Saturday, February 15, 2014

I am creeping about the house, trying not to awaken man or creature. It’s the quiet before the storm, or maybe the quiet during the storm. Snow has fallen again, undoing all of Rob’s work from yesterday. And there’s more to come. The landscape is breathtaking, as it has been for weeks now. But it brings with it hardships for the pups. Lucy is fearful of ice on the landing and Val runs around—or lopes around—in the deep snow, but he minds the snowballs clinging to his legs and the ice crystals that form under his paws. I wish I could make it easier for them, but I still cannot shovel snow. My foot isn’t entirely healed and walking on uneven snow piles is painful and ill-advised. This, too, shall pass and leave in its wake March mud, paw prints on the porch, muddy towels from wiping puppy paws, and extra loads of laundry. But at least they’ll be able to run freely again. Val needs the exercise and Lucy needs to be assured that each step will be safe and ice-free.

Mom is still sleeping soundly, too, but I am concerned that she might have another bladder infection. Need to check this out on Monday if the roads are clear. Why is it that medical concerns always arise on weekends for both humans and pups? In the meantime, I’ll have her work on the remaining gallon of cranberry juice. Thank goodness she likes it!

Was surfing while I had the quiet and came upon a new book: When Did White Trash Become the New Normal?: A Southern Lady Asks the Impertinent Question. Sounds like fun. I have been asking this question since the onslaught of programs such as Bridezilla, The Kardashians, Honey Boo-Boo, Toddlers and Tiaras, and Hoarders. Is this to show the rest of the world that America is nothing more than a collection of slutty, stupid, mindless, and filthy people or to promote it among Americans as acceptable behavior? I don’t watch TV much at all except (as I noted in earlier posts) for Frasier reruns (the last of the intelligent sitcoms) and some HGTV programs. But the other night, I was changing the channel for my mother when I heard a line from a show (with that kid who used to play Doogie Howser). Anyhow he had broken up with someone and was bereft. His friend was trying to convince him that he needed to sleep with someone, anyone. You know, this is what they did in the Soviet Union. The only thing they had left was sex. It was promoted as a salve, a panacea. Something free and enjoyable and without consequences. But making it casual took away any magic even sex ever held. So la populace wound up with nothing. Nothing at all. Empty shelves in the supermarkets and emptiness in the bedroom. Sad. It’s where this country is headed.

Ah, see where a few moments to myself leads.

Just checked mom’s bathroom towel. We don’t leave any towels in the bathroom, except for my mother’s use. The rest of us use paper towels. It’s a necessity. I check mom’s towel to give me an idea of what the morning will require. If the towel is badly soiled, I will need to get her into the shower before breakfast, then wash her nightgown, sheets, and towel by hand, and put them into the wash with some Clorox. Then it’s off to the breakfast counter. Am thinking of making pancakes today—a rare treat. My only concern is whether mom will like them or insist upon her cereal. I am sometimes able to substitute her cereal for eggs and homemade sausage. Let’s see how I do today.

This is wonderful. It’s 7:46 am, and I am the only one up! How long will this last? Oops, Valentino’s awake. He’s in my office now, but fortunately, he has retreated to his dog bed for a few moments at least. I ask myself, “What would Frasier do?” Well, he’d probably play the piano and awaken his father. Fortunately, I can turn the sound off the Yamaha or use earphones. But frankly, I think a cup of tea might be in order.

You know, I’d like to meet Kelsey Grammer. I used to imagine a luncheon with Bill Buckley, Thomas Sowell, and Jimmy Stewart. I would just sit and listen. Wouldn’t dare say anything. I’d have nothing to contribute. But I could talk with Kelsey Grammer over lunch. Or could I, other than to say I enjoy his acting, I admire him immensely, and I loved Frasier Crane. Oh well, I’d have to sit quietly and say nothing. OK, so imagine a lunch with Maggie Smith, Judy Dench, and Kelsey Grammer. I could gape in awe and listen. I wish Kate Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart were still alive to join us.

It’s starting to snow again.

