The Drive Down/Back

When you travel back and forth regularly, you find that there are certain points that mark your way. For me, traveling south from Chicago to Indianapolis, one of my first markers is seeing the South Holland water tank that reads, "Youth, Faith, and Family." I think to myself - I would never want to live here.

For almost the past year, I have driven back and forth from Chicago to Indianapolis to take care of my mom, since she had (what she calls to this day a 'stroke) a few falls as well as self-medication mismanagement. Between the falls and the trauma that came with them and not taking and then over-taking medication - Mom ended up needing to goto the hospital. While she finally stabilized, she couldn't go back home, but went to a rehabilitation center.

I quickly found myself in the decision-maker role, and one of the first decisions was to choose a rehab place. Since I've known the higher ed system for over 12 years now, I thought - I can do this, it's like doing a campus visit day! What is a good fit? Who will both of us be comfortable with? Who can I trust  my Mom with at such a vulnerable time?

After visiting three places, we landed on Kindred. Besides the first impression that they seemed more professional and organized, I also met "Dave." He was one of the nurses I met, and my "Admissions Officer." He sold Kindred well as I grilled him with my interviewing questions. He spent a lot of time with me and answered all the questions well. This was my top choice.

Finally, the exit ramp to I-65 South. I am now officially not in the Chicago area. I always feel like once I get on 65, there's no turning back. I've done this drive so many times, I could do this drive with my eyes close. I know every turn. Every pot hole. I know how to pass the trucks safely. I know the two exits that have the cheapest gas and the cleaner restrooms.

So, I handed off Mom to Dave and the rest of the Kindred staff. Some- better than others. But Mom liked Dave the most. He worked only on the weekends, but they got to be really close. She trusted him and his opinions. He made time to listen to her and talk with her. I decorated her room with photos and always brought her flowers. There were high moments and low moments. Like the time she seemed worse, and I was on the phone with my sister crying. Or, when she couldn't write her name.

Driving down the road, I see the windmills. In the evening, approaching them, I see a vast field of red flashing lights - like UFOs. In the daytime, you come upon them and can't help but wonder what Don Quixote would think. They don't look that large, but continuing over the hill, I try and picture how small I would be if I could get close to one. I fantasize me driving off the road, through the fields, to get to the base. I'd stand by one with my virtual yardstick and put my hand level on my head like I was a growing eight year old.

Nearly six weeks later, Kindred starts talking about her release and next steps. Back home with additional paid care? Assisted living? I personally didn't think she could go back living independently, but it's up to her. She talks about going home the most. Until the next time I visit - when she decides on assisted living. I'm surprised, but relieved.

After the windmills, I look for the black and gold of Purdue University. I never even thought of applying to Purdue, but some of my high school friends went there. It's a big place like UIC. The Boilermakers. Seeing the "Welcome to Purdue" gives me comfort that I'm less than 1.5 hours away from Indianapolis. If I was on the bus, this is when I would call Ma and Mom to get them ready to leave the house to pick me up. If I didn't want to have to wait and stand in the cold, I'd call them as I passed Purdue.

Sometime since the last visit, she decided to go into assisted living. I'm not sure who changed her mind, but I have a feeling Dave and some of the therapists had something to do with it. I quickly started looking for assisted living places. I took this very seriously, because I imagined this would be her last "home." I visited three different places and none of them were "perfect." I was astounded by the cost. One night I did the math and felt incredibly sad that I was calculating money with her life.

The last marker is the sign for "Whitestown and Brownsburg." It reminds me of where I am - Indiana.

Mom has now been at her assisted living place for nearly eight months. We both have done our best to adapt. It's not been easy, and I hate it when I get so frustrated with her. When go to Wal-Mart and I see other daughters with their mom, and they are almost abusive. I promise myself in my head - I'll never be that bad, but I know I've been close. I know it's not her fault, and she knows she frustrates me. That's the sad part. Because then, she feels bad too.

Then, the 865 pass comes. If I want to go by the house, I veer right to 465 East. If I want to go down to the apartment, I go left to 465 West. I breathe out knowing that the four hour trip is almost done. Finally, I get off the Interstate and am in the city of Greenwood heading south on SR 131 and SR 135. I'll pass numerous retail shops and the golf course, and then I'll be "home." I love you, Mom, and I only want to be as happy as you can be. You took care of Ma for so many years, and you deserve the same dignity, respect, and love. I wish I could do more.

A New Introduction to Eyebrow Threading and Nora

The other day I decided to treat myself to the one cosmetic act I do - getting my eyebrows waxed. I called this one place, but they were busy, so I decided to try Carmen's Beauty up in Rogers Park. They used to be located right at Loyola eL, but they moved to Sheridan and Pratt. Even better - as they were now closer. I called, and they were available.

On the snowy, but warmer day, I walked down.

"I called about eyebrow waxing," I said.

"Yes," the woman at the desk replied. She then said something in another language to a young girl standing near her.

I see the young woman get some supplies, and in a soft voice she says, "Follow me."

We go to a chair in the back, and I take off my winter outerwear.

"Sit back, please," she instructs. Then I realize exactly what she wants me to do.

"Waxing or threading?" she asks.

"I've never done threading," I say, "So, waxing."

"Okay, as you like."

I close my eyes as she puts on the warm wax. Then, patting on the light strips of fabric. I brace myself for the pull. But before this happens she says, "Be strong."

I try and tell her that I have a high tolerance for pain. That I can take it. Don't worry. She says, "You like pain?" I reply back, "No, it's okay."

Just when I feel like we're basically done, she asks about threading. I've seen it been done before, but never had it done to me, but I decide to give it a try. "Sure," I say. I close my eyes again, and I feel an odd sensation. It's a mix between being caught in a loom and tweezing.

After a few more minutes, she asks if I want to do... and she gestures above my lips. "Sure. What the hell, let's do it." I say. I feel like we're in this together.

Sometime during our time together, she introduces herself. Her name is Nora. I later learn she is studying early childhood education at Oakton Community College. I tell her that I know Oakton, and that it's a good school. Really nice. I say that I work at UIC, and she asks what I do there. I say I help students. That's my generic reply, when I don't feel like getting into the LGBTQ stuff.

I know we're coming to the end of the session as she asks if I want to have her lightly rub alcohol on the areas she worked on.

I give her my UIC e-mail with a note that I help college students, and feel free to write if she has any questions. I doubt she will, but I wanted to offer anyway.