getting dressed by myself

I think about my mother in the last days of her life. About a year ago, her decline increased and in a month we would move her from Cascades apts. which she shared with dad, to the Golden Days home. In the end, she couldn't dress herself, barely wanted to eat. About two weeks before she died, I had made her famous spaghetti for Aron's birthday and he, like her, wanted white cake with caramel frosting for his birthday, soI brought both for her to eat. I had to feed her like the baby she was becoming: preparing for a second birth. She opened her mouth for the red sauce, juices forming around her lip and she licked them with a smile. When it came to the sweet cake, her mouth opened wider, greedily, taking in the last real meal she would have. Only now, do I begin to understand how she felt giving up the daily rituals she clung to in her final years in Green Valley and then, here, in Tucson.

I think about the early years of dressing my baby boy. I would pick out his clothes, his booties, later socks and shoes. Oshkosh was my favorite brand and he had no choice. Later, he would dress himself and make his own clothes purchases. Like my mother, he enjoys shopping for clothes and he is almost as "persnickety" as she is about what he wants.

I have a limited selection these days: the pants have to fit over a cast and be easy to slip on and off. With spring warming, I can skip a camisole (bras are buried in my drawers for work meetings only) and slip on a tshirt and, of course, only one shoe. But for the past two weeks, Mark had to help me get my clothes on and sometimes I just opted to sleep in day clothes--too much bother to go through the movements twice each day.

Last night, after my shower/bath, I wore pj's to bed and dressed myself this morning. I wonder if, like my mother, I will recover to a place slightly below where I was or if I will return renewed and stronger. It was hard to watch her age and diminish and I hope, while no longer in my prime, my diminishing abilities won't be noticeable yet. But, like much of what I am learning in this recovery process, I can only do the "footwork." Dressing myself is a step forward and I will appreciate the small victories as they come.

My 91 year old dad is looking forward to swimming again at the Cascades and I will be checking out the City's theraputic pool tomorrow to see if it can be a good transition between homebound and getting to the Y. There's some merit in being raised in a midwestern home where my mom was a farmer's daughter and my dad was a 1st generation Italian, honed from peasant stop near D'Aquila, Italy. We don't break easily and we are persistent in our living.