Mom Taught Me # 3
Simple Joys
For the first two years after I got Mom back home following her strokes, she could only have bed baths. Twice a week, a bath attendant came to the house to help clean Mom. We had a shower, which would have been easier, but because of the layout of the bathroom and Mom’s wheelchair, we hadn’t figured out a way to get her safely into it. One day, I had to leave the house while the bath attendant was taking care of Mom. When I returned, she immediately met me with, “You have to see this.”
She pulled out her phone.
She told me she had figured out a way to get Mom into the shower. I was surprised. For two years, none of us had been able to figure it out. Once she got Mom safely inside, she handed her the shower wand, and Mom began spraying herself with the water. Then the attendant told me she had recorded Mom in the shower. I’ll admit, for a moment I questioned exactly what I was about to see. On the phone’s screen, though, all I could really make out was Mom’s shadow behind the shower curtain. I could see her moving the shower wand around. But what mattered wasn’t what I could see.
Mom was singing.
When the strokes occurred, Mom lost her ability to say anything except one word, “good.” So that was what she sang.
Good. Good. Good.
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Each “good” sounded different, as though each one was supposed to be a different word. She was literally and lyrically singing with the only word the strokes had left her. The bath attendant told me Mom stayed in that shower for an hour, holding the wand and spraying herself with the water. Even after an hour, Mom resisted when it was time to get out. The attendant finally had to promise her that the next time she came to the house, Mom could take another shower.
I’ve thought many times about the thousands of showers I’ve taken during my life. I can’t remember most of them. Why would I? Taking a shower is just another ordinary part of the day.
Until it isn’t.
For two years, Mom couldn’t do something most of us do without giving it a second thought. When she finally got it back, she didn’t rush through it. She stayed for an hour and she sang because of the joy she felt.
Mom taught me that ordinary things aren’t ordinary forever.
So much of what fills an ordinary day barely gets our attention. Taking a shower. Walking across a room. Having a conversation. Sitting quietly with someone we love. We assume those things will be waiting for us tomorrow because they’ve always been there before. Sometimes it takes losing one of those ordinary things to understand just how extraordinary it was. I don’t remember any of the showers I took during those two years.
I’ll always remember Mom singing in hers.
MTM # 3: The ordinary becomes extraordinary with a change of perspective.
Learn to see the joy in everyday activities.
