Mom & Me Five Archive

As of May 1, 2010...

2010-04-29T22:45:00.000-07:00

...Blogger will no longer allow FTP publishing. Updates to this blog, which will probably be few to none, since this section of The Mom & Me Journals dot Net is, essentially, closed by time, can be found at http://momandmefivearchive.blogspot.com. This section of the journal will also remain at in it's domain directory, so accessing links should not present a problem.

Ah, yes. Christmas.

2007-12-30T12:51:00.001-07:00

    The holiday season began felicitiously. Sometime soon after Real Thanksgiving, which went well with just the two of us (we had Thanksgiving company the weekend previous, so we celebrated Thanksgiving twice), I surprised myself by not only being in the mood to put up our 32" fiber optic tree, I decided to find a new fiber optic tree, as Mom and I were picking apart the condition of the one we've had for about five years. The white plastic needles have yellowed and the branches are in enough disarray to disturb. Turns out, even though I found and purchased another 32-incher (which was a feat, fiber optic trees are no longer as popular as they were), our old yellowed one out shines the new silver-aluminum needled one...so we decided to display both; we certainly have enough miniature decorations for both. Thus, our house has had that Christmas look for most of the holiday season, this year. Our neighbors to the east, west and north, as well, have gone all out with outdoor Christmas lights this year, so we've been surrounded with glittery, celebratory color.
    I started playing Christmas music early...even found some new stuff for us to enjoy. I wasn't in the mood to plan for us to traipse down to the Valley on Christmas and discussed this frankly with Mom. Although she mentioned that she "always enjoys" seeing the relatives, she confessed that "the trip makes it a hard day" for her and was fine with us staying up here. As you know, early in the season I put together an unusual and festive menu for Christmas Dinner. Then, I settled down in front of the computer with our Christmas budget to my right and began to order gifts. That's when the Christmas wind went out of me.
    Can't really say why I found myself skidding through this holiday season without the tiniest scrap of The Spirit of Giving left in me. All I know is what I told my mother after I'd thought through, selected and ordered one family's gifts: "Seems like it's been a hard care giving year for me this year, Mom. I just don't have any desire to give left in me."
    As I reflected on the year, I couldn't come up with any concrete reasons for feeling this way...maybe it was all the energy I put into Daily Strength; maybe it was the recent surprise of Mom's need for a second transfusion; maybe it was Mom's 90th birthday celebration, over which I'm still boggled to the point of refusing to think about it; maybe it's that, this year, it's become necessary for Mom to be on continuous flow oxygen all the time, so I've had to push my nose further up her ass than before. All in all, I couldn't point to anything in particular and I had to admit that when I review the entire year, it seems like yet another blessedly easy year...and yet, before it ended I was bereft of Giving Resources.
    I thought about how our Christmases usually unfold: Careful, thoughtful gift ordering (I've missed a few Christmases with this but mostly I've been good about it in the last few years); maybe not always Christmas decorations here, but always lots of Christmas talk and music and usually some special baking; forays about town to see community decorations; we typically don't buy gifts for ourselves, neither of us is particularly materialistic and we're rather like an old married couple in this respect, since we tend to get what we want when we want it (assuming we can afford it) so gifts that we receive are left up to whomever we're visiting, a regular box received from one branch of the family, an irregular box from another branch and late, maybe-sometime-the-following-summer gifts from a third branch; a snuggling down with Christmas movies and holiday specials, especially between Christmas and New Years, then a special New Year's dinner here at home, no company, to polish off the season before putting it away.
    "Mom," I said, after shoving myself through the first wave of gift ordering, "just thinking about gift giving exhausts me this year. I feel like, this year, you and I need to get. We need to pluck presents for us from the tree of abundant human productivity this year. I think we should take the rest of our Christmas budget and spend it on us. Get things that we really want; delicious things that we've been putting off or don't get because we don't really need them." Much to my surprise, my mother agreed. Enthusiastically. So, I spent our money and my thought on us, this year. I was able to run all my ideas for Mom by her with the confidence that her dementia would obliterate the memory of the selections and she'd be delighted anew as she unwrapped her gifts on Christmas.
    I diligently wrapped gifts as they were purchased and set them around our trees as the season progressed. I reinstated "Mom's Stocking", which I hadn't done for several years, even though, up to about 2000, I ALWAYS, no matter where I was and where she was, bought her a startling new stocking and sent or gave it to her along with so many little things I'd collected through the year for her that the stockings have never held even a third of their stash. Each morning for the week and a half before Christmas Mom's face lit up like a third tree as she studied the gift tableau and noticed another package here or there. I also wrapped things I got for me so that Mom wouldn't feel as though she hadn't participated in the gift exchange.
    At one point a tug of guilt had me call the car rental place a little over two weeks before Christmas just to see how their inventory of holiday rentals stood. Much to my delight I discovered that it was already too late to reserve a car, taking care of any misplaced shame about not traveling.
    By Christmas morning Mom was stoked. She was up and bathed well before noon. I made her wait until after her ham and egg breakfast to attack the presents, the technique my parents practiced. It was like reining a child. With each gift I "passed" and she or I opened, she fairly squealed with delight! I was beside myself with joy that we were having such a wonderful Christmas.
    As the gift giving subsided, Mom came to and realized that she'd had nothing to do with collecting the gifts that were under the tree. She started talking about all the gifts that she'd bought and wrapped but hadn't yet put under the tree. I was a little surprised, but not fazed. My first tactic was to assure her that she'd already put her gifts out and we were almost done unwrapping everything. She was satisfied with this for a few minutes, then reverted back to her insistence that she had gifts to put under the tree "for everyone". My second tactic was to accompany her to her room, where she said she had stored the gifts. As you know if you're a regular reader, she is neither very spry nor flexible, so, while she sat on her bed, I perused the room for her, looking under the bed, opening drawers, moving this and that about so she could see that "everything had already been put under the tree." I even went so far as to tell her that I had sneaked into her room "last night", gathered her gifts and placed them under the tree.
    She reluctantly left the room. Once I'd gotten her back in her rocker, she began to recount memories of having gone out "a few days ago" or "a week ago" or "right after Thanksgiving" and shopping for "everyone". She even remembered things she'd bought, although when I asked her what these "things" were, she smiled wickedly and teased me that I'd have to wait to open them.
    Suddenly, she remembered all the boxes stored in her closet. She was sure she'd put "all the gifts" in the boxes and wanted to return to the room and go through the boxes to retrieve them.
    I was becoming exasperated. No, I said, the boxes haven't been touched for years, and, besides, she wasn't capable of pulling them out of the closet so she couldn't have stored gifts there. At any rate, I said, I wasn't going to "waste" several holiday hours box hunting on her behalf.
    She remained adamant. She stood determinedly out of her rocker without my assistance and made to shuffle for the bedroom. I placed my body in front of her and blocked her. I decided it was time to tell her the truth. That usually works, even though I expected it might be an unpleasant shock.
    I spilled all the beans. I told her that I had been the only one in the household (I put it this way in case there were holiday visitors from The Dead Zone Mom was entertaining during the holidays but of whom I was unaware) to purchase, wrap and place gifts. When she argued about her shopping trips I told her that the only way she would have been able to shop was if I'd taken her, and I hadn't. I reminded her of all the conversations we'd had about this or that item. I reviewed, in detail, the entire holiday season from the weekend before Thanksgiving on, trying to drop kick something familiar back into her brain. Nothing worked. Additionally, she spent our entire exchange trying to push her way past me to return to the bedroom to scavenge through the boxes in the closet.
    Fifteen minutes later, the effort of standing and trying to push her way around me exhausted her and she sank back into her chair. By this time her legs were wobbly and she was panting, so I knew the rest of the day was going to be a little touchy, but I was far from upset.
    Soon after collapsing into her rocker she decided she needed to take "a little nap". I agreed. I figured she'd digest all this "new" information while sleeping and that would be the end of the Christmas Gift Dilemma.
    Her naps usually last anywhere from an hour to three hours, depending on how long she's been awake, how much she's moved and how confusing her "morning" (most of which occurs in the early afternoon) has been. Thus, I was surprised when, at the half hour mark, I glanced down the hall and noticed that her light was still on. I entered the room. She was sitting on the floor wedged between her bed and her open bottom dresser drawer, her legs awkwardly sprawled, surrounded by stuff she'd taken out of the bottom drawer. She was struggling in vain to arise. I panicked. It's been awhile since I've had to pick her up off the floor and I wasn't sure I was still capable of doing this. I freaked while visions of having to pay paramedics to get her up off the floor whirled through my mind.
    "What were you thinking, Mom!?! You know better than to sit on the floor! You know you can't get up on your own!"
    "I can get up any time I want," she indignantly insisted, and twisted her legs into an even more impossible position, trying to prove her point.
    It took us twenty minutes to figure out how to get her to her knees so she could prop the upper half of her body onto her bed. I squatted from behind her and shoved until her flailing legs were able to achieve purchase with the sheets and we were able to move her full onto the mattress. The effort again exhausted her.
    Always one to take advantage of the opportunity to add insult to injury, especially when I'm perplexed and angry, I sternly instructed her that she was to relax, take a nap, and remain in bed. "No more sitting on the floor," I told her. I shut the doors to her closet (surprised me, actually that I was able to do this, her closet is so loaded) so she wouldn't get any ideas about her ability to haul large, heavy packing boxes down. "I have to start the Sauerbraten," I told her. "I'm going to be checking on you every couple of minutes until you've gone to sleep, to make sure you don't end up on the floor, again."
    This was when she asked why we couldn't just have ham sandwiches for dinner. That sounded fine by me...less work, more time to keep an eye on Mom and her gifting delusions.
    For the next two days, Mom complained about "not feeling quite right," and, you know, if she's complaining about how she feels, something is clearly wrong. She mentioned that she felt like she had a cold but she knew she didn't have one. She further articulated that she "ached all over." Although I made a mental note to be prepared for a trip to the emergency room, when I suggested this, she poo-pooed the idea and insisted we wait for a couple of days to see how she felt later. I decided to gamble on the probability that the indignities involved in raising her off the floor and onto her bed probably took a muscular toll on her eccentrically weak muscles and she'd feel fine after a couple of days and some judiciously administered ibuprofen. I was right. She collapsed once more the day after Christmas, as she was negotiating the two steps into the living room, but once I picked her onto her feet and pull-carried her to her chair, she recovered and was fine. I've made a mental note to look into the possibility of physical therapy for her, since our unevenly applied routine of sitter- and stander-cises don't seem to be doing her much good. She doesn't take them seriously and complains about my insistence on their necessity, puts no effort into doing them (since I'm not someone she feels she needs to please), so they do little to improve her strength or range of motion.
    Since then I've spent much time considering what seeing her through to the end of her life is going to take. She is, after all, ninety. The word "decline" would not be an unfair description of what she's going through, although from day to day she doesn't seem to change and I feel I can still count on revivals. So does she. "Improvement" of any aspects of her physical condition is unlikely. And, yet, I feel obliged to take into heavy consideration her strength of will and her spirit and honor her belief that she has many years to go and many more steps to take, aided, as they are, by her mechanical walker and me as her human walker.
    There are times when I scold her, during an exercise session, for her lack of application to the seriousness of the task and desperately confess that if she becomes any weaker I may not have the ability to care for her here at home...even though I'm also aware that home care to the end of her life will surely happen and I am determined to fight victoriously to keep her here. When I suffer one of these break-downs, she ramps up her exercising efforts and we usually have a good session. I am loathe, though, to constantly threaten her, especially when I know the threat is full of fevered, exasperated air.
    Still, I am tired. Very tired. Besides the Buddhist fable I mentioned in a previous post, I've been contemplating a couple of my own epistles: The Wouldn't it be funny if... post and the No one would blame me post: The former when I am hopefully urging myself back into compassion mode; the latter when I am drowning in the difficulty of resisting compassion fatigue.
    Last night we watched Grizzly Man, playing on the Animal Planet Channel. This is not the first time I've viewed this movie. I am attracted to it primarily because of the occasional sharpness of Herzog's commentary, specifically something he says in the middle of the film: After documenting that Treadwell, a.k.a. The Grizzly Man, had faith in the "harmony" of life, he says, "...I disagree." He feels that life, in fact, rotates around an axis of "chaos, hositility and murder." In an interview in the May, 2005, issue of Documentary Magazine in which he talks about the film, he continues: "I have the impression by simple observations that there is no harmony in Mother Nature, and I don't like this romanticized New Age approach. I cannot take it any longer...It doesn't matter how the universe is organized. Since we are here and we are part of the creation, as faulty as it can be, we have to give meaning to this planet."
    Last night, I took special note of this because I've been considering how, just as human society colludes in determining our births, it also colludes in the timing of our deaths. When we talk, innocently, about "it" being someone's "time", we imply that some sort of god is ticking off our life plan. In fact, I've been thinking, it is our society that does this. We can't help but do it. Life is, fundamentally, a matter of resource distribution. One way or another, although some of our cultures allow themselves less awareness of this, some more (see The Ballad of Narayama), we plot to determine the length and breadth of everyone's lives. I'm convinced that my intervention in my mother's life has extended it beyond what relatives and the medical providers have thought possible (although not what my mother has believed about how long she'll live). I've been wondering, lately, what my part in the timing of my mother's death will be: Whether increasingly frequent episodes of compassion fatigue, combined with my mother's reaction to my fatigue, will ultimately determine the timing of her final moments. It's not a depressing subject to contemplate. Neither is it easy. Hard questions, hard facts, hard truths, hard insights. This seems to be the overriding concern of my personal Holiday Season, this year. My mother's holiday season seems to have been about stoic endurance and sometimes dangerous delight...although I can't be sure about this.
    In the meantime, Mom is feeling "herself" again. She can't remember the few days during which she insisted that "something's wrong but I don't know what", so I must have been right about her body's need to recover from the trauma of being hoisted onto her mattress.
    Our New Year's dinner will most likely be ham, or perhaps ham and bean soup, as she was not satisfied with the ham sandwiches on Christmas, which depleted our supply of her favorite food. The trees continue to remind her of Christmas, although she's aware that "Christmas is over" and a new year is about to begin. I'm surprised that her sense of time and its markers is heightened...but, mine has been philosophically acute, as well, lately, and this may be rubbing off on her.
    Happy Holidays. I believe this is appropriate, in a skewed sort of way.
    Later.

I'm cooking Christmas dinner.

2007-12-27T19:13:00.001-07:00

    That's right. Two days after Christmas and we're finally having Christmas dinner. Just one of the circumstances that turned our Christmas curious.
    Not that we didn't have dinner on Christmas. I'd bought what was called a quarter HoneyBaked Ham® (no bone, sliced) so that I could serve Mom her very favorite breakfast (after pancakes, that is, which didn't seem like a good idea, considering all the refined carbohydrates I expected to slosh through her system that day, although I added the breakfast accompaniment of Wildflower Bread Company's cranberry scones, of which I am endlessly envious and haven't yet managed to duplicate), ham and eggs. As the day progressed, despite the mounting oddities, the one item that had been a resounding success from Mom's point of view was the ham at breakfast. About the time I needed to begin preparing what I'd planned for Christmas dinner, Sauerbraten, Mom announced that she'd "just as soon" have ham again for dinner.
    No problem. The roast could marinate for a few more days. How, I asked, would she like the rest of the ham prepared?
    "How about ham and cheese sandwiches with MCS's pickles (MCS had sent us some jars of her much appreciated home made Bread & Butter pickles for Christmas, yet another favorite of Mom's; when we opened the package right after breakfast Mom insisted on having some)?"
    That was doable. I assembled ham and cheese (Cheddar and Jalapeno Jack for Mom, aged, grated Parmesan for me) between slices of sourdough bread slathered with whiskey mustard and skillet toasted the sandwiches. With the pickles, it made a perfect Christmas dinner, especially considering what had gone before.
    Dinner was followed with a light dessert, also not on the original menu. I'd planned a See's Apricot Delight Cake. I'd noticed it while I was ordering some very special candy for Mom's stocking. The cake recipe sounded delicious, so I ordered the type of candy it required and made sure I had all the ingredients. I followed the recipe exactly, which is a miracle for me. Unfortunately, the recipe was a dud. The cream cheese/candy filling sunk to the bottom of the upside-down Bundt pan as it baked and fused to the pan. When I attempted to drop the cake out of the pan (after the requisite hour of cooling) the cake broke in half. The cake part baked up nicely, but the filling part had turned into a gooey glue that I had to scrape out of the pan. The entire production went down the garbage disposal. On Christmas Day, though, I got an idea to bake up a batch of Date Bars, a delicious family recipe from waaay back that put standard oat crust date bars to shame. My plan was to serve these (which I did bake on Christmas) with French Vanilla ice cream and home made rum-date sauce. After dinner, though, Mom wanted, "just a little something sweet", so I okayed her foray into her box of special candy. Amazingly, although she loved it, she ate only one piece. I was surprised. I even told her that it would be okay if she had more since I'd doubled her glipizide dose, but, "...no, that was enough." I never fail to be amazed at her sugar restraint since she developed Type 2 diabetes in 1999 and slowly but surely changed her sugar habits.
    So, we're having our originally planned Christmas Dinner tonight, Sauerbraten and Date Bars with ice cream and rum-date sauce, tonight. I just finished the dessert sauce...oh, my, it is the sauciest of sauces!
    In case you're curious, the Sauerbraten recipe is straight out of Joy of Cooking, the 1997 edition. I followed that recipe exactly, as well, right down to the marinade, except that I did something my mother used to do when cooking pot roast: I added the chunked companion vegetables I'd planned (not the vegetables that flavor the braising liquid) to the braising meat throughout the cooking cycle. They'll be removed just before I make the sauce. I followed the recipe on this one, too, because, although I may, at some time, have had Sauerbraten, I don't remember it so I figured I'd better not get too creative with the cooking. From all indications, the main dish will be delicious...as will the dessert. I'll publish the recipes for the Date Bars (you won't find this recipe anywhere else, I don't think; I suspect that the woman who passed it on to us created it) and the rum-date Sauce (not my recipe) later, over at the cooking section. I'll add links from here to there.
    I think the meat is just about ready to harvest, which means I need to get busy, awaken The Mom from her nap and make the gravy (yes, I'm going to use crushed gingersnaps, as the recipe recommends...even though the idea of cookies in a main dish gives me pause).
    Good idea to put my feet back in the journaling water by writing around what's been going on. I think I'll be dunking myself further...
    ...later.

I've been feeling a desperate need for snow, lately.

2007-12-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

    Although the northern and eastern part of our state has gotten a fair amount, Prescott has not. The sun has been annoyingly unabated and brilliant, here. Since early November snow has been promised, then the promise has disappeared. So, while web surfing, I found this engaging little snow script, captured the images and the script and have added both to this section of my journals. I'll be adding it to the others, as well, within the next few days. I've seen a lot of snow scripts on the internet. This one actually makes me feel as though it's snowing (with a little help from an open window here and a dimmer switch on our overhead light there). I read a suggestion on a now forgotten website that as the seasons change, an interesting trick is to change the image the snow script uses in order to distribute falling leaves, etc. I'm grinning about some of the possibilities for sprinkled images and might give that a try.
    Mostly, lately, I've had that familiar Buddhist fable in mind. You know it: The one about the two monks, belonging to a sect that prohibits the touching of women, about to cross a river, on the banks of which is a woman who needs help crossing. One of the monks carries her across the river. Once the monks complete their crossing and the woman is deposited, the monk who denied help to the woman grouses at the other as the two continue on their way. In response, the "guilty" monk says, "Ah, but I left the woman on the bank of the river. You're still carrying her."
    It seems I'm carrying a variety of "women", not the least of which is an actual woman, my mother, much further than is probably necessary and am experiencing some difficulty because I can't figure out how to put any of them down.
    Funny, because almost hourly when I'm awake, as my day progresses, I mentally write in this journal, keeping up a running commentary on what is happening and how I'm feeling about it. When I get to a point, though, where I can fire up the computer and record the commentary, the words evaporate in bewilderment.
    So, in case you're wondering, that's why I haven't actually been here much, although I've been here "spiritually" almost constantly. I even surprised myself by dreaming, about a week ago, about writing here! The dream was immensely satisfying...awakening from it was frustrating.
    How's The Mom doing? I'm not sure. That's another perplexing aspect of these last few months. On the surface she seems okay, but I'm suspicious. Perhaps she is simply reacting to my fairly apparent confusion. Christmas turned out to be an unsettling day...remind me to tell you about it.
    Hmmm...I notice that my fingers remain familiar with the keyboard, even anxious to skitter from letter to letter...maybe I'll be getting back here sooner than...
    ...later.

By way of explanation...

2007-12-16T14:45:00.000-07:00

...just want to mention that I'm going through a hard emotional period which makes it difficult to write about what's going on here, and, as well, what's going on inside me, although, be assured, it's not classically "bad"; just perplexing. We are, in fact, enjoying the holiday season more than usual. I decided to pull the holiday back to our house and our companionship, this year, rather than attempting to celebrate everyone else. That part of this period, at least, has been easy and delightful.
Later? Of course...eventually...

I'm thankful for my anger, this year.

2007-11-22T22:50:00.000-07:00

    It's becoming incendiary.
    No, no, no, not anger at myself. I've never been much for that little bit of keep-'em-down-on-the-farm propaganda.
    Outward facing anger. Feels right. Feels good. Even makes me smile...no, make that "grin".
    I've been lax at getting back here. So much catching up to do in so many areas. I'm turned this way, though. I'll be back more frequently as the days go by.
    Is it still Thanksgiving here? Ah, yes, it is.
    [Happy] I salute the gods [Thanks] who've been busily fanning [Giving] the flames of my anger.
    Later.

I just awoke from a dream...

2007-11-14T09:35:00.001-07:00

...in which Jessica Fletcher and I solved a murder mystery involving a red haired man, appearing as the culprit in my dream, who my subconscious stole from the movie An Unfinished Life, which Mom and I watched, in our "reel" life, a few days ago during a personal, mini Lasse Hallström festival. It was an exuberant enjoyable dream. During the investigation both Jessica and I donned disguises. Both of us failed to recognize the other in disguise. I laughed so hard in the dream I may have laughed out loud in real life.
    I'm mentioning the dream because, as it closed, Jessica mentioned that she would be returning to her "favorite place"; for her, in the dream, it was Wales. She urged me to do the same.
    The idea sounded perfect, I agreed, and told her, in answer to her query, that my favorite place was Seattle, Washington, any time but the summer, but that I would be deferring my return.
    "What's stopping you?" she asked.
    "My mother and I live together and she can't take Seattle weather. If she doesn't enjoy it, I won't." My voice and mood in the dream were matter of fact. No sorrow. No regrets.
    Jessica smiled, nodded approvingly and wished me well, "...until we meet again," [presumably in Dream Land to solve another murder mystery].
    I awoke as Jessica donned another disguise and headed toward Wales. I was surprised to realize that, even in my dream life, now, I am satisfied with where I am, my commitment to my mother and what I consider that it asks of my life. Partnering with Jessica Fletcher in a dream is one indication. My mother's been on a Murder, She Wrote binge, lately, and, this time, I'm not annoyed by it; not even by hearing the theme over and over (which may or may not have been atmosphere music in my dream).
    It's funny, too, because I have a recent info-blip with which to compare my staunch refusal to return to my favorite place at this time. Yesterday Mom and I were watching the weather segment of a "local" (from Phoenix) news program. The meteorologist mentioned that the Western United States is in a La Niña pattern: Cooler and wetter for the Pacific Northwest (he mentioned Seattle specifically); warmer and drier for us.
    I remember thinking, "Damn, I'm missing a La Niña winter in Seattle! Oh well, it won't be the last."
    Simultaneously, my mother was saying, "Oh, good, looks like it's going to be warmer, here, this year!" She added, "I'm sorry you're missing Seattle, though. Why don't you visit there for a week? I'll be fine."
    My mother, of course, was thinking that she'd be fine on her own...not in a nursing home, which she'd refuse and in which, frankly, after our skilled nursing facility adventure, I'd refuse to harbor her unless I could check on her care daily; and, you know, if I'm going to be here to check on her daily, why not just be with her here at home? Much better for both of us.
    I grinned, thanked her, and told her, "I think I'll do that."
    This satisfied both of us, even though I fear I'm suffering a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder because of this winter's uninhibited sun. Makes it easy, though, to get my mother in the car for a blood draw during the winter. Which I'll be doing shortly.
    Off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of blood.
    Later.

Damn, it's good to be back!...

2007-11-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

...and bittersweet. In order to get myself back here I decided it was necessary for me to disengage from my involvement at Daily Strength's caregiver support community. In order not to repeat myself all over the web, here's the post at Daily Strength in which I explain my change of direction. Ahhh...sad, but, it's good to be back.
As usual, I've got a load of items backlogged in my mind I want to post about, so, here's my partial reminder list, partial, that is, to my memory:

A few nights ago Mom called out to me from Dream Land. First time she's done this;
Comparison of Away from Her with the story from which it was adapted, The Bear Came Over the Mountain. The story link is to the 1999 publication of it in The New Yorker, by the way...if you enjoyed the movie, you might want to read the story; if you click into it and you get a mishmashed paged with an advertisement stationed and stationary over it, refresh your page and the story should come through;
Short factual review of my mother's 90th birthday celebration (the one that happened here during the week of her birthday and the one that happened far away on the day of her birthday);
Flu Shot Day (last Saturday);
How Mom's been doing since her second blood transfusion;
Early Thanksgiving, this year, including a visit from MCS & MCBIL this weekend;
Interesting article in the most recent edition of Take Care!, the NFCA's snail mail newsletter...think "healthcare nightmare" a thousand times worse than anything I've experienced while medically advocating on my mother's behalf;
My delighted reaction to Karma giving me a friendship award!

Got a blood draw to make tomorrow, and I need to "do" Mom's hair so that it'll look "halfway decent", as she puts it.
Sooner than later!

Blood Test Results are, again, up...

2007-10-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

...for 10/16/07 and 10/23/07. Mom's hemoglobin dropped a bit on the former, then headed back up on the latter, but stayed above 10 on both, which is good. The test for 10/23/07 includes a BMP.
    Much to my mother's relief, we'll be dropping back to going in for her draws every two weeks for the next two months...then, after that, back to her once a month regimen, which I will not, again, be persuaded to forgo, as I was throughout the last year.
    She remains on the high supplemental dose of iron. I found an OTC version at Costco that is relatively cheap and does not include folic acid or B12, so I'm using that for half her daily dose and the prescription iron (with folic acid and B12) for the other half. I've been a bit concerned about the extraordinarily high dosages of folic acid and B12 that she's been receiving, so this helps alleviate some of that.
    She's doing good, I'm doing fairly well. I'm feeling the pressure of my two favorite seasons (fall and winter) and wishing I could somehow manage some time completely alone. Not gonna happen, but, you know, a person can dream...or something.
    Later.

She's Movin' Up

2007-10-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

    Yesterday's blood draw is much like today's weather: Fair, sunny, warm, slightly breezy. In figurative terms, the transfusion and the added iron appear to be kicking ass and reminding Mom's body what it is to be less anemic. If you're interested in the numbers, here are her blood draw results for 10/8/07.
    She walkered into the lab yesterday without a problem. The tech who was assigned to her remembered her from a recently previous blood draw in which Mom arrived in a wheelchair and cheered the change in mobility. During the actual draw, Mom worked herself into her usual feisty annoyance about all medical procedures and asked, with high impertinence, "how many more of these" she was going to have to endure.
    I patiently reviewed the schedule with her and explained the reason for it.
   She replied, "Well, I don't think it's necessary after today!"
    The tech burst out laughing and said, "I'll bet you're right, Mrs. Hudson, but part of being alive is humoring everyone else's stupidity!"
    Mom considered this a reasonable reply and settled down.
    I could have kissed that tech...I'm not sure why I didn't! At any rate, her response has now been added to my "bag of caregiver tricks".
    Later.

Complete CBC results are up, now...

2007-10-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

for yesterday, 10/1/07. Everything appears to be in order.
Wanted to mention, within the past week or so, BOTH Mom and I have been retiring earlier. I've actually retired before midnight a couple of nights. This means I've been up much earlier than usual. It's beginning to look as though, with the help of the seasonal change, I'll soon be able to take my morning walk in the dark, which is my preference. Just smiling about this.
Later.

"Gail, Gail, can I sleep with you?"

2007-10-01T15:07:00.001-07:00

    That was my mother, at 0315 Saturday morning, standing in our narrow hall, supporting herself with either hand against the walls, silhouetted by the night light, calling to me in a voice I rarely hear, best described as plaintive.
    I immediately moved my bed (which is a futon, used on the floor, with "improvements") into her bedroom. We sat and talked, for awhile, in the eerie blue light cast by her bedroom night light; I "spooked" her until I was able to tease a few laughs out of her. Then, we talked about her discomfort. She couldn't say what she was feeling, or why. I asked her several questions: Had she had a nightmare? Was she frightened by something? Did she feel bad physically? Did she think she was close to death? She answered them all in the negative, but continued to insist that she "...just didn't feel quite right" and didn't want to "be alone". We continued to talk, for awhile, in the deep-night slumber party atmosphere until she settled down and we finally went to sleep. In the morning she was fine, although she remembered that she'd wanted me to sleep with her (even though I awoke and removed my bedding long before she awoke) and thanked me for assenting. The thanks wasn't necessary, I told her, that's why I'm here.
    Later that day I had an thought provoking conversation with an excellent friend. Upon learning what had happened the previous night, she told me that subsequent to blood transfusions she'd received before and after the birth of one of her children, she experienced vivid, unsettling dreams, although she didn't label them "nightmares".
    This rang a bell. On Thursday, between noon and 1700, my mother received her second transfusion in four and a half years. As recent readers will know, her hemoglobin, just prior to her most recent "routine" doctor's appointment in Mesa, had dropped to 8.4. A CBC drawn a week later, on 9/26/07 showed a further drop to 7.5. Her PCP called Thursday morning and ordered me to take her into "the nearest ER room" for a blood transfusion, which I did, at the Yavapai Regional Medical Center, the local hospital here. Mom's PCP, of course, is not on staff there, since he's in Mesa, but, after an initial CBC to confirm her low hemoglobin (it came in at 7.9, which seemed hopeful, to me), she was transfused, in the ER, with a unit of blood. Because her hemoglobin had climbed (at least according to the tests), I was only mildly surprised that the transfusion involved only one unit. Her last transfusion involved three units, but, at that time, her hemoglobin was at 5.6.
    She was not checked into the hospital. Once about 50ccs of saline had washed the last of the blood out of the unit packaging into Mom's body, she was released and we were home by 1730.
    I'm a little nervous about her condition, now, as I write. Post-transfusion, I reported to her PCP, faxing him all the paperwork I was able to glean from the hospital (not much) and the final instructions by the attending ER doctor. These included:

Have a follow-up CBC done "sometime next week";
Discontinue her 81 mg aspirin per day and her garlic and vitamin E supplements (both are natural anticoagulants);
Continue iron supplementation as per PCP's instructions (she is now on 6 capsules of Niferex-150 Forte per day)
Continue eating a diet high in iron rich foods.

    On Friday, Mom's PCP added the following prescription: A CBC every Monday (the first was drawn today) for a month, then a CBC every two weeks to follow for two months (assuming, of course, that her hemoglobin remains above transfusion level).
    There was a curious incident surrounding the prescription for regular, frequent CBCs. When Mom's PCP's nurse called me on Friday morning, she told me that the doctor was ordering a transfusion every Monday for a month, etc. This alarmed me. She and I discussed the difficulty I might have up here following this prescription. I told her that I'd call the hospital and see how I could arrange this, hoping that I wouldn't have to take my mother into the ER every Monday for a month.
    The call to the hospital was informative and frustrating. YRMC still refuses to recognize the prescriptions of doctors who are not on staff, the IV Therapy Unit informed me. However, if our PCP faxed her a prescription and called to gather information about the paperwork and tests they'd need and faxed this information as well, the woman to whom I spoke, who was very helpful, by the way, (my frustration is purely with policy, not with people, at least it's not often with people), she'd attempt to solicit the doctor who oversaw Mom's transfusion in the ER to underwrite the prescription.
    I relayed all this information by phone to our PCP's nurse. She assured me she would fax the initial prescription to the IV Therapy Unit, which she did. I followed up with a call to the Unit about fifteen minutes later. Turns out, the prescription mentioned nothing about weekly transfusions...only weekly CBCs for a month, then bi-weekly for two months. That was a HUGE surprise! I was certain I hadn't misunderstood, as, believe me, I was surprised enough, as it was, that weekly transfusions were being ordered.
    Back on the phone, with the PCP nurse: I decided to be diplomatic when I approached her about this disconnect and suggested, after telling her about my follow-up call to the IV Unit, that maybe I'd misunderstood. No, she admitted, I hadn't, she'd misspoken, through a couple of phone calls. That was a relief!
    I assured her that the CBC prescription could be covered by our standing order at Bradshaw labs, called the IV Therapy Unit back, explained the miscommunication and asked her to please forget that I'd ever talked to her (she laughed...she'd already faxed the ER physician with a request to underwrite the CBC prescription; luckily, she hadn't heard back from him).
    So, I am sitting here, today, reporting on all that's happened, reflectling on how good my mother looked this weekend, after having been infused with that peach undertone typical of her last transfusion, but beginning to look, today, more like pink crayon scribbled on white paper, which is how she looked just previous to this most current transfusion...and hoping, hoping, hoping, that I'm reading her physicality through eyes clouded by unwarranted concern. In a few minutes I'm going to call her doctor's office and see if they've been faxed the results of today's draw.
    In the meantime, during our Thursday ER visit and my Friday trying to set up transfusion appointments that weren't necessary, I had several conversations with the triage nurse and the IV Therapy Unit woman centered around my difficulty in finding adequate medical help for my mother up here. They were extremely sympathetic and suggested three different physicians (including the ER attending physician, who received high marks from both women). All three offices turned my mother down as a possible patient. In addition, the triage nurse informed me that, yes, it's true, there are only two hematologists in the area, and confided to me that neither is "very good". My intention remains to explore, this week, the possibility of securing the consulting services of one of them in order to expedite future transfusions, if needed. Although I'd prefer a "good" hematologist on consult who might be willing to explore my mother's anemia further without invasive testing and, perhaps, bring to bear the latest treatments and medications, my bottom line is someone who will sign off on transfusion orders so we can pursue them up here, rather than in Mesa. At this point, though, I'm not expecting success...nor am I expecting failure.
    I am, however, alert to the possibility that I may have to pack us up for travel to the Mesa hospital where she's been seen previously, Banner Baywood, for future transfusions and emergencies. This is where her last transfusion was administered and other emergencies handled. We have, now, an excellent working relationship with them. Her Mesa hematologist in on staff there, even though her PCP is not. In addition, despite Mom's PCP not being on staff, the hospital staff readily communicates with non-staff PCPs. Mom's crisis records are all there, as well...and this hospital covered YRMC's ass when my mother had a low-sodium crisis in August, 2004, which Dr. Seller's Market up here, the attending physician at the time, didn't bother to diagnose, but, rather, decided to lecture me on Medicare in rural communities. I ironically note, here, that Dr. Seller's Market was the ER physician who relieved the one who oversaw my mother's transfusion last Thursday.

