PROVIDING COMPASSIONATE IN-HOME CARE BUILT ON LOVE

My Mother, My Everything: The Heart of Angel Power Home Care - By Morgan Manning

My mother, Joan Manning, was more than just my mom; she was my soulmate. Fourteen years of my life were dedicated to her, a testament to the unbreakable bond we shared. She lived in Sedona, Arizona, a vibrant artist, a 20th-century master painter, her life a whirlwind of art and celebrity. As a child, I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, clinging to her side, captivated by her world.

Then, one day, the light in her eyes dimmed. I drove to Sedona, expecting to find my vibrant mother, but instead, she opened the door, a shadow of herself. Thin, disoriented, haunted by hallucinations of people peering through windows and entities in mirrors. I knew, in that instant, that everything had changed.

I brought her home to Palm Desert, desperate for answers. The diagnosis, Alzheimer's, hit us like a physical blow. We sat in the doctor's office, devastated. Back home, she spoke of her wishes, her fear of being kept alive by machines, her desire to remain at home. If she had to go to a facility, she wanted to be surrounded by fellow artists.

And so, the slow, agonizing decline began. Each lost ability was a fresh wound. She couldn't shower, couldn't use the bathroom, wandered lost in her own neighborhood, calling me from her car, her voice filled with fear. I had to take her keys away, a small act of safety that felt like a monumental loss.

Then came the struggle with silverware, the inability to understand the simple act of eating. Each phase was a silent scream of grief inside me. I'd retreat to my room, tears streaming down my face, but I never let her see my pain. I fed her, small bites, sips of water. Then, the choking, the Heimlich maneuver, the hospital visits, the swallow tests. Yogurt-consistency meals became our new normal.

Parkinson's, or Lewy Body Syndrome, stole her mobility, stiffening her body until she was paralyzed. Her voice, once so vibrant, fell silent. Aspiration pneumonia became a recurring nightmare, each episode a brush with losing her. The feeding tube was a heartbreaking decision. I sat in the parking lot, tears blurring my vision, then went back to her room and asked her, "Mom, they need to put a little tube here, so you can eat safely. Is that okay?" And she said "Yes." That single word, a miracle.

Years of a strange, fragile stability followed. Then, she couldn't swallow, couldn't pass waste. The suction machine, the manual extraction twice a day—these became my daily rituals. Doctors gave her a few years, telling me to keep her in bed, medicated, to let her go. But I refused.

We had our routines. Every day, I'd get her up, sit her in her chair, put on TCM, her eyes wide with joy. We had "Mother pamper days," showers, manicures, massages, her moans of delight a small victory. We went to Del Mar, her old stomping grounds. The Van Gogh exhibit, her tears a testament to the emotions she still felt. Beach sunsets, the sand beneath her feet—I believed she was alive inside, that she still felt love, joy, happiness.

Then, one night, blood streamed from her eye. The Parkinson's had made her unable to blink. Her eye had dried out and cracked. A corneal transplant, a terrifying ordeal, but she pulled through. But then, the implant failed, her eye shrinking into her socket. And then, the other eye started to go.

July 17th, 2023, 1 month and 6 days after her 89th birthday and just 4 days after mine before her 1:30 PM routine, three deep breaths, and she was gone. My world crumbled. I hugged her, kissed her, held her hand, those four hours waiting for her to be picked up a blur of grief. I had given her 14 years, years filled with love, and I truly believe that love, that belief that she was alive inside, gave her eight more years than the doctors predicted. She knew I got her up at 1:30, and she passed at 1:37. She waited for me.

The grief was a tidal wave, but it was also a familiar ache, a culmination of years of anticipatory sorrow. I stayed in bed for a year, lost, wondering if my life had any meaning. Then, I decided to honor her, to create Angel Power Home Care, a company built on the compassion and love I gave her.

I wanted caregivers who were not just bodies, but hearts. I wanted them trained, vetted, compassionate, able to handle the complex needs of people like my mother. I wanted to prevent the mistakes, the broken arms, the lack of empathy I had witnessed.

My mother, a painter, named a series of her works "Angel Power." It was a fitting name for a company built on her legacy. We are committed to providing the highest level of care, rooted in empathy, expertise, and unwavering love. We are Angel Power Home Care, and we are here to honor the lives of those we care for.  

I Love You Mother,  Your Son, Morgan