wash away the gray

I was talking with Scott the other day about my mom. She would have liked him I have no doubt. But sadly they will never meet because she died more than ten years ago. I still talk about her and see a lot of my own characteristics directly related to the type of person my mother was. I am my mother’s child. I also see similarities in my sisters as well. One of the last true memories I have of my mother happened when she was undergoing dialysis treatment. She had been in and out of the hospital for months and going to dialysis three times a week. It was a treatment that would prolong her life, but could not save it. The hospital had put a port in her neck that looked like tubes coming out. Each one capped and taped to keep them clean. This would allow them to clean her blood when she was hooked to the dialysis machine. For dialysis, a catheter is inserted into a large vein in either the neck or chest. A catheter is usually a short-term option; however, in some cases a catheter is used as a permanent access. With most dialysis catheters, a cuff is placed under the skin to help hold the catheter in place. Catheters have a greater tendency to become infected than the other access types because the device is both inside and outside of the body. A catheter must always be kept clean and dry. Even getting dressed was a challenge so as not to disturb the catheter at the exit site. Each session would last for hours and my mom had a special bag with a blanket, snacks and sometimes books or magazines to read while she was hooked to life sustaining machine. I remember taking her to treatment when I was in town and seeing firsthand the suffering of my mother and others like her. I was affected by the ill people I saw there. Each one had their own struggles. It was difficult to see my mother so dependent. My mother had a habit of talking to strangers. I remember her making friends at the center and she trying to comfort others with her smile and friendly conversation. My mother hated having those ports in her neck. It looked awful and was easily noticed by others. She would try to hide them with her hair or sometimes a scarf. My mother had them capped and taped to her neck at all times. She could not shower completely and had to wash her hair with a damp rag every day. The doctor advised her not to get the ports wet. The opening in the skin was held closed with sutures and tape. The doctor had tried to put a fistula into her arm as a more permanent means of accessing her blood for dialysis. A fistula used for hemodialysis is a direct connection of an artery to a vein. Once the fistula is created it is a natural part of the body. This is the preferred type of access because once the fistula properly matures and gets bigger and stronger. After the fistula is surgically created, it can take weeks to months before the fistula matures, it is ready to be used. My mother had one, but it never matured and left her arm virtually useless and drawn up. She lost all strength in it and could not even pick up a glass to drink. It was tough to see my mother turning into an old lady right in front of my eyes. Luckily one of my sisters was there to provide assistance to my mother on a daily basis. I came to visit her for the weekend. I had driven from Dallas back to Wichita Falls. My mother lived outside of the city in a small community called Kamay. She had moved there when she and my Dad separated. He remained in Electra. My mom was great at pretending she was not sick, even though I could tell she was faking happy. She still wanted to cook for me when I visited, and tried to do lighthouse work even though she was physically limited. My goal was to enjoy time with her, and I didn’t care if she played hostess. I was not a guest. I love her cooking, but that was not my reason for coming to visit. We sat at the kitchen table to talk. She updated me about her treatment and we did a quick run down of the local gossip. I think she missed me not being there all the time, moving to Dallas just a few months before she got sick really made her miss me. To be honest, it tore me up inside, not being closer to her too. I noticed the white in her hair had grown out round her temples. I was used to seeing her hair colored in a brownish red color. Even though like me, her natural color was dark brown. She told that it made her feel old to look in the mirror at gray hair. She couldn’t wash it nor color it. I knew exactly what to do. I pulled the hair color from the bathroom cabinet, and mixed up a batch. Put it on would be the easy part, but rising it out might be more challenging. I put on gloves and told my mother to put on an old shirt and grab the old towels. I applied the color cream all over her head and we waited for it to set. When it was time to wash it out, we wrapped two towels around her neck to guard the ports and keep them dry. We placed pillows on the floor in front of the tub. My mother kneeled down over the tub. I used a large plastic cup to dip warm water over her head to rinse the color down the drain. Imagine me, coloring my mother’s hair and her loving every minute of it. The best reward was blow drying it and her smiling when she saw the gray was gone. She was so happy to be looking like her old self. It lifted her spirits and it made me happy to see her smile again. It was also a story that she could share with her new friends the dialysis center.