One blessing to count: caring for Mama at nursing facility

Her smile is wide and generous and says a wordless “I love you.” It’s a worthy substitute for the hug she can no longer give.

Today will be the second Thanksgiving my father and I celebrate with her at a skilled nursing facility in Las Vegas. A year ago, I brought in Fatburgers, fries and chocolate shakes, opting for a nontraditional celebration of this American holiday because she thought that would be fun. It was. At that time, Daddy and I thought this was just a temporary situation and she would do well and go home with the help of therapy.

She did. She went home in a wheelchair, but not for long. On Feb. 4 she had a seizure at home, fell out of her wheelchair, broke her hip and was rushed to the hospital. I try not to recall some of the touch-and-go days following that, but she ended up returning to the same nursing home, but this time unable to walk and with limited speech.

Her will to live wasn’t gone, but her willingness to do rehab therapy disappeared.

But Daddy and I count ourselves fortunate. Mama knows who we are, she’s not in pain, she’s in a beautiful, first-rate facility, and she’s had an excellent, ethical and caring doctor for the past 10 years.

When we see her, she almost always gives us a big smile and that’s the moment we treasure.

LaVerne’s daily joy is to see her husband of 53 years, Jim Morrison, and her only child.

Bedridden, she spends her days napping and watching television. Turner Classic Movies, old sit-coms like “I Love Lucy” and “The Andy Griffith Show,” and the Food Channel are her favorites. When a baby or a small animal (even the Geico gecko) comes on the screen, she blurts out, “Looky there!”

Our communication has changed. It’s more one-sided. We recall old family stories with a heavy emphasis on our travels and our cats, past and present. She makes short responses, but we think she understands more than she can express in her short sentences.

I don’t read the newspaper to her any more. Instead I read old journals of our trips and books of jokes and things that might make her laugh or bring back happy memories. Quickly, I learned that the six little words I use most often during my visits are “I love you” and “Do you remember?”

Then I launch into some story of what we’d done. If a movie comes on located someplace we’ve been, that sparks a memory. My goal each day is to make her laugh and see that smile.

We don’t talk about bad news. We never mention the economy or unemployment or budget woes or cutbacks in crucial programs. We did in the days before her first hospitalization in July 2007.

But no longer. We don’t want to say anything that might drag her spirits down. There’s no point.

With her arthritic hands, she can’t feed herself, so my father is always there to feed her dinner and most of the time he’s there at lunch. I have a standing lunch date with her on Saturday and Sunday and try to visit most weekday evenings. It’s our new normal schedule, one that revolves around her well-being and comfort. Daddy and I are a strong team in sync, supporting her and each other.

Even when she doesn’t feel chipper and can’t rally for me or Daddy, my mother rallies to flash big smiles for the caring staff. She’s grateful for all they do for her, and she’s quick to show her gratitude to the staff and to the people from hospice.

Daddy and I realize that this is a part of life that many go through and know we’re blessed in many ways. Friends and out-of-state family show their love in countless ways.

Our country is in dire straits. People are losing their jobs and their homes. For some, it’s a challenge to think about all the things for which we should give thanks.

But as long as Mama keeps on smiling, Daddy and I give thanks not just today, but every day. We’re grateful she’s in God’s care.

Happy Thanksgiving. If you’re with loved ones today, enjoy their smiles.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0275. She also blogs at lvrj.com/blogs/morrison.