Update at 1715:
    I notice I started this post just after 1500 today. I've been keeping it in draft, continuing it in spurts as I handle our life through the afternoon. Wanted to mention, though, that I am no longer nervous about her hemoglobin. Her PCP's office just called the results to me, bless their hearts, after I put in a call about an hour ago to find out if the office had yet been faxed the results (which are usually available to Doc Offices after 1400 on the day of the draw, if the draw happens before noon; available to patients and MPOAs the following morning): 9.6. That's comparable to Mom's blood draw five days after her first transfusion in June of 2004. I'm much relieved!
    Still, though, my optional plans, outlined above, remain in place. Although the ER service here was adequate, this time, it was well below adequate in two other visits. One out of three ain't good. As well, the reasons I consider service this time only adequate follow:

Twice the infuser malfunctioned. It took several minutes for ER personnel to respond, despite the fact that several were visiting at the nurses' station during the extremely loud beeping of the infuser;
The BP/RR/BOx monitoring machine took several tries and over a half hour of attention before it began to operate;
Two nurses ignored my warning that putting my mother flat on her back was not a good idea, she would have trouble breathing. One of them even lied to me and told me my mother wanted to lay on her back! Funny, too, because I was there through the whole extended episode and know my mother never expressed this preference, but did express an unsolicited preference for being on her side, which was ignored. As well no one ever asked my mother her preference. My mother did, finally, end up on her side, after the nurses both observed that I was indeed right, my mother has significant trouble breathing while laying on her back;
When my mother ate a meal delivered to her, the nurse attending her was completely insensitive to my mother's extreme discomfort in the hospital bed and only helped my mother into a more comfortable position after I'd asked for help twice and finally attempted to readjust the bed and my mother myself, which wasn't successful.
When we checked in, I was informed by the information desk that my mother's PCP would be contacted with lab results, etc., through the hospital's "Hospitization Program". Didn't happen.
My requests for copies of all paperwork (including tests) were continually ignored, until, finally, I had to drop pleasantries and demand copies, which were handed to me grudgingly.

    To be fair, getting copies of paperwork is ALWAYS a problem with medical providers. However, malfunctioning equipment isn't; nor have I ever before found RNs insensitive to their patients' physical comfort. Nor have I ever before been lied to, nor have promises been made, before, that were not kept. I know much of this had to do with the fact that my mother does not have a local PCP who is affiliated with YRMC. I don't consider this a reasonable excuse, though, since this has never been a problem at Banner Baywood. My mother has not always had a consulting hematologist who happened to be on staff there during her occasional visits for intense medical care.

    Saturday night Mom assured me, unsolicited and with a chuckle, that she would "allow" me to sleep in my own bedroom that night. I was surprised that she remembered the previous night. After I'd heard from my friend about the vivid dreams, though, later that day I'd run her experience by Mom to see if it rang any bells. She couldn't say, since most of the memory of her discomfort and her desire "not to be alone" had vanished. I'm thinking that the reason we didn't experience this reaction after the last transfusion is because the hospital kept her for a few days for observation to make sure that there was no residual reaction to the transfusion and to monitor her anemia to confirm that the transfusion was working...so, if she had a "vivid dream" reaction, it would have taken place at the hospital and it makes sense that I wouldn't have known about it.
    Funny, too, now that I've just typed that above, I remember that YRMC told me that they didn't need to keep her for observation because, "If there is going to be a reaction, it will happen within the first 15 minutes of the transfusion." That, by the way, is a direct quote from our first attending RN. I remember it word for word because of its direct contrast to what I was told when Mom was transfused in Mesa.
    One other curious thing. About a half hour into the transfusion, my mother began to sneeze almost continuously for several minutes. These spasms continued off and on through the transfusion and later into the night. During the third spasm (they happened about 15 minutes apart) I alerted the attending RN. She observed my mother, shook her head and said she was sure that it was not connected to the transfusion. Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was connected to hygienic conditions within the hospital or within the room my mother occupied...and whatever was causing it walked out the door with us and took some hours, that evening, for my mother to shed. Who knows. Whatever. I'll keep all this in mind as my mother and I continue our journey together...and always have a bag packed, just in case we have time to seek emergency care in Mesa instead of here.
    Oh, yeah, remind me to mention the coffee cup thing, next time.
    Later.

Transcripts of podcasts are being (slowly) made available.

2007-09-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

    As per a mention from a friend, that she prefers to read over listening, I decided to create and publish transcripts of my mother's and my podcasts. If it's easier for you to read (there are several advantages, including the ease of being able to stop and restart mid stream without missing a beat), as the transcripts become available, I'll include links to them in purple, underneath the specific podcast.
    I will be back dating the transcripts within the journal according to when they were recorded, which is the reason for the links. Two have been added at this time. For ease of reading, I'm also dividing each transcripted interview into unequal, titled sections.
    Please note the following, which I am copying verbatim from the introduction to the post that holds the publication of the first two transcripts:

Comments on Reading versus Listening
I'm surprised to find that Mom's and my conversations translate well into transcription. I can't help but note, though, that there is a lot about the way we interact with one another and our relationship that escapes the eye, and thus, the brain and the heart. The transcript definitely preserves the hard, cold facts but I believe, now, that if you avoid the audio versions, you will miss much that is pertinent, particular and pleasurable about our relationship and our lived-together life.

    Just wanted to mention that.
    I will, by the way, be writing about our most recent appointment day...
    ...later.

Blood Test Results are back for yesterday's blood draw...

2007-09-20T04:49:00.000-07:00

...and available at here. They don't look great. They are at about the same place as they were a couple of weeks previous to her colonoscopy. If you're curious, here is a comparison test.
    Over the last couple of weeks I've noticed increased paleness, weakness and lethargy, so I started her on increased iron therapy (an extra Niferex-150) last week when her feet began to swell a little. She actually looks better, now, than she did and the fluid retention is under great control. She's still fairly weak, but, as usual, her will and spirit remain incredibly strong.
    No, I won't be allowing her to be scoped, again. And, no, she's not in transfusion range, from my point of view. We have our regular, routine doctor's appointment today. My guess is that he'll draw blood for just about every test conceivable (which will annoy Mom, but she'll take it in her usual good, ironic humor). I'm also guessing that he'll recommend continued extra iron therapy for awhile, increased blood tests, and perhaps a few more doctors appointments within the next few weeks.
    Actually, in some ways, she looks better, on paper, than she did at the beginning of July, 2003. Her GFR looks a touch better than in March, as well. I have to admit, when I got the results of the blood tests yesterday morning, I freaked and started tearing up. But, after comparing yesterday's results with with past tests during bad periods, I'm feeling much better and much more optimistic. I know, for instance, that the colonoscopy she had because of similar anemic indicators recorded no internal bleeding. That was also the test that the internist who performed it pronounced "torture" for Mom and, obliquely, for herself, as well, said she would never scope "this woman" again and recommended that Mom never again be scoped, up or down. So, I will remain firm with this. I also recall that soon after the test Mom's anemia reversed itself. I felt that the accidental colonic performed the day before the test may have had something to do with this, although the doctors (her PCP, who is the same as now, and her hematologist) remained circumspect about that. I'm going to run the idea by her doctor, today of doing just this part of the procedure again, maybe next week. He'll probably consider the idea silly, but, based on how she does over the next week or so, I may go ahead and do it. I'm sure it won't hurt her, at any rate. Might be a little messy, considering her physical weakness, but that might already be reversing itself as I type.
    Mom feels good enough so that we had a few mild arguments, last night, about my insistence that we take and probably use the wheel chair to get her around. She usually feels better in Mesa than here, so I'm leaving my mind partially open on this, but I suspect I'll win this series of arguments.
    As usual, I'm running on little sleep. My intention was to get about six hours...we were both in bed, lights out, by 2300 last night. I went to sleep with incomplete visions of previous tests in my head, though, so at 0315 this morning I awoke with a start, having endured my brain trying to fill in what I couldn't remember. I finally crawled out of bed at 0345 and started researching. This, alone, made me feel MUCH better...so I'm glad I did this. I'll just stoke myself up on coffee, today, maybe, if possible, get in a short nap at the motel after the appointment and, if necessary, take a "cold" pill.
    Well, time for me to head into the shower. I will, I promise, report back within the next 48 hours about the appointment, and what may or may not be happening in connection with doctor's appointments and blood draws over the next weeks.
    Ai, yi, yi! Well, we've gone for a long time without a health "crisis" (I'm not really sure this is a crisis, which is why I'm using the quotes), and this isn't the worst we've experienced, in fact, we've been through very similar circumstances before, so, as of right now, my hopes are high, my resolve strengthened, and by the way, Mom is, as usual, excited about the trip. I think we'll be okay.
    Sooner than later.

A community member at Daily Strength...

2007-08-31T12:43:00.000-07:00

...who is a caregiver and continuing her education online wrote an essay for a composition class that contains some interesting information about caregiving in the U.S. and other countries and cultures. She mentions that it's a rough draft, but this aspect is easily ignored in favor of the information and speculations it contains, and it cites references. The link to it is here. You do not need to be a community member to access it.
Later.

Some years ago, I decided to greet my mother's bowel movements merrily.

2007-08-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

    I felt that merriment would preserve her dignity, and mine. It is not easy, I reasoned, to be a long ago fully fledged adult who could no longer be trusted to wipe her own ass efficiently enough to keep from developing UTIs. As well, my part in the Evacuative Operation isn't pleasnat, either, requiring that I usually fish her shit out of the toilet. The consistency of iron laden shit is a sure fire recipe for constantly clogging pipes, if allowed to flush normally.
    My merriment has gotten us through years of performing this disgusting scenario at least once every other day; sometimes more often. When I realized what would be necessary to keep my mother and our plumbing clean and healthy, I faced it without a problem. Yes, the smell is nasty. Yes, the idea of it is disgusting. But a little loopy humor, usually droll, ushers the Operation into and area of manageability for both of us. I greet each bowel movement (which my mother never realizes is going to happen until she's on the toilet) with inappropriately funny celebration. I have a stock of phrases and terms I use to keep the mood light and easy. Lot's of spontaneous jokes are involved, as well, depending on how the Operation is going, and, occasionally, if neither of us is in a particularly accepting mood, I'll pilfer tunes from Mom's past and pull lyrics from the bowels of my imagination. These techniques always work.
    Well, almost always. Lately, I haven't been quite so merry. Over the last couple of weeks, each time I notice my mother's face gather into her bowel movement mask, each time I'm in the bathroom and get a whiff of what she's depositing in the toilet, each time I contemplate reaching in there and fishing out the contents, I've had to stifle an urge to gag or wretch.
    Last night, I guess you could say I hit my limit. For the last week or so I've been scrutinizing her bowel movements for potential flushability. Just looking into the toilet has been enough to make me have to work extra hard to keep the contents of my stomach where they're supposed to be. I have, however, figured that if that's all I have to do, I can quickly flush and forget. As it turns out, I've probably flushed more than I should have. Last night the toilet refused to completely swallow a small, normally easy to flush contribution. She'd evacuated just before dinner, during her usual pre-dinner bathroom visit. I was overwhelmed with the realization that, this time, boweling wasn't going to be business as usual; and would probably spoil my appetite for the lasagna I'd been baking and over which we'd both been salivating. I stood there, watching the bowl fill inches above the hard water line, knowing her shit was lodged in the pipes, caught in the detritus of the past days unwise flushings lining the pipes, beyond reach, knowing I'd have to clear out the bathroom and force it down, or up, with the plunger, and burst into tears. My mother, standing next to me, paper underwear around her ankles, ass waiting to be wiped, heard my uncontrollable sobbing, turned to face me and exclaimed, "My goodness, girl, have you hurt yourself?!?"
    I couldn't help it. I let loose with a barely intelligible litany that consisted of the following: "I just can't do this! I can't handle your shit anymore! I know I have to, but if I do I'm afraid I'm going to vomit!"
    My mother was astonished. She had no response, except to stand there, patiently, while I blubbered away and slammed the toilet lid down. During times past, in an effort to help preserve her own dignity, she has, while I'm wiping her ass and apologetically joking about the process, talked about how, that's okay, we'll both get through it; nothing more than mother's wiping babys' asses, after all. Although this isn't true, I always let it go in the interest of much needed civility. I was hoping that she wouldn't offer this, last night. I knew that, if she did, I'd launch into a tirade about the evils of senior shitting. I got lucky. She remained silent and stupified.
    Once I'd calmed down, wiped her, still fighting the urge to gag, and gotten her out of the bathroom and to the table, I decided to just let everything sit until I'd calmed down and a few hours had passed. We proceeded with dinner. My mother ate lustily. I took a few bites and could pass no more. Most of my dinner ended up in disposal.
    Finally, having set Mom up with a bible movie, I headed back into the bathroom, still sick to my stomach, and spent the next half hour forcing her shit down and cleaning the bathroom floor, crying the entire time. When I returned to the living room I was wiping tears off my face. My mother thought it was sweat and commented, "That was quite a problem, wasn't it?"
    "This isn't sweat, Mom."
    The light of recognition flooded her eyes. "Oh," she said, as she turned back to her program.
    I spent some time, last night, trying to figure out why, suddenly, after years of handling Evacuative Operations with aplomb, I was, now, having a problem. I admit I went overboard, considering all kinds of vaguely related psychological underpinnings that would explain my sudden inability to perform this task. Finally, sanity took hold of me and I realized, "Wait a minute, there doesn't have to be an ulterior reason for my reaction. The smell, the feel of slippery, rock-hard shit in a gloved hand, smear after smear of it on baby wipes inches from my nose, the idea of depositing turds in plastic receptacle liners and dropping them in the garbage, the peculiar fragrance our outdoor garbage can every time I open it, freshening the toilet day after day by wiping thick smears of black, sticky shit off the walls of the bowl...the truth is, this is a repulsive business. No amount of humor is going to camouflage that."
    I'm feeling better, now, I'm sure of it. This morning my mother awoke and discovered that she still had a little of last night's movement to deposit. Merriment again reigned. I didn't gag. Didn't have to attempt to stifle wretching.
    Sometimes, problems have deceptively simple solutions; most times, probably; but caregivers can get caught up in all that psychological relationship shit and fool themselves into thinking they've got a bigger problem than they really do. Every once in awhile, you have to face the truth, accept it and go on from there. Amazingly, when you do that, you find yourself back where you want to be.
    Later.

"Did I ever tell you about the time that..."

2007-08-27T00:23:00.003-07:00

    When my mother sits back in her rocker, or a dinette chair, as she did two nights ago, and asks me this, there's a 50/50 chance that I haven't heard the story she's about to tell. She finished the introduction with, "...[her sister] and I decided to buy a house for ourselves, so we could live together..."
    "Wait a minute," I interrupted. "You mean without Dad and [her sister's husband]?!?" I was incredulous. I hadn't heard this one.
    "This was after Dad died," she said. This pinpointed it for me as the period in which she and her sister made a concerted effort to really bond, which they'd never done, due to an eight year age difference (my mother being the elder) and careers, families, travel, all the things that wedge between siblings. "If the kids and other members of the family (sly way of putting it, I noticed) wanted to come live with us, of course, they were welcome, but we wanted a place where we could live together."
    This, in itself, revealed a piece of information to me that I'd suspected but of which I'd never had proof: That my mother and her sister took after most of the women in their ancestry who considered men handy and entertaining to have around but pretty much an afterthought and children, always, a highlight.
    "So, you and [her sister] decided, after Dad died and before she became ill, that the two of you were going to set up housekeeping alone."
    "Well, yes, I guess you could say that. We fully expected family to be visiting all the time. But, that's not the funny part."
    Oops. Okay.
    "We found a house we both liked..." she continued,
    "...Oh, wow, you guys were really serious..."
    "...Oh, yes! Of course!" She gave me a look that told me my surprise was out of order. "Anyway, it was a wonderful little house, perfect for us..."
    ...this was exquisite...I could just imagine my mother and her sister, sitting at their shared table, coffee cups at hand, feeling smart and oh, so right with one another, planning their adventures, "In Scottsdale?" My aunt lived there with her husband and both sisters loved Scottsdale.
    "Oh, no, this was in Mesa, Scottsdale was a little too close, if you know what I mean..."
    Ah, I thought, yes, too close to, well, to put it diplomatically, authoritative members of the family.
    "Anyway, one of us noticed a for sale sign, so we stopped, went up to the door, tried it..."
    "You mean you didn't knock or ring the bell???"
    "Well, no!" she said, surprised that I'd question their tactics. "Anyway, the door was open, so we went in, looked around, really liked the place. It was furnished, so we assumed it was being sold with the furniture. We were trying out the sofa when a man came out from one of the rooms and wanted to know what we were doing there. Apparently, he owned the house, and it wasn't the house for sale!"
    We both laughed. "So, I guess you guys were pretty embarrassed," I said.
    "Oh, no! We liked the house so much we tried to get him to sell it to us anyway! He was determined to keep the house, but he was so surprised at our insistence that he made coffee and invited us to stay for lunch!"
    Why am I not surprised, I thought. My mother and her sister have, and had, no fear.
    "It seems it was the house next to his that was for sale."
    "Did you look at it?"
    "Well, we tried to. The man went over with us and we tried all the doors..."
    I could imagine them talking him into doing this and he being so caught up in their determination that he agreed.
    "...but that house was locked up tight. We looked in the windows, though, and didn't like what we saw."
    "So, did you look at any others? And, what happened to your plan?"
    "Oh, we talked about it, you know, and when we were driving around here and there..."
    I knew they'd spent a lot of time together, but I had no idea they were regularly cruising the metroplex.
    "...we'd see a house we liked, but the ones we liked were never for sale."
    We laughed again. Funny how life turns out.
    "Then, I decided that you needed to come back home..."
    This was another surprise. Since she initially asked me to come and live with her, she's never, again, referred to her request. I was surprised to discover that I was enchanted by the way she put it.
    "...and [her sister], you know, was always busy with her family..."
    This was certainly true. Not too long ago I was complaining about how little attention our family pays to us, almost as though we exist only at their convenience, and she said, "Now you know how I felt about [her sister and her family]."
    "Are you sorry you never got to do that?"
    "Well, it would have been nice, but this," she waved her hand between the two of us and extended the gesture to include the entire house, "is much nicer, I think."
    Still, I love the idea that she and her sister made a plan like this and revved its engine, even though it never got off the ground.
    Apparently, Mom likes the idea, too, enough for it to still tickle her. It's funny, because the few days leading up to her telling me of this, although she'd been pretty active, she'd also been having a lot of difficulty remembering who was dead and who was alive. She'd asked me several times, "Where's Dad (meaning my dad, I always have to clarify this because sometimes she means her dad)", and "What do you hear from [her sister and her family]?" Strange, and interesting, that when remembering this incident, she was clear on who was and is dead.

    Which leads to a short conversation we had tonight. While we were preparing her for bed, she remembered that her brother is dead and has been "for some time." She asked me to elaborate on the time span and the details, but needed only a little reminding for the episode of his death to flood back into her memory.
    "Well," she said, "it's too bad, but I guess those things happen, don't they."
    "Well, yeah, one of these days they'll happen to you and me."
    She did a hard, long single take, only half comic. "It won't be happening to me," she said.
    "Oh, that's right," I said, "I forgot. You're Methuselah."
    "Mrs. Methuselah," she corrected.
    I left the bathroom for a moment to deposit her clothes in the washing machine. When I returned I said, "Okay, let me get this straight. If you're not going to be dying, what about me?"
    "Oh," she said, matter-of-fact, not even bothering to underline her assurance with a glance at me, "I need you. You'll stay here with me."
    So, folks, it's official. My mother and I won't be dying. Just wanted to clarify that.
    Later.

Thank you and shut up.

2007-08-21T11:54:00.002-07:00

    My mother has always, in my memory, been ticklish about compliments. It's not that her self concept is wanting...at least, not since I've known her. She's always been very well aware and accepting of herself, which, of course, has led her to be the same about others. She has a discerning mind, though, when it comes to understanding what other people say to her, thus, while she can be pleased with a compliment she believes is accurate, she dismisses lots of compliments if she determines them to have ulterior motives and/or to be thoughtless. Occasionally, this causes her to dismiss deserved, sincere and thoughtful compliments.
    As children do, I learned her Complimentary Behavior, thus, for many years I also critiqued compliments I received, sometimes to the complimenter's face, if I thought it was necessary. It took me many years, but, finally, some years ago, I realized that spouting my critiques wasn't necessary...it was enough to appreciate that someone was trying to connect with me, for whatever reason, ignore the reason if I found it annoying, and simply respond, "Thank you," to every compliment.
    A couple of days ago, while we were bathing Mom, I complimented her on her posture. It's been a little lagging, lately, as she's enduring a summer cold and what energy she can muster is quickly drained. It was a sincere, discerning compliment, but when my mother responded I detected a note of disbelief in her voice. Without thinking, I launched into a sermon about what I've noticed about her ability to accept compliments, which contained the observations I've written above. Then I assured her my compliment was sincere and reliable. I noticed that she was fidgeting and sensed that this was because my affrontery annoyed her. I ignored this, as I felt that she needed enlightenment (as though any 55 year old is capable of enlightening any 90 year old) and went on to instruct her in the "proper" way to receive all compliments. "Mom," I said, "this is the way to receive any compliment, suspect or not: Just say, 'Thank you,' and shut up." For practice, I followed this with a compliment (can't remember what I complimented, but I was careful to make sure it was a sincere, discerning compliment) and immediately prompted, "Now, what do you say?"
    She shot me a wry glance over her shoulder (I was washing her back) and replied, "Thank you and shut up."
    Well, what a time we've had with that since! Aside from provoking immediate, boisterous laughter, so hard that my mother peed standing up and I had to race to the other bathroom to keep from compounding her accident, we've been riffing off her reply ever since; recalling compliments where we'd wished we'd thought to respond like this...complimenting each other just to trigger the response...and we still haven't tired of the game!
    Such a woman...this mother of mine!

    Anyway, although I've been absent here, I want to mention something that's come as a surprise to me...I've been unusually and delightedly present at, you won't believe this, an online caregiver support community that I mentioned, here, some time ago: Daily Strength. If you're a regular reader, here, you know that I haven't had any luck to speak of with support groups, I tend to ignore them, and, while I recommended Daily Strength to others in a previous post, it was with reservations that I did so; and, as well, doubted that I'd become personally involved with the site.
    Well, things have changed. Over the last couple of weeks, I've become intimately involved, made some excellent friends, even had fun participating. I'm not doing much with the journal facility, over there, but I'm having a wonderful time being an active part of the community over there. I'm astonished that someone like me has not only found acceptance within a caregiver support community, but has found myself accepting and enjoying one. I think some of my delight in the community has to do with the fact that it's online and doesn't require me to change Mom's and my schedule, bring in outside help and leave home for me to "attend meetings". There are other reasons, though. The chief one is that I accidentally stumbled across some bright, blunt, droll, interesting and interested people over there. Secondarily, although I never thought it would happen this quickly, I seem to be able to practice mentoring over there, which is bringing me a great deal of pleasure. I remember mentioning, some posts ago, that caregiver mentoring might be something I'd be interested in, but assumed that would be in the sweet by and by when my caregiving duties were finished. What seems to have happened, though, is that I've become involved in a community of developing caregiver mentors, who are practicing both sides of mentoring behavior...and I like that! As well, there are no rules to get in our way, such as "passing the talking stick" methods or paying attention to people on whom you don't really want to waste your attention. This suits my nature just fine. I can shoot my attention here, and then there, and then toward someone else, without having to split it...which is a relief for me. One of the reasons I don't do well in groups is that I'm not a natural attention splitter. The humor factor is huge, over there, too, which one might except, since the frustration level is also high. I've been delighted, as well, to find that the trading of information is rampant, multi-leveled and freely indulged. Finally, although this domain journal is little known over there, a few people are aware of it and it was actually these members who have been encouraging me, lately, to come back and start posting again.
    So, I've learned, once again, never to say never, to anything, and I am filled with gratitude to my wonderful compatriots at Daily Strength for giving me the room and the encouragement to discover this. Just as no size really ever fits all, I'm sure this community is not for everyone...but it does fit me and I'm pleased that my curiosity and the welcoming atmosphere there kept me going back until I figured this out.
    I have other things to write about...chiefly some interesting links to which I was introduced over there and some musing to do about some of the issues they raise, but I'll have to do that later. I've got a few minutes before I need to jump into action again and I want to get this read and published before Mom and I continue our day.
    Later.

Mom's 90th birthday celebration...

2007-08-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

...was successful and is over by two days as of this evening. I had thought that once everything settled down I'd be chomping at the bit to get back over here and begin recording, again, especially about All Things Birthday, but I seem to have suddenly lost my motivation for just about everything. I'm sure I'm well rested by now. Mom is slowly reviving, digesting all that happened and everyone with whom she connected, as she remembers everything and everyone. She told me yesterday that it was her best birthday ever; which says quite a bit.
    I'm a little stymied about my own flatness-in-arrears, as the visiting and the partying was energizing for me, as well. But, maybe this is a good time for me to get back to reading and finish the stack of books I started some weeks ago.
    It may be awhile before I'm back in gear, here, again, but I will be, I'm sure...
    ...later.

Hard to say why I haven't been here in so long.

2007-07-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

    If I thought about it I could probably list legitimate reasons, but they all come under the heading of "Not Being on the Internet Much". Somehow, though, I've been managing to keep busy enough that I also haven't been able to catch up with all the reading I began. Three books will be headed back to the library, shortly, only lightly cracked. I'll check them out later when life settles down.
    The monsoon is here in earnest. I'm loving it; the thick air, the daily rain, the fragile light...my mother is not, but I'm keeping her bedroom and bathroom warm and dry, which helps. Mom, though, despite her distaste for this kind of weather, is so excited about the upcoming birthday visits that, although she has been steadily scoffing at my continued attempts to ramp up her moving (which remain only fitfully successful), she is, of her own accord, arising earlier (often before noon), remaining up until well past midnight, moving well (when she moves), looking good and in excellent humor. As The Days of Visiting approach she's also spending less and less time in The Dead Zone, which I find interesting.
    A few nights ago, I asked her if she considered, when she was much younger, that she would live to see 90.
    "I don't think I ever thought about it," she said, "I think I just took it for granted that I would, since most of my relatives lived to a ripe old age."
    "So," I teased, "how to do you feel about it, now?"
    "I'm ready for the next 90," she said!
    Later that evening, I couldn't help but reflect that my father believed he would not outlive the age his mother was when she died. A few months ago my oldest sister and I noticed that he did, in fact, die at exactly the age his mother was when she died. Maybe, I mused, barring unforseen disaster, we tend to live as long as we think we're going to live. Less than 24 hours later I chanced upon an article mentioning that Laura Nyro died at the same age as her mother (49) of the same cause (ovarian cancer).

    I'm here, though, to another purpose: Something I realized yesterday resulting from a visit to my barber for a trim. One of the reasons I so enjoy my visits with this woman is that she is a sibling whose father was cared for by one of her sisters-in-law. Although his life was tended in another state, she was extremely active in keeping up with her dad, spotting her sister-in-law and rallying other relatives to her dad's and his daughter-in-law's side. Her perspective is an unusual one and she regularly startles me with her insight as we talk about her and my experiences. The realization my visit provoked yesterday, though, was implicit rather than voiced and hit me a few hours after I left her chair.
    Can't really tell you how I came to understand what I am about to state, but here it is: I finally realized why being thanked by my siblings for "taking care of 'our' mother" makes me uneasy: I'm not actually taking care of "their" mother, I'm taking care of mine. Each child develops a unique relationship with each of her/his parents. That relationship dictates that the parent becomes a different person for each child. While, technically, the life I'm tending is the same as that which has generated the relationship that each of my sisters has with my mother, I am the companion of the person who is my mother; not my older sister's mother, not my next youngest sister's mother and not my youngest sister's mother. Those mothers, those relationships, can only be tended by the participants, none of whom are me. This isn't new information for me. Knowing that our relationships split each of us into a host of people is something I understood early on, particularly through knowing my father, whose difficulties with life made this easy for me to see. Early in adulthood I had to come to grips with the realization that I was incapable of, for instance, hating my father on behalf of some of my sisters, who surely had (and may still have) reason to hate him. It seems, though, that I forgot to apply this to my mother.
    I'm thinking, now, that, as my mother and I continue our journey, if I am doing anything at all for my sisters (and I consider that this remains debatable), it is this: I am keeping alive whatever possibilities each believes exist in the relationship between each of them and the woman each identifies as her mother. Nothing more, nothing less. I can live with this. I can even accept gratitude for this. I am relieved.

    Yet more barber shop banter: While I was having my hair cut, the man queued after me dropped in on my barber's and my conversation. He runs a series of therapy camps for men and women (separately), in which he facilitates group sessions (interspersed with nature experiences) which are designed to allow his clients to consider confusing aspects of their lives out of their every day context. He mentioned that the number one issue among the participants is how to manage relationships with aging parents; number two is how to come to terms with "unfinished" relationships left in the wake of a parents' death. I was startled by this bit of information. Somehow, it never occurred to me that, of all the issues with which middle-aged people have to grapple, relationships with parents would be at the top of the list. True, when one is a caregiver, one notices, everywhere one goes, that there is much casual talk about parents. Strange, though, the media typically doesn't focus on this. If it deigns to focus on aging parents, its thrust is usually, "What to do about mom or dad (or both) and still keep a confident hold on one's life."
    During the course of the conversation, my barber mentioned that during her father's evident last days, she literally forced her reluctant brother, who had been estranged from their father for seven years, to visit their father on his death bed. Although the brother fought the effort and dreaded the experience, he later admitted that he was grateful that his sister had insisted on this visit. He commented on what a surprising and welcome difference it made in his life. My barber's waiting client not only confirmed this but added that, usually, the resolution to even the most difficult and tenacious parent/child problems is incredibly simple: "What parents and children need to know, most, is that they are loved and the other person is proud of them."
    I know, I know, it isn't hard to think of situations in which these feelings are not experienced and cannot be communicated. My barber's waiting customer, though, made the point that bedrock hatred and disappointment, as well as bedrock love and pride, exist behind all the fierce defenses we erect and nurture that protect us from our confusion about our parent-child relationships. Across the board, he stressed, facing the frailty and approaching death of a parent seems to have the power to sweep these defenses aside for parent and child. This temporary defenselessness may not resolve all the niggling issues, but because the truth of the love or lack of it are no longer disguised, are spoken and confronted, any "adjustments" that remain to be made by and within the child and parent come much more easily and with much more acceptance. "I've seen it happen over and over," he insisted.
    So, I found myself thinking later in the day, maybe I was wrong about the ineffectuality of clamoring to see a long ignored relative "before [she or he] dies", which I asserted in this essay. While I still believe that overcoming the desire for extended ignorance of one's older relatives is preferable, it seems that the possibility of emotional redemption exists even in the most tenuous, undernourished, on-the-brink-of-death relationships.
    Just wanted to mention that before I forgot.
    Later.

Surprise. Right?

2007-07-17T03:03:00.000-07:00

    The best laid plans...you know the rest. My intended reading hasn't happened quite as I expected. About the time I decided to devote myself to that, I also decided it was time to insist on some therapeutic moving for Mom so that her body will not fail the mental initiative with which she is approaching the impending Visit of the Relatives for her 90th birthday. This time I'm not taking no for an answer. She doesn't believe that this therapeutic movement is helping her...she doesn't believe she needs it; but we've gotten past her initial resistance and sour attitude (which lasted for more than a couple of days) and now it's a part of the routine.
    Our monsoon weather has finally set in, which means muggy heat until afternoon, then muggy rain, then muggy nights despite the significant cooling, so it's been hard to get her outside. I haven't pushed this aspect, but we've got plenty of room in the house to move her around, and some of the therapy involves adding distance movement to the things she normally does, like going to the bathroom, throwing away her tissue collection, going back and forth between dinette and living room, pushing the limits of how long I can get her to stay up, etc. Thus, my days have slowed waaaay down...something to which all caregivers to the elderly can relate. I haven't, either, been sure it's been helping...until this evening. When she awoke from a late nap (after a late rising; I let her "sleep in" today as a reward and because I thought her body might snap to with a bit more panache if I acceded to her normal sleep preferences), after we'd handled her usual bathroom business, I headed into the kitchen to make coffee for her. Normally, within a couple of minutes, she's followed me out to where ever I've gone from there. Today, though, she lagged. I waited. And waited. Peeked down the hall to see if the bathroom light had been switched off. It hadn't. Did a few minor kitchen chores and waited some more. Peeked again. Light still on, door still open, no sign of Mom. She'd been complaining, yesterday, about her knee, I remembered. Hmmm...I wondered if she collapsed to the floor and was valiantly trying to get herself up. I dashed into the bathroom. There she was, standing before the mirror, carefully shaving the whiskers off her chin! She hasn't done this on her own in a couple of years! It's become routine, in fact, for me to shave her every couple of days during her daily sink bathing.
    "Wow! Mom! You're shaving!"
    She gave me her typical thin-lipped, sarcastic grin. "Good for you. Now what am I doing?" She patted the top of her head.
    I laughed. "Touché, Mom. You haven't done that in awhile, though."
    She looked at me as though I'd suddenly developed dementia. "I do this every couple of days."
    Technically, I suppose, she's right, so I didn't argue. I couldn't help my surprise, though. She had been standing there, with minimal aid from the vanity, occasionally with no aid at all as she wielded the razor in one hand and felt for stubble with the other. She hadn't abraded or cut herself. When she emerged from the bathroom I stopped her halfway through the kitchen and felt her chin. "Smooth as a baby's bottom," I pronounced, which is exactly what she says to me after I shave her during bathing.
    "Of course," she said. "I've done this once before, you know." This is her usual wry reply when I make a big deal of something she does that she thinks is small potatoes.
    It hasn't seemed to me that we've been making much progress with my version of therapeutic movement, but her shaving seems to indicate that my pessimism has been negligent.
    While it's true that she's a hard woman to move in these Ancient Years of hers, and she freely admits that her preference is for as little movement as possible, still, she's neither down nor out.
    Now, of course, I'm wondering how much further her reserves can take her. Can I look forward to getting her interested in outings, again? To the store, to the park, maybe? We'll see. I have very high hopes for the coming visits, though. I don't want to get too excited. It's easy for me to disappoint myself with my plans for her. But, well, you never know...could dinner and dancing be far behind?
    She just never fails to amaze me...both in what she insists on not doing, then in what she suddenly shows she can do.

    Anyway, expect that for the next couple of weeks I'll continue fall behind in reporting, and reading. I've got a link for you, though, in case you're interested. It's to an article reprinted in the latest NFCA snail mail newsletter "Take Care!" The following link will take you to the article as it originally appeared: The Top 10 Things Caregivers Don't Want to Hear...And a Few Things They Do. Not that hundreds of online, journaling caregivers haven't written about each one of these "things"...certainly I have. It's handy to have them all together, though, and the writing is nicely distilled and succinctly thoughtful. Just to give you an idea, here's one of my favorites:

No. 2: I know just how you feel.
This is another attempt at solidarity that fails. The caregiver is probably thinking, "No, you don't because sometimes I don't even know myself how I feel." Caregiving involves a complex and dynamic array of emotions, which each person experiences and internalizes differently. This statement shifts the focus away from the caregiver to the speaker, who frequently follows it up by talking about his or her own caregiving experience.

    See what I mean? No nonsense, no decoration, no holds barred. Check it out. I'm considering printing multiple copies and always carrying one with me so I can pass it out to offenders when I simply haven't got the energy to diplomatically deal with or ignore people who speak before they observe and think.
    Well, damn, it's late and I've got early errands to run.
    Although I'm not sure, when, definitely...
    ...later.

One down, two to go.

2007-07-11T14:04:00.001-07:00

    Of the three families that are considering coming here to celebrate Mom's 90th birthday, one has declined: Work obligations combined with distance. Oddly, I'm, well, unaffected. I've remained extremely mellow about this get together; what a welcome difference from years past! So, I can handle just about any change, including the extremely remote possibility that we won't have any celebratory company.
    And, I'm finding myself at loose ends, today; a state of mood, not a state of activities clamoring for my attention. I started attempting to rouse Mom at 1300. Although she retired relatively early, around 0030, she was up twice to go to the bathroom, the last time at 0230. At that point, I decided to retire, regardless. Her bedroom light remained on and I heard her rifling through the contents of her bedstand, trying to decide what book to read, probably. I was asleep when her light finally went out. I have no idea how long she was up. Anyway, tried again at 1330, when she said, "Just let me sleep. I'm letting her go until 1430, then I'll probably insist.
    She's already becoming reirritated with that stat-taking routine! I'm finding it funny, really. When it was a surprise to her, she was able to relax sufficiently to have her BP taken. Within a couple of days, though, it's become on irritant. Her irritated BP on the elevated dose of lisinopril, though, isn't worrisome. So, I'll probably schlep back to taking BP every other day, or when it seems likely I'll get a good one. Today, I think, would not be a good day to bother her with stats, at least when she arises.
    Oh, my I hear her reconnaissance cough! Hmmm...well, maybe she's ready.
    Later.

Stop the Presses!

2007-07-08T18:47:00.004-07:00

    I must report this bit of news.
    So, after breakfast and a round of Sorry, Mom decided she wanted to "watch something" while I did After Arising Chores, "but not a show," which means, not a serialized television show.
    "How about Mrs. Doubtfire?" I suggested.
    She was enthusiastic. "That's always a good one!" Note that she's indicating, here, that she remembers something about it, the assumption being that she remembers seeing it before.
    So, I set up the movie, she settled into her rocker, I peeked in on my favorite parts of Mrs. Doubtfire as I proceeded through necessary chores.
    About forty-five minutes later, while I was finishing the last chore, I stopped on the dinette landing leading into living room to watch the "Dude Looks Like a Lady" sequence. Just as I was beginning to bounce to the music, Mom turned to me, her face sour around the edge. "Haven't we seen this before?" she pointedly asked.
    It's not uncommon, anymore, for her to ask this about a movie, although with no edge to the question. I always confirm that, yes, she's seen it before, sometimes make a stab at guessing how many times she's seen it, tell her it's one of my favorites (which is almost always true; if it's not, I don't say it), tell her how she's felt about it (in detail, if I can, not in general)...and we agreeably watch the rest of it, usually with Mom delightedly exclaiming, here and there, "Oh, I forgot about that!"
    Today's edgy question was a surprise to me. I went through the same spiel, but she didn't respond in the same way. After explaining to her that I suggested the movie earlier and she had indicated agreement, I asked her how she felt about it, now. "Remind me, next time, that I don't want to watch this movie again."
    Oh. Okay. That's a complicated snare of remembering: When I insist on one thing, remember that I really don't like that thing any longer and spare me from rediscovering this by distracting me toward something I will like, but I think I can handle it. "So, does that mean you don't want to watch repeats anymore?"
    She flashed me an abbreviated glare. "No, that's not what I'm saying."
    Okay.
    "Well, now that I'm done with chores, I'm getting into watching this again. I'd forgotten how good Robin Williams is in this. Do you mind continuing to watch it?"
    A begrudged, "No, I guess not."
    Within a half hour she was ready for a nap.
    So, I don't know, maybe she's ready for ramped up activity and her present desire for novelty (of which she is aware) is connected. I hope so. She's doing fine, but, well, I'd like to see her more active and would like to use little to no force to achieve this, since she usually doesn't enjoy herself if force is used.
    I have noticed lately, though, that even though she has been sleeping somewhat more, she's also been more aware. I think it may be connected to having readjusted her lisinopril for her BP. I know it's making her physically tired, now, more than usual, but her BP is right where it should be. Her BG seems to be running well, too. Yes, I'm heading over the The Dailies to start recording. Not sure what I'll include, this time, but I think we could use some new history. I'm hoping that her cholesterol and triglycerides are settling down, too. We are cruising, in regard to her health, and I am so grateful to all involved gods. Anyway, look for me over there, later.

    Something I wanted to remember to record: The Fed Ex lady's mother "isn't doing well". Her descriptions of what's happening now sound very similar to my maternal grandfather's decline within the six months before his death. "I think she's getting ready to go," Fed Ex lady said. She maintained a philosophical, sad only around the edges, attitude. Several times while she was telling me about the latest developments, she nodded and said, "She's ready to go."
    Her father, on the other hand, a couple years older than her mom and into his very lightly demented and disabled 90's, remains robust, active, with little patience for his wife's prominent slowing and fading.
    "All her family are gone," the Fed Ex lady continued, adding the last of her mother's sisters dying this winter, "all her friends, if they're not gone, they're out of touch, I think she's," she paused, shrugged, it seemed like she would have liked to have used another description but was too rushed to think of one, "given up."
    I confirmed for her how this happened to my grandfather. It was a lot less sad than it sounds.
    She nodded her head vigorously. "Sometimes you just have to realize what's happening and accept it."
    "Is your Mom in good spirits?"
    She grinned. "The best."
    "How about her will?"
    To my surprise she shrugged again as if to say, "She's fallen a lot. She hasn't broken anything but she's afraid to move, now."
    "I wish my mother was afraid to move," I remarked.
    We both smiled.
    "I think she's lost her will."
    "Well, I guess that's to be expected," I realized out loud.
    We both nodded, soberly, then, oddly, laughed.
    "Well, I hope it's easy for her, from here on out."
    The Fed Ex lady nodded. "It already is. She's not worrying like she used to."
    I nodded, although I don't know what this is like. My grandfather was never a worrier. My mother has almost never been a worrier.
    So, ahhh, another Ancient One moves into the passive dying phase. I don't know if such a thing has yet been professionally designated, as has "active dying phase", but it seems to accurately imply exactly what happened to my grandfather. First he broke his knee. Then the rest of his relatives and friends (not many, he was in his mid-90's) dropped away, including his next door neighbor, with whom he shared a birth year, a last name and daily walks to the old antique store on Cortez. His knee took a long time to heal. First he became impatient. Then he became enured. He talked to his wife (I'm sure she found this charming, she said archly) about how everyone who was important to him, "is gone." He was no longer interested in telling the stories of his life. I mentioned this to my cousin, once, saying, "It's like he's ready to be done with creating and telling stories."
    She nodded.