Post-Breakfast:

Received an email from my uncle who mentioned that he prepared pancakes for breakfast on this snowy morning. That put the bee in my bonnet, so I went ahead with my plan. I always use the recipe from the original Joy of Cooking, but I use far less sugar, and I use Sucanat (sugarcane natural). Firing up a really hot griddle is a piece of cake on this stove, and the vented hood makes all the difference. I separated the eggs and beat the whites in my copper bowl with a bit of Himalayan pink mineral salt. The pancakes come out lighter and fluffier this way. And I served them with warm maple syrup. Of course, there was no telling if my mother would approve having pancakes instead of her Honey Nut Cheerios, but she enjoyed them. I ate mine as I stood over the hot stove.

She is now watching television and commenting on the action. (I fixed the station to a dog show.) I am hearing Ohmigods! and Look at that! So I think she is sufficiently entertained for now. And someday, perhaps, we will be able to sit on the porch to admire the flowers or walk down the block for some exercise or even go to a mall where we can walk safely and warmly. Or is walking safely at a mall no longer possible?

Friday, February 14, 2014 

Happy Valentine’s Day! It started with a bang. I had the usual job of getting Lucy, my oldest poodle, down the stairs. Now that her eyesight is limited, she is fearful of descending the steps in the morning. But eventually, she finds her way down. I had let Valentino out for a while. Snow is deep, but the sun is shining. It’s a balmy 30° F. Quite a change. Should be a nice warm day—relatively speaking. Why only yesterday, we awoke to a temp of -1° F.

After checking my email, I washed mom’s place at the counter and the floor under mom’s stool, sanitized the bathroom, then fed the pups. They enjoy their three dollops of yogurt every morning, and I enjoy giving it to them. I then cleared their breakfast dishes. Don’t know when I noticed the pungent odor, but there it was. One of the pups had pooped in the kitchen.

I blamed Valentino. Hard to tell really who did it, but I had to clean his butt a bit. He skulked to the window seat and I stared at him. I didn’t have to say a word. He was chastised, but maybe unsure why. Nonetheless, he is always ready to accept blame. So I ventured outside to see. Had a suspicion that Val was not the culprit. And sure enough, he had already pooped while he was in the yard. It was Lucy, poor aging Lucy, who probably had no clue what she was doing, except that maybe messing the kitchen floor was a whole lot more appetizing (to her at least) than finding a suitable spot in the deep snow.

Do you sense a theme here? Is this karma or just a sad accident. My Cloroxed and Lysoled hands seek shelter. And there’s only more to come. But if I can forgive a sweet senile dog, I can forgive my mother. Back to the bathroom counter, where I noticed that I had missed a smudge of poop earlier.

Later

Awakened mom rather late (11:00 am). She was sleeping so peacefully, but the extra rest meant another cleanup. So I showered her and now she is finishing breakfast. She warned me not to go out in the snow. It’s too dangerous. Once you fall, your whole life will change. I can’t dispute that at all, and she lost many friends from falls. Not immediately of course, but over time, when falls are wont to take their toll. She and her sister Rose had fallen several times in Bayonne. Part of it was Aunt Rose’s serious unsteadiness and her shortened leg. Unfortunately, Rose never fell alone but took my mother along. I only learned of a few of the falls after the fact. Rose was always very secretive about health issues. This flaw nearly cost my mother her life.

One winter, Mom developed pneumonia and was quite ill—unbeknownst to my brother and me. But Rose was stalwart and stubborn and, dare I say, selfish. She wanted to go to Atlantic City on a Thursday and so she dragged my mother to the bus station and off they went. On the way home, both had soiled their underpants. My mother must have been exhausted. I didn’t see my mother until the following Wednesday. She was in horrible shape, slumped over the table. I took her to the doctor immediately, but should have called 911. The doctor was reluctant to hospitalize her, claiming she would become disoriented. To my mind, disoriented is a far better cry than dead. A week later, we hospitalized her; the antibiotics the doctor prescribed had done little good. As a result of the delay in care, mom had had a minor heart attack for which the doctors loaded her up with the usual—beta-blocker, statin, aspirin, you name it. My response, of course, was to pitch everything within a week. She was 94 then. Mom remains totally drug free today at the age of 97. Of course, I don’t recommend this for anyone whose parent is not in generally good health and has, for example, diabetes, or is on medication for a specific disorder. I even stopped the Alzheimer’s medication years ago. I have been told this would have slowed the course of disease. But considering her current mental ability and her advanced age, I don’t think staying on it would have been worth it. It caused nightmares. It wasn’t necessary.

