Thursday, February 6, 2014

Mom has been living here since June. I don’t know how many times I have prayed for patience and a loving heart, but I am still at it.

Today was a quiet day. Mom is watching TV. Yesterday, we didn’t have cable or phones because Comcast was down. Snow and ice. Been a long cold winter. Mom is getting little exercise and complains of “going nowhere and doing nothing.” But then, she has always complained. Yesterday, she spoke with Ann, her former caregiver in Bayonne. She remembered Ann, or so led us to believe. It’s hard to tell. She tells Ann she does nothing all day long. Mom is not one for staying on the phone too long. It’s Hello! How are you? Here’s Sandy. Most of the time. I am often Rose. I am sometimes her sister. But I am always the go-to person for all things personal.

Mom likes watching Steve Harvey and Family Feud. She talks about “the cat” every day, but when questioned about it away from the kitchen, she denies knowledge of it. “The cat” lurks on the porch fan. He’s actually some bolts and a fan motor, but to mom, he is a cat. We need to name him.

Mom was always spotless. She still likes to clean, but taking a dirty napkin into which she has sneezed or blown her nose to wipe the placemat is hard to take. I clean it again. When she washes a dish, I thank her profusely and rewash it.

The hardest thing to take is the lack of cleanliness in a woman who was always personally clean. Rob and I clean the toilet and bathroom several times a day. I pour heavy-duty drain cleaners into the sink to rid it of rancid smells. I use an aromatherapy cleaner for the toilet, just to clear my nose of the putrid smells I face too many times a day.

The routine: Mom calls me in the morning. Asks me to wake her in half an hour. She makes her bed, brushes her teeth (usually a 5-minute task, possibly accounting for her healthy and intact teeth), asks where to go from there. I direct her to the kitchen, only one of four rooms on the main floor, where she has breakfast and remarks about the cat. Her cereal (only Honey Nut Cheerios), a napkin, and a spoon are already in place. Rob makes her coffee and English Muffin with cream cheese and homemade jelly later. She doesn’t eat much else besides cookies, some nuts, and maybe some cheese and crackers throughout the day. And she drinks a prodigious amount of cranberry juice. At night, she gets a nitrofurantoin to prevent bladder infections, which result from her very poor toileting habits.

Some mornings, she gets a shower. I don surgical gloves and use the hand-held showerhead to clean where the sun doesn’t shine. Sometimes she pees in the shower, which I find disconcerting. My mother is peeing in front of me, like a child, without a care in the world. Perhaps I shouldn’t mind. But I do. And sometimes—even worse—bits and pieces of poop go flying around the tub.

I hide all food stuffs from mom. All candies, all cookies, a nuts, all dog bones. Out of sight. And when we feed her, we have be a constant presence, lest she feed the dogs.

Mom don’t feed the dogs raisin bread.
Oh, I would never do that.
A minute later: Here, maybe the dog will eat my toast.
No mom, I told you. No. Raisins are poison to dogs. You will kill my dogs!

Maybe the most difficult thing is to realize that I am living with my mother again. She tells me when to turn lights off, when to close windows, asks if doors are shut, tells me to wear a coat or a sweater, asks where I am going, tells me to be careful… Nothing offensive, mind you. But I am living with my mother again. I am back home, and I am twelve years old. Oh Lord, help me find something good in this experience. Help me to be humble and loving, because right now, I am feeling murderous.

Mom asks interminably if I own this home. Or who lives here. Or where do I live. Or what the dogs’ names are. The black dog. The white dog. The neighbor. Oh yes, “the neighbor” is her friend and comes to talk to her. She tells her she is moving and mom asks if she has moved yet. There is no neighbor, no visitor, no one in the neighborhood is moving. I am reminded once again of Dr. S’s caution: Go along with it. You’re a caregiver now. It’s too stressful to fight against. Sometimes I do “yes” her to death. Other times, I fight: There is no neighbor. No one is moving. There is no cat. See: those are bolts on the fan and a motor.

Mom does not like to be washed, but when she is finally in the shower, she enjoys it. Says it feels good to be clean. She will “remind” me that she only had a bath the day before. But I remind her that bath took place two or three days ago. She is never wrong.

My brother calls. Her Johnny Boy. Her favorite. She asks about his wife, having not been told that Margie died of a brain tumor in May. Not telling mom was of my brother’s choosing, but he is the one who has to hear her ask about Margie over and over again and must make excuses for where she is: Margie’s working mom. Yes, she does cook for me. Yes, she keeps a clean house. Yes, she takes good care of me.

Throughout the day, mom calls me: Sandy! It’s like an alarm. The same one that went off continuously when I lived at home and was trying to read or study or practice the piano. That annoying, intrusive alarm. It’s back. And as always, it is cried at the most inopportune moments: while I am on the phone with a client, while I am cooking, while I am showering, while I am gardening, while I am reading, studying, or practicing the piano. It’s back. I hate the sound of my name being called.

I pray. I ask God for forgiveness for being a bad daughter. I ask for patience. This is a daily practice. Rejoice in hope. Be patient in tribulation. Be constant in prayer. Help me to do this, Lord!