One more day to live in the sun

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

Five weeks after she had her second leg amputated the doctors sent her home with health aides coming in just a few hours a day. I was terrified for her and for me.

How could this 85-year-old woman live without constant help? How would she get from the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the bathroom? How could she maneuver the wheelchair through an opening so small that I had trouble when I pushed the chair? Where would she get the strength and the patience to perform such a task?

How would she wheel over the thick carpet and into the kitchen? And what would she do when she got there? How could she cook?

"She can't" was my mantra. She can't do it alone. She can't live alone. I was convinced that we needed someone to stay with my mother-in-law 24 hours a day.

So I made flyers and posted them at nursing schools and put an ad in the newspaper. All I wanted was a body, someone to be there all the time, just in case. That's what I told Grandma. "I know you can do these things yourself, but just in case you fall, just in case you get scared in the middle of the night. You need someone," I said.

Truth was, I needed someone.

Grandma said, "I can" to everything. "I can push the wheelchair. I can transfer to the bed. I can get into the bathroom. I can feed the cat and let him in and out and I can cook some things, if I have just a little help. It may take time, but I can do it."

And she did.

She rearranged the refrigerator so that the foods she used most were within reach. She moved her appliances to the edge of the counter. She arranged her skirts and blouses so she could dress herself. She picked up the cat's dish with a long-handled grabber. And she got rid of the plush carpeting.

The home health aide continued to come and help her bathe and make her bed, and the physical therapists came and helped her learn to walk on two prostheses and, of course, she had neighbors and her family and other occasional visitors.

But most of the time she was alone. That's what I focused on. How could she be okay when she was alone and unable to do so much?

And then one weekend in July, I came to understand how.

I was in Maine, out on the rocks, sitting on a rock I had gone to often, watching the ocean crash. I didn't notice the seal at first. It looked like a small, gray rock. Until it moved, until I saw it inch its way up out of the crushing waves. It was about 75 yards away so I didn't see that there was anything wrong with this seal and I would never have seen, if a man carrying binoculars hadn't happened by my hiding place.

“That seal is missing a flipper," he said, handing me his binoculars. I looked and sure enough, it had just one.

The man continued on his way and I sat and watched the animal. As it lolled in the sun, I worried. As it enjoyed life, I anticipated death. When the waves started nipping at its backside, I was positive I was about to see the seal drown.

But it didn't drown. As the tide came in, it turned itself around and using its single flipper, pushed itself off the rock and swam away.

I walked back to the inn and called Grandma. "I don't have to worry about you anymore," I said, and told her about the seal.

Yesterday Grandma turned 86. We celebrated. Her grandchildren came home and surprised her. Her friends remembered her. There are things she can no longer do, but for her yesterday was one more day in the sun.