Last week my 85-year old mother fell again, her third fall in four months. This time she fractured her pelvis, resulting in hospitalization and transfer to a rehab/nursing center yesterday. These rehab facilities are depressing as hell for so many reasons, on so many levels. So mom’s upset, I’m upset. She cries and asks me to get her out of there. I explain about the importance of physical therapy, how it will only be for four or five weeks. But four or five weeks feels like forever when one is the patient and not the visitor. She tells me she would prefer to go back where she was, the hospital with a private room and nurses who actually respond to call lights. She grips my hand and pleads with her eyes. I feel like crap and leave. It’s a complicated relationship, with edges shaped by compassion and love and disdain and neediness.
After visiting her yesterday, I tried to paint, but it was as if I had never picked up a paintbrush before.
Tomorrow it's back to contour drawings.