Las Wednesday, after a broken leg surgery in the hospital, my mom was relocated to a small recovery hospital in town. Its a nice building donated to the village in 1920 by a rich family after the Spanish Flu killed millions of people through the world. The place became the village hospital. This is how it looked like back then.
Although the building looks very nice from the outside, it is not a modern place, but there are many familiar faces between the other patients and the professionals working there and that helps mom feel slightly more comfortable. Me and my brothers are there by turns most of the day as her dementia condition makes thinks slightly harder to manage.
I have a bitter sweet feeling, she is 87 and has lived a wonderful life, but lacking mobility and seeing her in a place out of the family house is sad. This is not a permanent place, she has to start physical rehabilitation to try to walk again with the walker, afterwards we will need to take her back home or find another nursing home for her.
I have the feeling she has given up and will not walk again as little by little she is losing any desire to make the effort to even stand up. The nice thing is you can still see her happy face when you go there to spend some time with her, that face even transforms to a happier expression when I tell her I will bring her olives from the farm in Portugal, as she loves them. Even in this hard situation, I am enjoying the time I can spend with her whenever her mind gives her a break to keep a "regular" conversation.
I plan to travel to Portugal next week to harvest the olives and I will have her smile in my mind every time I collect and pickle them to get ripe and let her taste after a few months.
