Walking outdoors is Mom’s main love. (Yes, I know, I encouraged the treadmill idea. She detests treadmills.) Her trash collecting mission branched off of her love for green and clean living. She is an original environmental protector at eighty-eight-years old.
On a mission one day, Mom fell into the gutter. Concrete gutter. Head first.
A couple driving past, saw her and stopped. They helped her up and offered to drive her home. Mom said no. Our address and my phone number are inside her walker, but went unnoticed and forgotten.
Mom arrived home with a bump on her head. She said she didn’t see any stars or pass out, just felt stupid. Well, I was relieved, but upset.
We related the incident to her doctor’s office. No damage, except a lump on her forehead. They instructed no more reaching and trash collecting for my eighty-seven-year-old. Mom is also supposed to walk only twenty minutes, instead of one hour. Sigh.
I took away her beloved trash collecting mission. I hid her metal reacher. Mom tries to sneak the garbage bags out. Just today, I found her with one at our front door. She actually pouted and stamped her foot when I said, “No, no, no. No more. Just look up instead of down, so you won’t see the trash.” Mom was mostly joking, when she had her tantrum.
It’s uncomfortable being my Mom’s mom.