by Kathy Brasby | Dec 19, 2014 | Seasons
The lamp burst to life, blasting light into Josie’s sleeping eyes. She awoke and glanced at the clock. 1:34 am. She’d slept an hour.
The blanket held her in a warm embrace but Josie broke free.
She shuffled into her mother’s bedroom. “Do you need to go to the bathroom again?” At 83, her mother was wheelchair bound and unable to get out of bed on her own. Josie did the lifting and transferring. But they’d been up at 11:47 and 12:29. Surely there couldn’t be much left.
Mom rolled her head on the pillow. “No, not this time.”
Josie settled onto the edge of Mom’s bed and adjusted her blanket, pulling the sheet under her chin. Just like her mother had done when tucking her into bed as a little girl. She laid her hand against her mother’s cheek, like her mother had done a thousand times. “Are you sure?” She really didn’t want to get up in another hour.
“I’m sure.”
Josie tried to clear sleep fog out of her brain. “Well, why am I up then if you don’t need anything?”
“I just thought you ought to know.”
Josie kissed her mother on the cheek, just like her mother had done to her so many times in the past, and padded to the cooling sheets. Better get to sleep before that lamp burst to life again.
Just like it would do a thousand times.
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 12, 2014 | Seasons
Marshall gripped the arms of the walker. “I don’t like this thing,” he growled at his wife as he shuffled toward the front door.
“The therapist said you needed to use it.”
Marshall didn’t answer. He lifted the walker onto the step and drug his foot onto the concrete. “It ain’t so easy, you know.”
Nora didn’t answer him. She waited until he had gotten into the house before she drove their car into the garage.
“So when’s that gal supposed to come again?” Marshall had dropped into the recliner as Nora came into the kitchen from the garage.
“Lisa? The physical therapist?”
“Who else?”
“Any time now. That’s why we needed to hurry and get home.”
Marshall grunted. “She makes me work awfully hard. This is not easy, you know.”
When the doorbell rang, Marshall called to Nora. “Hey, hey, she’s here. Don’t keep her waiting.”
Lisa entered in a flurry of bags and papers, her blond hair cute and her clothes stylish. She smiled at Marshall. “You look great this afternoon. Are you ready for me to work you hard?”
“Sure.” Marshall smiled at her. “Anything you say.”
Lisa had a full slate of exercises for Marshall and they worked together for almost 45 minutes. “All right,” she said. “That’s enough for today. I’ll be back on Tuesday. You rest now. Get a good drink of water.”
“I think I’ll do that.” Marshall grinned until she closed the door behind herself. “She worked me hard today.”
“I watched her closely,” Nora said. “I think that I’ll be able to help you with those exercises when she’s finished with her time.”
“Huh,” Marshall narrowed his eyes. “I’ll just need to rest then.”
“You’ll work for her but not for me?”
Marshall leaned back in his chair. “I may be old and tired but I’m not blind.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 5, 2014 | Seasons
The woman’s voice was urgent. “Your mother’s levels are too high and she needs shots to prevent blood clots. I’ve ordered the medication already.”
Jenny’s phone felt like a brick in her hand. She didn’t understand most of the words the woman spoke. Medical terms that meant little.
But what landed was the next instruction. “You’ll give her injections every day for two weeks and then we’ll test her blood again. When can you pick up the prescription?”
Injections? Blood tests? She would give the injections?
“We need to get this started today.” The woman on the phone added some instructions for the injections. Jenny’s mind caught half of the instructions because injections kept ricocheting in her brain.
“Call me if you have any questions,” the woman said. And then she was gone and Jenny had only the ricochets to deal with.
Two hours later, Jenny held the package of syringes in her hands. She pulled one out, an odd little combo with a spring in the middle of the syringe.
“I am supposed to inject this right into your tummy,” Jenny said. Her mother studied the apparatus.
“Well, let’s get it done, then.”
Tears prickled in Jenny’s eyes. Her mother lay on the bed, her stomach exposed. Her skin was soft and thin around her belly button.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to do this.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine. Just go.”
Jenny’s arm seemed heavy. She took a deep breath. Fourteen of these to give her mother?
She pressed the needle against skin and the syringe seemed to gain a life of its own, injecting and popping away in an instant.
