“Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world's
a sunny day
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama don't take my Kodachrome away.”  

               Paul Simon

I grew up with Paul Simon.  Like me he grew up in Queens, though he was born in New Jersey.  I was born in Manhattan but grew up in Jackson Heights; his music spoke to me.  He and Art Garfunkel lived blocks away from each other.  When he sang “Me and Julio down by the schoolyard,” I envisioned the schoolyard at my elementary school, Blessed Sacrament.

I thought about the song "Kodachrome" after seeing mom in the hospital yesterday.  On Saturday, she fell out of her wheelchair at the nursing home and bumped her head.  She was shaken up and bruised, but they assured me she was okay.  As a precautionary measure she was taken to North Central Bronx Hospital for a CT scan and the scan came up clean.  They did, however, diagnose her with pneumonia.  I was stunned.  When I saw her on Thursday she had a slight cough and was complaining about a cold that “wouldn’t go away,” but I never would have suspected pneumonia.  It took almost a half hour to find out where she was at the hospital—the typical bureaucracy—but I did ascertain she would be admitted.  No word on her condition except that it was “stable.”  Patient confidentiality and all.

I went to see her yesterday and she told me the pneumonia was only in her right lung.  I spoke with her doctor and he assured me that it was a mild case of pneumonia and she would be released in a day or two.  Whew!  With Alzheimer’s patients, pneumonia can be the precursor to death.  It’s grim, but true.

She was tethered to a chair with canvas straps like a mental patient, just as they did to her at Jacobi Hospital in May.  A sign on her door had said “Fall Risk.”  An IV was dripping antibiotics into her system.  Her hair was unwashed, but she didn’t look bad.  Her chief complaint was that she could not “move.”  She said she couldn’t get her “work” done, meaning her daily exercises.  At the nursing home she walks with a walker about 75 feet a day and zooms all over the floor in her wheelchair until she tires out. 

This is a woman who used to walk for miles, who took the subway into Manhattan fully made up in hat and heels and went to church then Bloomingdales then Food Emporium for a few choice items.  Totally independent except for the bill paying, which I took care of.  Just last year she was walking, no longer going into Manhattan, but nonetheless, mobile.

When I first got her the wheelchair in the spring, she hated me, saying that it was my fault she couldn’t walk.  I knew it was the Alzheimer’s talking, but it stung.  She stayed at our house for Easter weekend and hated using the chair, but didn’t want to leave our house.  Now she can’t live without it.

Yesterday she said, “Get the scissors, so I can cut this.”  I wish I could have cut those damn straps.  I told her we didn’t have a pair of scissors but I would ask about a wheelchair.  I loosened the restraints as best I could. The doctor said it was unlikely they would be able to provide her with a wheelchair since she was not expected to be staying long. Who knows why they can’t or won’t provide one.  She kept pushing forward in her chair, gripping the sides and making a motion as if wheeling herself, trying to propel herself into motion. 

I imagined her tearing off the restraints like Superwoman, leaping up and dancing around like she used to do in the living room in Jackson Heights.  She’d kick up her heels to show tunes like “Paint Your Wagon,” her flip flops flying high above her head.  My brother and I found this hilarious.  She totally gave herself over to the dance.

I said, “Mom, the chair won’t move.”

She grimaced at me.

“I’m sorry, you’ll be out of here soon,” I said.

She asked about Mouse, her stuffed animal kitty and I said she was fine and on her bed in the “other” room. I brought her a Snoopy doll that played the Peanuts theme; she liked that.  We shared coffee and a turkey bacon wrap from the cafeteria.  It was good to see her eat.

We watched an animated production of Cat in the Hat on PBS.  I surfed channels after she got tired of cartoons and found Rocky.

Her face lit up and she said, “Keep that on.”

“Do you remember when we first saw this?” I asked.

She said yes, and “I think I liked it.”

She said, “Get me the needle,” and started pulling at the straps again.

I called mom this morning and she was very upset, talking about the wheelchair again.

“I need to move,” she said.  “I can’t stand this.”

I told her it would only be another day and that I’d be coming by this afternoon to see her.

Who knew that mom would grow to love the wheelchair?

I still don’t know how to embed YouTube videos, so bear with me.  Paul Simon singing "Kodachrome" below: