First Day of Fall, and All

(note to family. everything turned out okay.)



Today, I was the cinnamon roll maker for our Saturday morning family breakfast.



I woke up unable to use my left hand. I slept with my wrist splints on, hoping that would cure me over night. It did not.



THGGM graciously opened everything that I needed to have opened. It's easy to get help with the smell of warm cinnamon rolls filling the house. Setting them under the ceiling fan in the kitchen helped to get them noticed.



After a scrumptiously delightful breakfast, THGGM and I went to our favorite thrift store. He found a perfect little Ethan Allen lamp and a knitted baby sweater. I rounded up the usual suspects that always bring me joy. Stuff. Old books to read, including the Complete Adventures of the Borrowers, and The Cost of Discipleship. A flower press book, a clock book for Jonge and some jewelry to take apart rounded out my finds.



THGGM has to work this weekend. It is inventory time. So, I brought him to work so that I could have a car for getting me to work, to more shopping and to arrange my mom and dad's meds for the week.



After dropping THGGM off for work, inventory being something that he actually enjoys doing, I drove to Michael's to use my 50% off coupon before it expired. My new collection is photo storage boxes. They happened to be 2 for $3 this week. For me, it's all about the plain brown ones, so I can embellish them as I deem necessary. I also found a 6x6 photo album to make an ABC book for Jonge (okay. so by the time i actually do this he will be 16 and fluent in all things alphabet.)

I was planning to go directly to work, but instead stopped home to unload my goods. While there I listened to messages. I NEVER do this. I'm BAD at listening to messages. I do it, but usually at the end of the day. But, today, I was wondering if Daughter had called. So I listened to my voice mail.

There was only one. It was from my dad.

This is what he said:

"This is dad. I need help with your mom. Mom needs help."

I'd only been gone for an hour, so I looked at the time, and he had called just two minutes ago.

I jumped back into the car to make the short trip over. I kept running into road blocks.

When I arrived, he met me at the door.

Not an emergency, really.

My mom had taken a bath, and was unable to get out. Apparently, he had been trying for quite sometime, but she just could not get out.

My left arm was still just a dangling appendage and I only use my right one for typing and piano playing. Mom didn't need a typist or a song played for her, so I was no help at all. Except, of course, I provided moral support. Well. Actually, I laughed. That's because she said to me, "I bet you didn't think you'd be seeing THIS much of me this week." Um, no.

Since my dad had been unable to reach me, he did the only thing he could think to do. He called 911.

What does one do when someone is stuck in a bathtub? I could tell that nothing was wrong with my mom, except that she could not get up. Do you stand there and converse with them, or try to be reassuring from a distance? While pondering that, my mom said, "So. What are we doing for Christmas?" Really, mom. Do you want to talk about this, now? For someone with Alzheimer's who had missed their last two nights of medication she was rather clear-headed.

I, on the other hand (the other hand that isn't dangling uselessly), couldn't remember how to even conjure up a clear thought.

Soon two very strong women appeared and in no time at all had my mom seated comfortably on a dining room chair.

It was not long before she was clothed and in her right mind.

"Well. THAT was certainly embarrassing!" was her only comment about it.

After my dad had caught his breath, he left to go pick up some groceries.

I filled their medications for the week and life went on as usual. My mom and I sat at the table and discussed what we plan to do for Christmas. This is what we talk about the most, lately. I don't mind. It's a subject I enjoy.

I stayed around for awhile to make sure everyone was as okay as they can be, and then I went to work. The hum of a good vacuum is excellent therapy.

Back home, I picked up "The Cloister Walk" by Kathleen Norris and held it firmly in my good right hand.

Soon, Daughter arrived. Surrounded by the happy noise of Jonge and the adorable sideways smiles of Famke, order was restored to my topsy-turvy little world.