nursing home Archives - Jessica Ferguson

Well, here I am in Longview, TX because of an Emergency with my mom. This time yesterday I was trying to think of a D-word, never giving my E-word a second thought.

I don’t like the word Emergency. It’s never a good thing whether it’s with a loved one or a manuscript. Right? E-mer-gen-cy. It doesn’t roll off my tongue; it sort of shuffles, stumbles, feeling awkward. Such an unpleasant word.

My mom is in a nursing home and was hit with a bladder infection, a stomach virus and bronchitis. That’s enough to knock anyone for a loop, much less a little old woman who

just turned 90. So when my brother called this morning to tell me Mom wanted to go to the hospital, that she wanted her kids there and for him to find her Last Will and Testament, I hopped in the car and headed to Texas. She’s never been prone to that kind of drama! Well, maybe she has. The pic at the right was taken a few months ago. I told her my daughter and some of her friends were coming to visit her so she practiced posing.

Anyway, by the time I got to the nursing home today (a 4 1/2 hour drive), she was somewhat better, no need for a hospital–just her two kids. She perked up a little and tried to entertain us with her wit but I could tell it was an act.

So, Emergency is the word for the weekend–as much as I hate to use it. I’d certainly prefer Eccentric which sounds fascinating to me. Or Easy money which always sounds tempting but really, just a fantasy. Even Elephant sounds more delightful.

Emergency – I don’t wish my E-word on any of you. May all your friends and loved ones have a good and safe weekend, and I pray you have no Emergencies.

I’ll see you Monday with a much better word! Promise!

I am blogging my way through the alphabet with others who are doing the same..
Please support the bloggers of the #AtoZchallenge by visiting, sharing or commenting. It’s fun!

I’ve learned a lot during this A to Z Challenge—and believe me, it has been a challenge. Writing about my family has taught me how to pick through memory clutter and mold experiences (sometimes unpleasant ones) into entertaining, colorful stories. As a result, I’ve realized my childhood memories weren’t as unpleasant as I’d originally thought; they were just a little distorted. Or am I distorting them now?

I’ve sat in Sunday school classes and listened to other women rave about their Betty Crocker moms and their Father Knows Best dads, and I’ve wondered if they were telling the truth. One shouldn’t sit in church and wonder if their friends are lying, should they? But everyone’s parents seemed very different from mine.

My mother never gave me cooking lessons, or turned the kitchen over to me. When I took Home Economics and tried to make a dress, we often came to blows over her sewing machine. Our home became a war zone each night when I tackled homework. I couldn’t learn under Mom because she didn’t have the patience to teach. My passive dad wasn’t forceful enough to instruct.

My parents were strict way beyond fairness—at least Mom was, and Dad always backed her up. They were quick to dole out punishment, and very lacking when it came to encouragement. I was never told “You can do and be anything you set your mind to.” Were you? I know it depends on when you were born. Anyone born after the 60s probably had it sweet.

My parents didn’t know how to give encouragement because they’d never received it themselves. Mom was the oldest of ten kids. She didn’t have time for dreams, unless it was when she climbed that tree to read her books. Her family thought she was odd, persnickety, and wondered where she got the “perfection gene.” My dad was somewhere in the middle of thirteen kids. He was quiet, incredibly shy and his family made fun of him because he didn’t talk much—if at all. He didn’t talk when I knew him either. If I had to choose a parent’s head to live in for a week, I’d choose my dad’s. He was a mystery.

My previous post was about family quotes, but I left out the most important one: You’re in for a rude awakening. I heard that a lot, and can’t tell you how often it flashes through my mind. Anytime I failed a test, got in trouble at school, asked for something outlandish … I heard, “You’re in for a rude awakening” with a long spiel about how life isn’t anything like we think it’s going to be.

And it isn’t. Sometimes it’s better; sometimes it’s worse, but it’s never like we think it’s going to be. That’s a given.

When I visit my mom in the nursing home, I marvel at the “child” she has become—a small white-haired woman waiting for someone to tell her what to do, how to do it, and when. Well, actually, we can’t tell her when to do something because she won’t remember. She lives in the very immediate now. We often explain how to turn on the TV for the hundredth time during a day . Her faded blue eyes are like question marks—so unlike the confident, sometimes hard and angry ones I remember; the ones that sent silent messages to me and my brother when we were growing up. Her eyes could strike fear in us and make promises of what awaited us when we got home. Patience has been forced on her—along with a lot more.

You’re in for a rude awakening, she’d tell me. And when I visit her in the nursing home, realize I miss the woman she was, I know Mom was right. My rude awakening has finally come.

Share something that breaks your heart.

E is for Emergency

R is for Rude Awakening