THROUGH MY MOTHER’S EYES – Part 4

Later, when we gained more confidence in her ability to swallow, friends and family would bring other dishes for her to eat. My sister Carline would meticulously feed her while her eyes went from the spoon to our faces and then to the television, always glancing to the left. She especially enjoyed a fish soup brought by our family friend Carmen P. She never did have to have the stomach tube placed. Continuing my examination, I check the brace placed on her right leg and heel pad protecting her right foot. As I look at her foot, I remember the times my sister Carline came, sat on the chair placed at the foot of the hospital bed and used her cosmetology skills to give my mother a pedicure. Entering the room during those times, my mother would greet me with her smile. That crooked smile would greet visitors as they entered the room, followed by those bright eyes, inviting them in.

While I’m examining her foot, her left hand continues to shake, with the pointer finger waving in the air. The pinky, ring, and middle fingers of the left hand are already partially contracted. It makes the left hand always look as if it is pointing to something even when she is just waving good-bye. I am still at a loss as to what could be the source of her discomfort. I move on to examine the left side of her body, which should not be the source of any pain or discomfort. After all, she has a great degree of mobility on that left side. I bend down to examine the nicely manicured left hand but she pulls away from me with a strength and rudeness that surprises me. I understand that she has grown impatient with my efforts. More than impatient, she is angry. Sylvia had always been short tempered and my impression is that her stroke opened a floodgate in that area of her emotional life. I would often see the frustration in her face when she was trying to communicate a thought and no one was able to grasp the meaning. It was like chasing shadows. We were consequently forced to look deeper into her eyes for the woman that once was and try to decipher her new language.

Many times after these clumsy efforts at communication she would wave her left hand as if to say, “forget it” and angrily focus on the television, ignoring all else. I leave her hand alone and turn my attention to her left thigh and foot. I don’t seem to be getting any closer to whatever is disturbing her. I examine the thigh and go to massage her muscles. She pushes me away with that left, clearly telling me, “That’s not what’s bothering me!” “Mommy, map essaye aide ou,” I say in Creole, which means, “I’m trying to help you.” But my words fall on deaf ears. She is now absorbed in her pain and just wants relief. I am supposed to provide her with that relief but I don’t know how. She is fighting me. She has had enough of this blind man bumping into fragile objects. She rejects any further intervention on my part, and looks up at Neil Diamond who is singing another song to her. As for me, I stand up exasperated. Droplets of sweat cover my forehead and an emotional exhaustion seeps deep into my soul.

We are both frustrated at the other’s limitations, and words are not needed at this point; they would just get in the way. She is obviously frustrated at her newfound limitations, along with my general incompetence, and looks up to hold onto one comforting pleasure of her past life – the songs of her favorite performer. I’m angry at life’s apparent unfairness and my own inability to pierce this hellish communication barrier. I feel frustrated with what I see as a lack of appreciation on her part for my efforts to help her. But I also wonder what else lies behind those bright eyes staring at the television.