Doctors and nurses we meet are impressed that she is not taking any medication, barring antibiotics for recurring urinary tract infections. Needless to say, I am not popular among some of them. But I make up for the lack of meds with good nutrition, when and where possible. Mom looks great and has gained weight (from 87 lbs to 93 lbs) since she moved here. So arguments with me are fruitless. As a medical writer and editor, I have been privy to many inside arguments used to sell some drugs. Consequently, I am very picky about what I will take or will allow my mother to take.

The pups are quite different. At every provocation, I run to the vet. This is a function of not knowing what’s going on and not being able to communicate sufficiently with them. But our vet understands our dynamic and even now tells his patients about my success with milk thistle to restore my dog’s liver enzymes to normal.

Still Later

Well, mom is watching television once again. She is clean, has had breakfast, can’t go anyplace or sit on the porch, so the entertainment for the day is set up. Rob is outside once again putting the snow blower through its paces. The wind is howling—as it often does here—but the sun is shining. So life isn’t all that bad. Now if I can only get the smell of ammoniated urine out of my nostrils…

Later Yet

I gave mom some cookies, and she was delighted as usual. But moments later, she asked for cookies again. I reminded her that she had just had three cookies. So I prepared her lunch plate instead.

Mom always calls me to take her plate. She rarely finishes anything. I am torn between giving her less to eat and therefore wasting less food or giving her what I think is enough food. I don’t want to put too little on her plate. So I load it up in the hopes that she will find enough of something that she will like. Mom used to love green beans; she only tolerates them now, after having been exposed to the limp canned variety that Meals On Wheels had dished out in Bayonne. Mine are always fresh, but memory is what it is and that vegetable is forever banished to the heap of those no longer preferred. She used to dislike sweets, but a taste for sweets has been revived in her like some ancient childlike yearning. Sweet is probably the last remaining active taste on an aging tongue.

One of the nurse assistants I know told me about a patient she had tended who would eat nothing but Shredded Wheat. She ate it cold for breakfast, warm for lunch, and then with a piece of melted cheese for supper. Unimaginable. At least mom will eat almost anything I offer.

Still trying to rid the house of the smell of urine. I just washed part of the kitchen floor with white vinegar (what Rob and I call cleaning vinegar). Smells like a cheap salad in here!

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Big snowstorm today. Another 12+ inches on top of the other 12+ inches. Beautiful, exciting, confining. Made the soup, and it did the trick. Rob spent several hours outside with the snowblower. Thank goodness I purchased it when I did! 

I am still recuperating from bunion surgery. Been tough going in and out with the pups, who can’t seem to find the right spot on which to pee and poop. Been tough sliding down the stairs on my butt to take care of things down here. Been tough answering the calls from mom when I only wanted to stay in my office chair. But today was fun. 

We looked at photos on my laptop. She recognized some people, but not herself. And when she saw photos of her sister Rose, she said, Rose, that’s you. I disabused her of the notion as quickly and as nicely as I could. That is NOT me. No way, I don’t look anything like that. Besides, Aunt Rose is 92 years old! Some days are just more difficult than others. I recall telling the Avon lady over at the Leesport Market, when she asked me how old I was, that I was 92 years old. Earlier she had remarked that my complexion was beautiful. When I told her I was 92, she replied, Really! I almost died on the spot. Her partner hit her playfully on the arm and said, She’s only kidding. But it was too late. It was one of those days when you want to run home and put a paper bag over your head. 

Mom is watching Family Feud again. Did I tell you how much I hate to hear, “SURVEY SAID…” If I go to heaven and hear someone say, “SURVEY SAID,” I might well run the other way! 

