall where Mary’s room is.
“Remember…”
He starts,
“Ever since the stroke, she has not been able to say very much, just a few little words here and there. She will say a lot of gibberish that will not make any sense, but I can help you understand her, just be patient.”
We walk into her room and Hank greets her warmly,
“Mama, this… is Megan.”
There she sat, a plump, pretty, silver haired lady in a wheelchair.
I will never forget the look on her face.
Mary puts a feeble hand out toward me to pull me closer. Her red lipstick lined mouth is in a great big grin.
Her eyes are wide and bright, even though her mouth may not cooperate; her head knows what’s going on better than half the people I know.
“OOOOhhhh!”
She squeals and looks excitedly up at Hank.
“She’s pretty isn’t she Mamma?”
“YES!”
She says clear as day with a sweet southern drawl.
I later learn this is one word she uses well and often.
I just smile at her,
“Thank you.”
I say, feeling like a little girl.
I never know how to react in these situations, I feel hot and nervous at the attention.
Mary just beams at me, and squeezes my hand.
Hank tells her about our experiences that morning in Birmingham and Mary looks over at me frequently, just smiling, and squeezing my hand.
We take her to lunch and I soon learn how to have a conversation, asking her questions she has a better chance of answering with “yes” or “no” or pointing, sometimes even using little easy words.
Sometimes I ask complicated things and I get gibberish in return.
Since that meeting, I’ve gotten much better at talking to Mary, and I have come to “Love her to Death” as I put it to Hank.
I’ve also learned that much of our communication requires very little speech.
She is full of spunk and life, waving that finger and furrowing those eyebrows of disapproval when Hank does something she doesn’t like.
She is fun to be with and sweet and loving to both Ethan and I.
She has friends that come pick her up and they go off, “Scooter Pooping” as Hank calls it. They eat and shop and do their own thing till she’s tired and ready to come home.
The stroke left her disabled in many ways but she prefers her independence, even wanting to live at the nursing home so that she could have her own room and her own space as opposed to living in ‘someone else’s home’
She would rather pay people to take care of the intimate details than have her family do it.
I respect that.
I respect her.
Every time we leave, I ask Hank.
“Do you think she is ok?”
“Oh yes, he says, this is what she wanted. This is what makes her happy.”
Mary is a darling to me.
This last visit, she gave me something very special.
A charm bracelet from her trip to Europe the summer she graduated from the University of Alabama, 1955.
Her family gave her two choices, the trip or what was at the time, much more popular for a southern lady coming out – a Debutante Ball.
She chose the trip.
The bracelet is to me, a reminder of who she was and still is.
Her own woman.
Labels: birmingham, charm bracelet, disabled, long term care, mary, stroke
posted by Megan Champion at
10:19 AM
1 Comments:
That is truely my mama. She is and will be her own woman as much as God will allow her to be till the day she dies.
Champ
Post a Comment
<< Home