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