Mom didn’t want soup tonight. So I asked her if she wanted hamburger. She agreed, and I broiled some pepper steaks from the German Butcher and served it with green beans. I then poured some of the pureed cauliflower/potato soup over it as a gravy. Yummy. She was delighted and said, You made this for me?

Of course I did, mom. You said you wanted it.
Oh I love you. Thank you, Sandy. 

I love when she calls me Sandy. It works. It’s my name. The one she gave me. But she no longer understands mother or motherhood, and I am not sure she understands daughter.

Monday, February 10, 2014 

This morning after breakfast, my mother asked again where to go to watch television. I explained that there were only four rooms to choose from. I had her name three of the rooms. She could not name the fourth. And then I asked her where the television was: her room. I was hoping she would remember something, anything. Her reply to me was, You don’t like me, do you? Dr. S was right. I should go with the flow and stop trying to teach, stop trying to make her into someone else. It’s clearly as stressful to her as it is to me. So I hugged her, led her into her room, and brought in a plate of her favorite cookies. I was justly chastised by her comment. 

Taking a stylistic page from Alexander McCall Smith: 

Guilt
Guilt Guilt
Guilt Guilt Guilt
Guilt Guilt
Guilt

Sunday, February 9, 2014

It is 5:41 am. Awoke an hour ago. Yesterday Jon, Marcy, Ava, and Quinn came to visit mom/grandma/great-grandma. We went to Say Cheese, the ultimate restaurant for comfort food. While walking Mom to the restaurant from the car, I wanted so much for her to keep her old pace. That hurried clip. But she grew out of breath fast. It was so cold, too, as almost every day has been this winter. She ate quietly, not able to hear the conversation well enough to join in, and even if she could hear, she would not have remembered enough to have participated on any meaningful level. Mom was there, but only part of her.

We went off to Haute Chocolate for dessert, but mom chose to stay in the car for that part of the visit. Too much for her. Too tiring. John sat with her in the car, I didn’t. I was delighted that Ava wanted to sit next to me and that Quinn was engaging. And John needed to be with mom. So why did I wake up feeling guilty that I was willing to leave her alone in the car while we did the cupcake detour.

When I awoke this morning, I cried, feeling loss. Started thinking about a date I had had back in the early 70s. Someone I had met in a class wanted to join me on a skiing weekend. He had never skied before. But off we went to Hunter Mountain with dear friends Nadia and Nestor. Stayed at Xenia (hotel), of course. Can’t remember this young man’s name. Might have been Ronnie. Not sure. That was our only date. After hours of skiing on the slopes alone, I finally stopped in the lounge, where I met Nadia, who chastised me for not having checked up on—it was Hal, yes, Hal. I had no idea where Hal was or had been, but she quickly clued me in: he had broken his leg, and it was a serious break. Full cast. I thought she was kidding at first, but no. I was shocked, but I also remember feeling annoyed. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, except to say that I visited him and brought his supper to his room at the mountain that night. He was propped up in bed and said that I was so kind. I protested, saying I wasn’t, and this morning, that same remorse hit me again. I had not been kind. I wasn’t kind. I wasn’t any kinder to him than I had been to my mother, who wanted to stay in the car by herself because she was tired and didn’t want dessert.

When I awoke, I also felt fear. What if they all left me at once—Mom, Rob, Valentino, Lucy, John, Marcy, Ava, Quinn. (I heard Lucy breathing sweetly this morning at the foot of my bed. So I knew she was fine.) Did the quartet make it back safely to Maryland? Is mom sleeping soundly? Is Rob comfortable and well? Is Valentino OK?

Valentino was a bad boy yesterday. It was his birthday—eighth or ninth. Our vet thinks he is older than I was told. We all sang Happy Birthday, and I gave him a little Valentine pillow to play with. (Gave one to Lucy, too, of course.) Anyhow, Val took exception to my hugging and holding Quinn and did the jealous rant. He tried to nip, but was easily stopped. Still, it was getting tiring. He didn’t put on a good show for the troops.

