Last fall I wrote about visiting the Schmidts. I wrote about how little it seemed that I was engaging with Schmidt himself, and wondered if this was a sign of a slow, long-term rift silently widening between us.
Well maybe, but it’s nothing special. I’m back there now—at his request—because Ma Schmidt (his mother) appears to be dying.
Last fall she was ditzier than I remember her having been before (though she was always a little spacy), and her short-term memory was almost completely gone. That is, she could put food on the stove and remember it was there to finish cooking it. But she would ask me questions about where I live or whether I have any siblings, seemingly unaware that she had already asked me the exact same questions two minutes before. Back then she talked about being “older than dirt,” but she was still in good health and walking around.
Towards the beginning of this week, Schmidt emailed Marie and me that he was concerned about his mother. She had come down with a bug a while ago, and at this point she was mostly bed-bound. He also said that looking after her was really taking all his time and attention. I asked if he wanted an extra set of hands, since I don’t hold a job and have no-one depending on me. He demurred for a few hours or a day—I later learned that he was discussing it with Marie privately—and then accepted. With gratitude.
It’s about a one-day drive from my apartment to their farm (somewhere between 500-600 miles), and yesterday I drove it. I arrived before sundown. Schmidt thanked me again, although I hadn’t actually done anything except show up. But I think the moral support may have counted for something.
She started today poorly. She couldn’t get herself from her bed to the bathroom, and so wet her pants. She wouldn’t accept my help but Schmidt then helped her to the toilet, helped her wipe herself, got her clean pants, and helped her back to bed. In the afternoon we drove her to the hospital, partly so they could evaluate her and Schmidt could get a doctor’s order for hospice or home health care. It took both of us several minutes to maneuver her into the car, and then to maneuver her out again at the far end. But after we were there for—what was it, maybe six hours?—the hospital said she was more or less fine, just underfed and dehydrated. They gave her a couple of IV’s of fluid and electrolytes, and sent her on her way. On the way back she was much perkier than usual, though she still couldn’t carry on a conversation more than a few minutes without repeating questions like, “Why do we have to go to the store on the way home?” (Answer: because Schmidt and I are both hungry, and don’t want to have to be bothered fixing dinner when we get back.)
So we got home and put her to bed. Schmidt took care of his many cats (and one geriatric dog). Then finally we sat down to our still-vaguely-warm rotisserie chicken from the store, plus a salad I’d made while he was doing all that other stuff. We chatted companionably enough and went off to our respective beds.
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