“All right,” her mother said. “Got that done for today. Let’s go get some dinner started.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“Well, you do what you have to do.”
As Jenny helped her mother to the kitchen, she knew that that’s exactly what they had just done. But that didn’t make it easy.
They marched on.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 21, 2014 | Seasons
A salt shaker was the last thing on my mind but it lasted the longest.
“You need kitchen things,” my mother told me. “You can’t move into an apartment without those.”
I was a sophomore in college and outfitting a kitchen wasn’t high on my list. But we spent time that summer shopping thrift stores.
I found four melamine plates, some scarred table ware, and two dented pans. Good enough for me.
I checked off that project.
I managed to squeeze in a week’s visit to my grandmother’s house with Mom.
The topic of my apartment came up.
“You need kitchen things,” my grandmother said.
That sounded really familiar.
But she didn’t say any more until dinner time. As we sat around her table with the savory scent of roast beef drifting from the serving plate, she handed me a little bundle.
These are the actual shakers from my grandmother.
“You can have these for your new kitchen,” she said.
I opened the bundle. Two salt shakers. One with a red screw-on lid, one with a clear lid pressed on. But both had a kind of crystal look to them.
“They almost match,” she said.
And, with my kitchen outfit, they really did.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 14, 2014 | Seasons
The flowers felt like a brick in Chuck’s hand as he walked the hospital hallway to his father’s room. Why had he brought flowers? Dad would mock that choice.
Maybe things had changed.
Chuck stepped into Dad’s room. His father’s thin frame only added some wrinkles to the blankets. His head was small against the pillows. How many tubes and wires were hooked up to him?
“Dad?” Chuck stepped to the foot of the bed.
His father opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“Dad, it’s Chuck.” He leaned a little closer. How did one navigate through all these monitors?
Dad groaned. “Water.“
“I brought you flowers. I thought maybe we could reconnect a little. Darcy said you were —“ How could he tell his father what Darcy had said? That there wasn’t much time left.
“Water.”
“What? Oh.” Chuck searched for a cup. Nothing. “Dad, I wanted to get things right between us.” He looked down at the flowers, wishing he had written down his speech. “I was angry for you for the way— well, the way you used to insult me. You didn’t believe in me. I was angry. I shouldn’t have left but I did.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m back. We can clear the air before—“
“Water.”
A nurse bustled into the room. “Mr. Jones, let’s get you something.” She took a swab, dipped it into a container, and painted his tongue with a gel. “That should help.”
Chuck stared. “Can he talk?”
“Not really.”
Chuck needed him to talk. He needed his father’s apology. His father’s blessing. That wasn’t going to happen now. No reconciliation.
“We’re keeping him comfortable now,” the nurse said.
Chuck held out the flowers. “Could you put those where he can see them? And—“ He glanced down at his father’s still face. “And could you show me how to swab his tongue?”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 7, 2014 | Seasons
Ira shifted the tools in his box, sorting the pliers by length and putting the wrenches in order by size.
“Hey, Dad, what are you doing?” His daughter settled into a chair beside him and leaned over the table.
“Just getting organized,” he said.
“I had an idea for you,” Cheryl said. She pulled a big box onto the table and lifted the lid. “Justin got this but he’s never finished it. I thought you might like to give it a try.”
Cheryl pulled the framework for a dollhouse from the box and set it on the table. Then she lifted assorted pieces and parts. “Would you like to build this dollhouse?”
“Sure,” Ira said. “I can do that.” He’d rebuilt engines and problem-solved his way through a a balky hay swather. He’d kept all his machines running for his whole life. He’d done most of the finish work on their new home he’d put up years ago. A dollhouse was no problem.
But his hands trembled as he picked up the tiny pieces. Where was this rod supposed to go? Were there pieces for the roof? He saw the instruction sheet but the words just swam before his eyes.
He pushed a wooden block against round edge. It looked like trim but it didn’t fit right.
And where was this flat piece of wood supposed to go? On the roof? On the front step? Was there a front step?
Ira pushed the pieces away from him. He saw his tools in the box, neatly ordered. He closed the lid of the toolbox. “Take this to Justin. I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry.”
Cheryl hugged him. “I’m sorry, too, Dad. I thought you’d enjoy this but it’s not important.”
He cried that day. So did Cheryl.
Some chapters close hard.
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