After our company left, mom was sweet. She was tired. I sat and watched TV with her, something I am loathe to do. I am not fond of spending hours in front of the “box” (I remember when it was a box and not a thin wafer), except if it’s “Frasier” or back in the old days “M*A*S*H”. Sometimes I like watching HGTV (Home & Garden TV), but that can get boring fast. “The Property Brothers” are cute and very talented, and the dynamic between Hillary and her TV partner David on “Love It or List It” is fun. I like the pair. But the nonsense they encounter in the homes and with the listing couple is far too often contrived, too formulaic. I like the formula used by PG Wodehouse—they always work. But cinematic formulas quickly become boring.

Anyhow, mom likes company more than anything. And I give her precious little of it. Precious little, apart from what I am bid to do so many times during the day. It’s almost hard to volunteer more time. I begin to resent it. Last night, while I was editing a manuscript, mom interrupted so many times, too many times. I finally put the work down. That’s when I joined her at the television.

Mother Teresa and Saint Teresa must both be looking down at me sadly, wondering why the loving heart is too often not at work. It often begrudges time away from work or “things I must do.” I told Marcy that it’s tough “living with your mother again.” Marcy was solicitous while I complained about mom telling me to put the lights out, to wear a sweater, to put on shoes, to not let the dogs out, to hang this up or put this away, to sit here and eat. It just hit me this very moment—as I thoughtlessly went on about how my mother has reinserted herself into my life, this cannot happen for Marcy. Marcy’s mom died last May. She won’t have the chance to live with her again. Am I still that young woman sitting on the chair next to Hal’s bedside, wishing I weren’t there, but out skiing instead?  I awoke asking for forgiveness, as I often do. Having mom here has greatly intensified my awareness of my shortcomings. I hope somewhere Hal has forgiven me. I hope somehow I can be a more loving presence to Marcy and her family and to mom.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

What’s this word, Rob? Mom does word search puzzles every day when she isn’t watching TV. Where’s this word, Sandy? Rob, is this right? Asking these questions often enough sometimes elicits a curt answer.

Rob insists upon surfing the web at the same counter where mom sits. I encourage him to escape to saner, quieter quarters, but he persists. So if mom asks him another annoying question, he will just have to deal with it. Men and mothers! And if I hear him sigh in annoyance once more… But he is very helpful and far more patient than I. He is not watching his mother decline before his eyes. He is solicitous and I am grateful for him. He’s out shoveling snow as I write.

When I taught school ages ago, I had a delightful student who observed at a nursing home where we went to entertain the elderly that the elderly become like little children. Old people have to be led by the hand just the way little children do. They become like children again. He wasn’t aware at that time of the irony of their also returning to diapers.

Friday, February 7, 2014

Dogs are up and have been fed. They’ve also been outside twice within the space of 15 minutes. Can’t walk them now. Am still recuperating from mild foot surgery. (But then is any foot surgery mild?) Got Valentino out before he barked too much at the children waiting on the corner for the school bus. My plants are devastated. Crushed under snow and ice. I wonder as I do every time this year: Will they ever bloom again? I fear I shall have to order another Carol Macke Daphne. Too delicate to survive the snow and ice piled on top.

Valentino started playing roughly Lucia. Had to stop him before mom awoke.  Mom’s cereal bowl is filled and waiting for her. Bathroom has been cleaned twice since 5:00 am. I hear some thumping. Mom’s cane. Oops, false alarm. But now Valentino has left my office. Well, it’s always easy to lure him back. He’s a compliant, but noisy pup, and likes to be with me.

Sandy! She’s up. Mom is up. What time is it?
It’s only 8:30, mom.
Oooh, I’ll stay in bed. Wake me up later.

In a matter of a few minutes, she will call again as if for help, looking up with a concerned face: Sandy! What time is it?

Later—

Mom is up now and showered. Small mess, but at least she’s aware of it and asked that I change her Depends, which for her privacy and delicacy are referred to as panties. She is having breakfast now. She greets Rob and begins a series of small seemingly disconnected statements: What time did you get up Rob? It’s 10:34. Did you wear your coat? It’s cold out there.

