Da Mamas... No Teeth, No Beard, No Worries

Our Mamas are as different as night and day. Literally.  

His is an early-to-bedder and mine is an up-all-nighter. His is a worrier and mine is fearless.  His has teeth... and mine does not.

There must be some existential meaning behind Mom cutting her wisdom teeth at the ripe old age of 79, though I'm not sure what it is. All I know is that there is something way wrong in the timing of wisdom teeth that decide to come in after all the other teeth have gone.  That just ain't right...

So, there we were – Mom and I – sitting in Day Surgery, awaiting extraction.

“Two Things, Robin. I want you to remember Two Things.”

“Okay, Mom. What are they?”

“When I get out of surgery, make sure nobody sees me without my top dentures. And even if I'm drunk as a skunk, tell them I'm okay so we can hurry up and get out of here.”

True to form, she came out of the Recovery Room chirping, er... slurring, like a drunken magpie with top dentures intact, telling the nurse she was starving and ready to go home.

“Tell them I'm ready to go home, Robin.”

“But Mom, you can't even feel your tongue.”

“So...? Go get that nurse and tell her I'm ready to go home.  And bring me a hamburger.”

She finally wore those poor nurses out. My Loopy Chipmunk was discharged home in record time.

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Home...

Dickie's Mama has wanted to go home ever since we kidnapped her.

We lured her out of her house by convincing her she was sick and needed to see a doctor. (There are few things my mother-in-law likes better than a trip to the doctor.)

I got her an appointment with a geriatric specialist in hopes of obtaining a definitive diagnosis regarding her dementia.  (She thought she was going to talk to a professional about her favorite topic:  Stool Softeners.)

Throughout the testing, she charmed the doctor completely. He kept patting her arm and telling her what a "good job" she was doing. By the end of the test, she was convinced she had passed with flying colors.

“See... there is nothing wrong with me!” Dora proudly announced. Then, she looked at the besotted doctor and said, “Now will you tell them I can go back to my home?!”

The doc patted her hand again and said, “One more week. I think you need to stay with your family one more week.” Then pulled us aside and said, “Hopefully, she will forget and eventually settle into her new surroundings.”

Fat Chance, Doc.  

Every couple of days Dora would ask to go home.  We became increasingly clever in our delaying tactics...

“Uh, the car is in the shop...”

“Sorry, not today – it's supposed to rain. Hard. Heavy rain with hail and stuff.”

“I would take you home today, but you promised you would help me fold the laundry.”

Yep. Our excuses were growing as thin as Mama Dora's patience. 

There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth (because, like I said... Dora still has hers).  

Her frustration landed heaviest on the two she loved most. 

Even though they surprised her with flowers...

And tempted her with sweet, fat Great Grandbabies...

Our Mama Dora never stopped asking to go home.  

She was perpetually angry at either Dickie or Jackie, sometimes both at the same time.  And she was especially frustrated when she couldn't remember which one was which.

“You're married to the youngest one, aren't you?” she asked me, over and over.  

“Yes. I'm married to Dickie, the one with the gray hair and beard.”

“He needs to shave that beard!! It makes him look older than the Other One.”

“But the Other One act likes he's the Younger One.” I reminded her.

Which only made her more confused. And frustrated.  

And sad.

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Until today.

Dora woke up this morning saying she had been here “more than a week” and had something she wanted to tell us.

“I had a long talk with... Him... you know... The Man Upstairs. I couldn't sleep. I prayed for two months. I mean two hours. I asked him to... I said 'help me'. And He did. And then I had dreams. Of boys. Those two boys that are brothers. They were little and playing and it made me so happy. And I just want you to know... that I am staying here. I'm gonna live here with my family.”

We whooped and we hollered and we jumped for joy.

Then, she got that wily little gleam in her eye and looked right at her baby boy.

“Now. What are YOU going to do for ME?” she asked Dickie.

Never underestimate a Mama's ability to get her way. Alzheimer's be danged.

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And say hello to Dora's younger looking son...

...the one who shaved his beard for his Mama.