There are times Mom is perfectly lucid and it’s as though the accident never happened. Those are the good days. Where I have my mother back, even if I know it’s fleeting. Then there are the days when she’s belligerent, angry, and hateful because her mind won’t work correctly and she misses my dad.
Most of the time, this is the mother I have, though. The one who is partially still her, warm, loving, and understanding, only she can’t function fully.
I walk over to the calendar in the living room, writing today’s agenda so she can see it easily. I put the approximate hours that I’ll be at work, when I’ll stop in for lunch to check on things, and that I’ll be out for dinner, but I’ll come by after.
“Mom, can you pay attention to me for a minute?”
Her blue eyes meet mine, and she puts the remote down. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I squat in front of her, taking her hand in mine. “Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to go over your day with you again.”
Every day, for the last six years, is identical to the last. I say the same things, show her the same routine, keep everything exactly in the same place, and prepare for the next day.
“Are you leaving? You’re not driving, are you?”
I give her a reassuring smile. “I’m going to be fine. I drive every day.”
Her breathing accelerates. “I can’t go.”
“I know, you’re not going anywhere,” I say, doing my best to reassure her.
She releases a shaky sigh, and I watch the panic recede from her eyes. “I can’t go in the car, Everett.”
“Mom, you’re not going anywhere.”
Six years ago, my parents were driving home from a school charity event when my father went off the road. The car tumbled, end over end, until finally coming to a stop in a ditch. We aren’t sure how long the car sat like that, my mother going in and out of consciousness as she screamed her throat raw for my father.
Since the accident, I’ve done everything I can to give her the best life possible. We’ve gone to every specialist that handles traumatic brain injuries, hoping there’s an answer or a glimmer of hope she’ll return to the way she was, but there’s no guidebook for this type of injury.
We just have to wait and hope.
“Okay, because I can’t. I can’t go in a car. I can’t die. I can’t.” Her voice trembles and I move forward, squeezing her hand.
“Look at me,” I say sternly. Her eyes meet mine. “You are okay. You aren’t going in the car. Do you see what it says on the calendar?”
Mom stares at it—it sits in her line of sight—but she often forgets it’s there or why it’s there.
“You have work?” she asks.
I nod.
“Then you’ll come here for lunch, and then you’re going to dinner with a friend.”
“See? I’ll come by a few times.”
“Are you going out with Hazel?”
This is the worst part of her injury. She will probably forget what I tell her in an hour, or maybe she won’t even recall it at all. “Yes.”
“Oh, good, she’s a very good friend.”
I smile. “Yes, she is.”
Mom taps the top of my hand. “Did you come here yesterday?”
“I did. I was a little late because I had to help a friend. Do you remember Violet?”
My mother’s eyes soften and her smile grows. “Doreen’s granddaughter? Oh, is she here? Did she come to visit?”