Rob had to let the pups out again. Fourth trip this morning. They are seeking Aunt Betty, who usually walks with us every morning and afternoon—ever since she lost Coco. “Aunt Betty” takes Lucy, and I take Val. But the snow and ice and freezing temps have prevented our walks for several weeks now. We don’t walk on ice—ever! At least not since I broke my wrist in a fall and Betty fell while walking Lucy. We are no longer intrepid. Is this the kind of fear that leads to joining the ranks of the timid elderly? Mom, while walking timidly to the car one day, remarked that she never used to be this way. She’s right of course. Being short (less than 5 feet tall), mom always walked with a perfectly straight back and in high heels. Bunions and loss of muscle strength stopped this practice over time. She now uses a cane—well, sort of. The cane mostly points in the direction she is attempting to take and often does not touch the floor. Walls and furniture support her until she can lurch forward and take her place on the couch or a chair or her bed.

She’s eating her cereal now, all the while continually organizing the Cheerios in her bowl. Her spoon clacks incessantly against the plate, and she now slurps her cereal as though it’s soup. In fact, I am given to putting her soup in a cup so she can drink without using a spoon, thus eliminating the clatter. Sometimes I close my office door to block out the sounds coming from the kitchen and her inquiries about “the cat.”

Can you believe he stays out there in the cold? Ohmigod.
Mom, do you want to feed the cat?
Oh no. Not me! If you go out there, put a coat on. Is it cold out, Rob?
Yes, it’s in the 20s.
It’s not too bad. It doesn’t look cold from here. Is it raining?

I retreat to my office:
Is Sandy up yet, she asks Rob. (Recall, I just showered her and dressed her.)
Yes.
Where is she?
In her office.
Valentino! What are you doing there? Did the dogs eat already, Rob?
Yes.
Oh.

My brother called this morning. Mom always knows her son.

When am I going to see you. I miss you so much. Don’t come here. It’s a mess. The workmen are all over the place. Nothing is done. There’s no place for you to stay.

Later at the kitchen counter: That cat’s still up there. Oh my gosh. (At Christmas, there was also the man in the tree who waved at her.)

Sometimes I wish there were workmen all over the place. Mom is staying in what will eventually become the dining room. Eventually. This has now become a euphemism for her dying and leaving us forever. I almost don’t want to call the room a dining room. It seems heartless and cruel. It will become a dining room soon enough. Right now, it is still inhabited with a once lively woman whom I love.

The black dog is sleeping. Earlier she remembered his name, Valentino, who will be 9 years old tomorrow. She won’t remember his name later, and might call him Valente (my cousin Sam’s last name), or she might ask, What’s the black dog’s name?

[Bark from Valentino] Oh now, what’s he barking at?  Rob, does your brother ever come to visit?
No. Do you remember where he lives?
Oh—about to give up, and then—He lives in California.
Yes.
Does he like it out there, Rob?
Yes.

Rob is a man of few words. And these are the same questions mom asks about Rob’s brother whenever she thinks of him. How many ways can you relate the same information over and over again? How many more times can you stand to be asked the same questions?

Mom is talkative this morning. Every morning is different. My friend Mike encourages me to give her curcumin to improve her memory. I do, when I remember, and hope it will make a difference. Big leap of faith.

Mom sometimes asks about that other woman. She is not sure who she is and she might be referring to her sister Rose. Sometimes when she asks Rob about that other woman, she is referring to me. Sometimes it’s about Ann, her former caregiver in Bayonne. She sometimes asks how Rose is and where she is and why she is in a nursing home. When I explain that Rose can no longer walk and needs full-time care, she protests:

They can help people to walk, you know. They can make her walk again.
Not Rose, mom.
Why not! People worse than Rose have walked.

My desperate reply is usually, but there are no people worse than she. Of course, desperation serves no one, ever. Better to say nothing. I hear Dr. S, cautioning me. You’re the caregiver now. I hear me replying, I never wanted to be.

Rejoice in hope.
Be patient in tribulation.
Be constant in prayer.
Romans 12:12