Not so much a fall from grace as a fall BY Grace

Maybe I was born clumsy. Maybe clumsiness is a result of childhood polio. Maybe things just like to trip me. Whatever. I fall down a lot. Usually I get up and feel like a fool. But Thursday, June 14...

Thursday, June 14 was moving day for Mama. Since her stroke in April, she has been first in the hospital and then in the step-down ward. The whole while I worked to get her into an assisted living facility. When I got word that a space had come available in a VERY nice place, my daughters and my friends sprang into action to help me get her comfortably moved in. I hired a local moving company and we got her apartment moved into and unpacked in a day.

The minute she was discharged from the step-down ward, I was there to take her to her home. She was delighted to have her own space again and pleased with the way her little unit looked. She should be-it is "purty", as she says. My house, on the other hand, was a disaster. What a mess! So I went home, pooped, and decided to tidy up my room so I would at least have a nice place to sleep. The movers had moved Dave's desk and office stuff into what had been Mama's room and that had opened up a lot of space, so I started to do a little rearranging. That's when my bed collapsed. That's when I tried to uncollapse it. That's when I got in my own way, fell down, and broke my left arm.

I seem to have a pattern of falling to the left. I have fallen and broken my left arm and left collar bone in the past. Not that I am complaining-better the left than the right- but it seems faintly sinister somehow.

Splint, sling, pain, dopiness from the pain pills, (did I mention pain?) and my home in chaos, but do I get any sympathy whatsoever from my nearest and dearest? PUH-LEEZE! My brother suggested that our parents should have named me Grace. That's the closest to soft, murmuring noises anyone made about my arm.

So that was my June 14.

In the meantime, while I am learning the frustrations of one-handedness, Mama is adjusting to her new environment in fits and starts, with an emphasis on FITS! The first time Dave visited her in her new digs, she pulled out all the stops on the guilt front. She was busting his chops, he knew she was busting his chops, and she knew he knew and still it was awful. ''Why did you do this to me, David? Why did you put me in this jail? I have a room at your house. I want to go home to your house." Knowing it was 80% manipulation, acting, and punishment did not prevent the experience from being heart-wrenching.

After her initial pleased reaction to her new home, she has been determinedly glum. It has been noticed. I have been fielding calls from the facility every couple of days. The Director told me that in the eight years she has been running the place, she has never dealt with anyone like Mama. Imagine my surprise!

The concerns of the facility are many and varied.

• They are worried because she is not eating- she apparently has no appetite. (This is a recurring tactic of Mother's for attention. Her little kitchenette is well-stocked. Believe me, she eats).
• She has been snookering them about taking her pills- they've found two of her hiding places so far. (I explained how to ensure that she actually takes her medications. I refrained from suggesting cramming a funnel down her throat and just pouring them into her).
• They wondered if she has always been child-like and stubborn. (They are experiencing for the first time Mama's "simple" act). The Director really wanted to ask me if she is retarded, I could tell. The answer is no, she is not, but she had a mentally impaired sister and can imitate her perfectly.

Today the cable guy came to hook up her box so she can watch the Western channel. I went to be there while he did the installation so she wouldn't get spooked by a strange man in her room. The handsome young man was wearing shorts and Mama teased him mercilessly about his naked legs. I think he was glad I was there, because he was getting spooked by the strange woman in the room. While I was there, three people, in rapid succession, popped their heads into the room and asked me, "Kate, will you stop by and see me before you leave?"

So I did. I met with the Director, the Nurse, and the Aide behind locked doors. I felt like a parent summoned to the Principal's office about a kid about to be sent to alternative school.

Here's what they told me.

Mama asked for a toaster, which she was told she cannot have for fire safety reasons. Mama does not like being told "no". Mama likes having her own way. Mama always finds a way to punish those who thwart her- in this case, she carried a piece of white bread into the Director's office and started yelling "TOAST! TOAST! I WANT TOAST!" Sadly, the Director was speaking to a prospective client at the time.

Even though she seldom eats anything, she does show up for meals. She has had to be relocated from one table to another. Ms. Lucy, one of her new table-mates, is more than a little bitter about that, as she let me know in no uncertain terms today. It seems Mama came to dinner one night in her robe and slippers. Unfortunately, her robe was open and she was only wearing underwear underneath. When the Aide tried to get her to go back to her apartment to dress appropriately, she made a scene in the dining room, refused to leave, and refused to zip up her robe. Ms. Lucy, who at 80+ is one sharp cookie, apparently finds Mama unspeakably gauche.

It may be behavior like that that lead the Director to ask me "Has she ever been evaluated by a psychiatrist? Has she ever taken psychotropic drugs?" I mentioned a drug her doctor prescribed for her and it turned out it was missing from her list of meds. The Nurse left the room to call Mama's doctor for a new prescription. I have never seen a woman move that fast.

Both the Director and the Nurse seemed almost relieved to learn that mother was missing a medication. Up until that revelation, I had the distinct impression that they felt I had pulled a fast one on them. Mama technically meets all the criteria for assisted living, but hers is definitely a unique personality, and I suspect that if they had known what her personality is like, they might not have accepted her.

Hey, I wasn't trying to fox anyone. Maybe in the future they should include a personality test in their screening process. And they had plenty of opportunity to visit her in the step-down ward to evaluate her before they accepted her. Now that they have her, they think that getting her back on her missing med will calm her down and mitigate some of her acting out. Boy, I hope they are right. I left the meeting marvelling at how adept Mama is at creating problems.

I went back to Mama's apartment and explained to her that, except in case if fire, she cannot leave her rooms unless she is dressed in street clothes. I told her she cannot yell at people, no matter how upset she may be. I reminded her how important it is for her to be cooperative and to take her pills and not play games with her medications.

She looked at my sling and asked "How's your arm?

As soon as it heals, I may beat her over the head with it.

Mama has been in the place one week and one day, and she is already in danger of being expelled. Jeez. I hope the drug helps. Wednesday I take her back to the doctor. I am going to ask him to increase her dosage. Or add Thorazine.

If Mama won't take it, I will.

(It took me 2 1/2 hours to type this with one hand. Forgive any errors).