    I wonder if my mother will go through something like this, or if she'll keel over unexpectedly. I'd prefer the latter, for both of us. I know I've asked her and my recollection is not reliable but I think she told me that she has no preference. I remember her telling me once, "I don't want to die in a hospital"," unless it's by accident and unavoidable. Literally and figuratively, I imagine.
    It's hard to say what happened to my maternal grandmother. Alzheimer's had twisted her into an incoherent fetal position in a nursing home before she died. My mother's sister keeled over. Neat and quick. She'd been on the brink of death at least one other time in her life, though, possibly two, so she was an old hand at it. She keeled over walking down the hall of her living facility with her husband. He later spoke, with catching voice, about how he thought it was "sweet", that she went like that. I tend to think he misunderstood and that this was my aunt's final wry act of humor.
    My mother's brother went quickly, but it would be fair to say that he had been disenchanted with life ever since he was an older teen, so, you know, it's hard to say whether disinterest is responsible for killing him at the age of 62 in the form of (yet another) heart attack.
    It looks, though, as though Mom will be around for some time to come. I'm especially encouraged by her BP. I'll know, "even at her age", she'll work into the sense of slowness that's requiring so much sleep of her. If her cholesterol isn't in order, I'm going to quiz her PCP, in September (I'll set him up ahead of time with at least two Health Reviews) about possible light cholesterol meds that don't run roughshod over the kidneys and liver; although, actually, her liver seems to be fine.
    I'm rambling.

    Oh, I wanted to mention, I made a, hmmm...sounds funny but I would class it as a "professional" decision this weekend. I decided to join the American Society on Aging. I know, it's like, "So?"
    ASA defines itself as an organization of professionals working in the field of aging. Many of these professionals inherit membership through those for whom they work. Now, I've always had a problem with the word "professional". I have always insisted that it means one is paid for what one does, room and board notwithstanding. But, when I ran across this organization, suddenly I realized I am ready to consider and identify myself as a "professional" in what I do with and for my mother, as well as a "specialist"; skillful, too, knowledgeable, currently plying my trade and in my prime in that trade. Why shouldn't I join?!? As a caregiver. Maybe not a "professional", but "specialist caregiver".
    I don't intend to continue doing this in any capacity after my mother dies but:

You never know, and;
Maybe in some capacities that don't require as much, hmmm, well, compassion, I guess; as a mentor, maybe. To care givers. Not care recipients. Just want to make that clear.

    Since I'm doing this now, though, I should make professional connections.
    Then I decided to look up the word "professional" and, apparently, it has fallen into favorable use with the "I don't get paid to do this but I'm a specialist and I deserve recognition, respect and networking privileges" crowd. Although caregivers are not yet generally acknowledged as such, avocational geeks are the spine upon which the internet was developed (and continues to develop) and are fully recognized as avocational professionals.
    I haven't received any membership feedback. I joined an Aging & Spirituality focus group, since this seems closest to my interests. Although I don't remember what I called my job, I know I didn't flinch from identifying myself as an unpaid caregiver. It would be nice, actually, if ASA were to establish a membership fee below "Individual" (which is the highest) for avocational professional caregivers and actively solicit their membership and participation in the community. Aside from the fact that many elder caregivers are aged, caregivers to the elderly do, literally, walk the life of their care recipient...sometimes ambivalently and through a glass darkly, but we have much to say about and on behalf of aging.
    I'm not sure how much participation I'll be able to manage in the community. I'm waaaaay behind with Revolution so, you know, I don't want to make any promises. But I do want to publicly declare myself not only a professional (avocational) but a specialist in my field, which is intimately connected with aging. There is, by the way, a "Caregiver" category somewhere, as you sign up, for something. I think I chose it, but I don't remember in response to what. So, it seems appropriate that I join a professional organization as part of that declaration.
    Let me think...next, Lucy would recommend thought to a shingle...and a rate structure for appointments...

    Grinning. Later.

No blackberries. The apricots looked like...

2007-07-08T13:23:00.002-07:00

...shit. There were only a few flats (24 each) left. The bottom couple contained green apricots. The top couple contained bruised apricots. Most of the flats were missing fruit, probably to taste testers. So, I didn't bake a pie, yesterday.
    Just as well. I used the oven enough, yesterday. If it were hot and dry I don't think the house air would be much affected. Our dew point, though, is, today, officially 45%. It's probably been at least that since a couple days ago. The evap is still cooling...some; but not the sharp cool that's usual on very dry days.
    I've decided, if I make an apricot pie, it will be an apricot ginger pie. The filling will be sweetened (partially, if I use fresh fruit; fully, if I use Turkish apricots) with candied ginger. Not sure whether I'm going to add nuts. The almonds in the peach pie are adding only crunch. The almond flavor seems to have enhanced the peaches at its own expense. No wonder this peach pie filling recipe called for 1/4 tsp almond extract.
    I don't think nuts are necessarily an enhancement to pie; unless it's pumpkin, pecan (guess that had better have nuts, huh), mincemeat, or I'm thinking of that Granny Smith apple pie I made last year around this time: Apple slices (peelings on); dried cherries; walnuts. Even I liked that one, and I'm not an apple pie fan. I consider most apple pie akin to white food and, thus, inedible unless heavily disguised.
    So. Not sure what we're going to be doing, today. Mom's light went out at 0130, after a brief reading-silently-in-bed session. Oh, last night, before dinner, I remembered to take stats. I'm hoping to do the same when I awaken her today, probably about 1330. Guess I'd better return to The Dailies. It's been nice, though, not to be following my mother around with my nose up her ass, a contraption on her arm, stabbing her with a needle and quoting specific stats. I figure I'd better get her in for a blood draw one of these days, though.
    As I think about past-intended posts (about which I am always thinking when I'm writing here and have fallen behind), for some reason an old one comes to mind which I think I'll mention here.
    Cutting to the chase, my mother was not a virgin when she married. This may come as a surprise and shock to my sisters. It didn't to me when I learned it in January of this year, but it would have had I learned it earlier in my life. In my teens I may not have believed it.
    Here's how this was revealed: Although I would not have guessed this in the first few years of my mother's and my companionship, she finds programs and movies about sex as fascinating as do I. I've become very comfortable with this. Witness, our shared love for Sex & the City. The History and Discovery channels each also have interesting and lightly titillating series in their archives dubbed things like "The History of Sex". They have a variety of editions of these shows and broadcast at least one of the editions a couple times a year. We always manage to catch whatever edition they're broadcasting. This January one of the two was showing an abbreviated version of their 5 episode (90 minutes per episode...it was fascinating) series. It ran so quickly through the highlights of its parent that it was hard to glimpse a shot of genitalia or the details of a suggestive pose. But, it was a provocative reminder, nonetheless, and provoked conversation, as these programs usually do.
    I can't remember how the conversation got started...I think it was as a result of a short video treatise on Victorian married sexuality. For some reason, I got it into my head that my mother may not have been a virgin (although she wasn't Victorian, she has a very private streak about her that suggests an internal propriety) when she married. I remember (probably almost exactly), the words I used to pose the question: "Mom, I'm wondering; you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, were you a virgin when you married Dad?"
    I remember her turning deliberately toward me (I was sitting on the floor next to her rocker) her face impassive but soft. I think she was deciding whether to joke her way through this one. She decided otherwise, looked back at the TV, which I'd muted, asking the question during a commercial break. She was smiling and almost-not-smile. "No," she said. "May I ask, [long pause] why do you ask?"
    I did not express surprise. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, but, you know, this will come as a surprise to your daughters. I considered it possible, but I'm still surprised."
    She didn't say anything. Continued staring at the TV, smiling.
    "So," I asked, becoming brave, "was it Donald Stonehink?"
    Again, a steady look at me. "Stone-king. Which one?"
    She was not teasing. "Oh," I said. "Um, how many?"
    I didn't give her a chance to answer. "Were you and dad, uh, intimate, before you married."
    Mom glanced at me and grinned. "Heavens no," she said, "we never saw each other!"
    "Oh!" That surprised me. "So, what about Donald..."
    "No."
    "Did it come up?"
    "Yes."
    "Is that why you didn't marry him?"
    "I don't think it was him I was going to marry."
    "Oh. Okay. So, tell me. Did you expect your daughters to be virgins when they married?"
    She studied the pattern of pyracantha branches shading the window to her left. "I don't think I ever worried about it."
    "Really! I can think of at least one daughter who thought you did!"
    "Well, maybe I did. Not much, though."
    Suddenly, I was flooded with questions:  Considering, for instance, my unfortunate familiarity with my father's very drunk assessment of my mother's sexuality and how that, despite my distaste for it, influences my opinion of my mother's sexuality:

What is her view of their sex life?
Was she ever angry with Dad for being so completely unavailable to her?
Does she think he ever recognized her innate sexuality?
Did he ever acknowledge it?
Is my intuition that there was a magnetic physical bond between them, even up to the day my father died, accurate?
Did she ever have an affair in her marriage? - the possibility has been discussed among us sisters.
What, anyway, does she think of blow jobs?

    I asked only #5. She smiled a broad confirmation that this was true.
    "I know Dad was head-over heels for you from the day he met you till the day he died," I ventured.
    She continued grinning. "Yes he was," she said.
    Silence while the commercials ran down. Just before the program returned, I said, "I think you picked the right man. I know you know I think this."
    Her face registered only mild surprise, probably for the compliment, not for the opinion. "Well, thank you! I do, too."
    I am reminded of a junior high school friend of mine when I was in high school, "Jimmy"; he would refer to his parents as "the virgins". We'd all laugh. We never got tired of hearing this.
    Funny thing, though, I was already beyond not being able to imagine my parents having sex. By that time I'd seen them 69-ing on the living room couch, where they were sleeping in our hotel in Hawaii, during a late night stroll from our girls' bedroom to their bathroom, so I was beyond virginizing my parents. By that time, too, I was no longer prone to considering the graphic peculiarities of the actual sex act hilarious.
    I considered telling Mom this (not the part about me seeing them), but didn't. The subject seemed to be covered and closed.
    So, what does this have to do with caregiving? Well, nothing. And everything. I am aware, at least a couple of times a week, how grateful I am that I am in a position to keep my relationship with my mother as a person from becoming stagnant. Neither she nor I are stuck in our fond (or furious, depending on the deed) imaginings of one another. It doesn't necessarily happen that when adult children care for their elders their relationship is enriched. Sometimes the very act of elder care, especially demential elder care, shrivels the relationship, and the questions, as well.
    I have no prescriptions for how or why my relationship with my mother emphasizes our companionship over her and my care status to one another. I'm not sure, in fact, which came first, the chicken or the egg, although I heavily expect the egg. All I can tell you is that when I compare my mundane, intimate relationship with my mother with the relationships between other children and parents I see exhibited, I am even more grateful that we were and are persons, first, to one another, when our odyssey began and have come to fill several roles for one another through the years of our companionship. I believe this has made my dedication to her life worth it, and the added worth to the expansion of my character is a bonus. I can also see, though, how this sort of relationship with one's elder is random, in regards most families, and how the shriveling of a relationship might also be worth it, for all parties involved. Or, perhaps, a better word would be "stagnating"...as in a photograph...to which, and I say this without sarcasm or judgment of any kind, many people are addicted in lieu of the relationships behind the images.

    Hmmm...so, looks like I'd better consider awakening the Mom. Not sure what we'll do, today. Although I know it's gotten progressively warmer outside, our house has gotten progressively cooler, which means the dew point is falling. Hallelujah.

    So. One backed-up post down, several more to go, but I can delete that one.
    Later.

By the way...

2007-07-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

...my mother's response to "we can't just eat pie!" was, "Fruit is nutritious. Flour is nutrious."
    Yesterday, since we had pie twice, she got an extra glipizide in the morning. I should have checked her BG but I didn't think of it. I'm out of the habit. Maybe I'll make a point of doing that, today.
    Really gotta go.
    Later.