Going with the Flo

Back in 1985, a social worker predicted my first couple years of blindness would be like going through adolescence all over again. “It’ll be just like you’re a teenager,” she said. “You’ll be worried about how you look, and you’ll do everything you can to fit in with your friends.” She told me to be prepared to doubt myself, even over the smallest trivial things. “But anyone who says you can’t – or shouldn’t – do something, well, they better watch out!”

Know what? She was absolutely right. Except for one thing. That second round of adolescence didn’t last just a few years. It’s still going on.

An example: last week my mom had out-patient surgery (including a skin graft) for a malignant melanoma. Our wonderful niece Janet had taken Flo to all her doctor visits, but with four kids, she wouldn’t be able to stay with Flo at home during recovery.

That's my niece Janet with two of her kids, daughters AnnMarie and Anita

The teenager in me boldly offered to do night duty. This, even though I had no idea how I’d check Flo’s wounds to make sure they were okay. Not to mention what I’d do if Flo couldn’t get out of bed by herself. Or if she needed help in the bathroom. Or if she couldn’t feed herself.

Flo is 94 years old and lives alone. She walks on her own, often using a walker. She reads the newspaper every morning, and she gets behind the wheel every other day. “You know, just to make sure the car still runs,” she says. Flo is amazing, and under normal circumstances she can take care of herself just fine. But (happy to say) out-patient surgery is not a normal circumstance for Flo.

Janet drove Flo to the hospital the morning of her surgery. My cousin Darrell and his sweet girlfriend Carolyn met Hanni and me at the Elmhurst train station and drove us to Flo’s apartment for my stint. Janet and Flo were there when we arrived –- the surgery didn’t take long, and Flo was sleeping in her own bed already. Janet led me to the kitchen, placed my hand in the bowl where the pain pills were, gave me directions on what to do when Flo woke up, and took off to relieve the babysitter (her husband) at home.

I sat on Flo’s couch, tried listening to a book, but couldn’t concentrate. What had I gotten myself into? All that time I’d been saying No problem, I’ll take the overnight shifts, I’ll stay with Flo? Secretly I’d been hoping someone would step in, remind me that hey, Beth, you’re blind, you can’t take on that responsibility. No one did. On one hand, I was tremendously flattered. They actually thought I could handle this. I’d achieved my goal. I looked like a grown up. On the other hand, I was scared.

Two hours after returning home from surgery, Flo woke up, found her walker, and made it to the living room. I jumped up from the couch. “You okay, mom?” She was fine, she said, in a way that sounded like I can’t believe you are asking me if I’m okay, of course I am fine. “You hungry?” she asked.

Flo is the cutest.

And so it went, Flo mostly taking care of herself, me just reminding her to keep the wound dry, not touch it, sit down, rest. She only needed painkillers once, and when she got to the bowl in the kitchen to find them she shook the vial in a panic. “These are all whole pills. I thought Janet was going to cut them in half for me!” Flo is stubborn about taking pain medication. She only wanted to take one-half of the pill. I joined Flo in the kitchen, fished through the bowl and pulled out a Ziploc bag. “Janet only cut a couple of them in half,” I reminded Flo, pressing her fingers to the Ziploc so she could feel them herself. “You’re supposed to take one-and-a-half for pain, remember? I listened as she pulled one entire pill from the vial, then heard her swallow it with a drink of water. I handed her a half-pill from the Ziploc bag as a chaser.”

We were a good team. Flo can see, I have a good memory for details, and Janet was just a phone call away. I’d taken my laptop with me to keep busy, but I couldn’t get a good internet connection. That was a blessing. I slowed down. Heard Flo’s stories. Told her mine. Joined her outside on the glider. Welcomed visitors. Brushed Hanni. Listened to the radio. Watched them pave the parking lot across the street. Asked her how she’d ever learned to drive. Found out her teenage boyfriend, Huntz, taught her. “He was good looking,” she smiled. Kept the glider Rocking.

Flo and I didn’t always get along during my first adolescence. This week, though, the only time we fought was when she wanted to make my coffee, or go to the other room to get something for me. “I’m supposed to be helping you, mom!” I’d scold her. She’d laugh, and then insist she didn’t need any help. “I’m fine,” she’d say. “You sit down. I’ll get it.”

Hmm. Maybe at age 94, Flo’s going through a second adolescence, too.