We had a rugged week. My ninety five year old Mom, who we transplanted from Florida only two weeks ago, managed to catch a dreadfully deep wracking cough, challenging her already fragile body. It quickly became pneumonia.
We scheduled a visit to the doctor. She’s old school and tough, (and somewhat Christian Scientist), and of course, claimed it unnecessary. The Doctor advised me to bring her home, away from her new assisted living arrangement, so I could care for her. Too weak to climb our stairs, she collapsed into an exhausted heep on the sofa. When Jim got home, he carried her up the stairs to the guest bedroom.
The following eight days were a blur.
I turned to the best remedy I knew. Chicken soup. Magical and healing.
I texted a shopping list to a friend, and within an hour, I had a couple of fresh chickens at my kitchen door. In the interim, she picked up some quality broth from a trusted local restaurant, until my home brew was prepared.
The chickens simmered for hours, while onions, garlic, carrots, and celery bubbled their support.
I awoke my mother every other hour for days to make her sip the magic broth through a straw, watching her grow stronger, one teaspoon at a time.
Friends were praying all over town. I discovered a local organization called Visiting Nurse, who came every day, taking vital signs and monitoring. It was comforting to know professional eyes were watching her.
Within ten days, she was able to return to her apartment, her new home.
Jim and I collapsed. We are awed by people who do this as their daily occupation.
Caregivers are saints. They need more chicken soup than their patients.
If you know one, give them a big hug, and thank them.