Saturday, February 22, 2014 

Been editing. Swamiji sent me his latest book The Hip Guru’s Guide—The Stress-Free College Student. Good stuff. He included a story I read only yesterday: His parents were killed in a car crash while he was a counselor at summer camp. Later that day, he had to give the horrible news to his younger brother. Gives me chills to think about it and brings tears to my eyes. I cannot imagine such pain, such loss. He was only 18; his brother was 14. I could not imagine a trauma that would rip your parents from you at a young, vulnerable age. But then, at what age would you not be vulnerable? Former students of mine lost their parents in a small airplane crash 13 years ago. They were grown and married, but traumatic loss is traumatic loss. Still, a boy away at camp? Hard to imagine. I didn’t know. This is the third book I am editing for Swamiji. As I read his story, all I could think about was that I still have my mother, and here I am, keeping a diary to help me cope with caring for her.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?

Swamiji’s loss does not soften the task of cleaning the bathroom and washing towels and nightgowns by hand to rid them of feces or make it any easier for me, but it does give me pause. I can still serve my mother and what my heart says while I clean up after her or answer her call for the tenth time that morning or afternoon or evening is most important. I have a feeling that Mother Teresa and Saint Teresa and Dad and Margie and whatever troops are out there listening to me and watching me fumble gracelessly through the day are working overtime to coax me onto the right path. I am given the chance to love my mother and serve her at a challenging time—the end of her life. But, most important, I am given the chance.

Thank God for Rob! I could not care for mom without him. For those who toil alone, the task of caregiving is more than doubled. I could not continue to work or go on errands or meet with my friends on Thursday nights for our weekly meal and to chatter were it not for Rob. I am grateful for Rob and hope I can provide some joy and comfort in his life, too. He has dysphagia. No one knows the reason, but it is getting progressively worse. Parkinson’s and ALS have been ruled out. Next, we must determine what the problem is and if it can be helped. In the meantime, I make him puréed soups filled with vegetables and all good things. Last summer, I sprang for a Vitamix. It was loads of fun. We had fruit smoothies several times a day to beat the heat. No fruit or veggie went forgotten or wasted. For winter, I rely on my stick stirrer! I blend the hot soups right in the pot. Just throw in some wonderful vegetables, stock, and herbs—fortunately, I still have some live herbs in pots on the back porch—boil, stir, and eat! I thicken my winter soups with Russet or Yukon gold potatoes.

Mom has had a profound hearing loss ever since she was a child. She almost died from diphtheria when she was a year and a half and emerged with impaired hearing. She compensated lo these many years by asking questions and never waiting for the answer. It was her way of engaging in conversation, but a fairly one-way communication. Her remarks were often nonsequiturs. I recall a woman in a shop asking me why my mother asks so many questions yet does not reply to the responses nor does she even wait for the responses.

I didn’t know then how profound her hearing loss was. And yet, mom will not wear a hearing aid. I recently had her hearing tested, only to learn that she has 90% loss in one ear and 50% loss in the other. Not much to go by. On one hand, it compounds communication and you have to repeat nearly everything. If you say something too loudly, she takes offense and accuses you of shouting at her. Her sister Rose always shouted at mom. When mom accused her of same, Rose would defend herself by saying she had no choice. It does get vexing.

Mom just called. She’s up. It’s the end of my quiet morning. I managed to get a load of clothes into the washer, including one of the dog bed covers. Lucy, dear pup, dropped a small poopie on her dog bed. Old age is taking its toll on her, too. The dogs have been fed and let out—twice. No walks again this morning. Icy spots here and there.

I haven’t had my breakfast yet and don’t often sit with mom. Still tough hearing her slurp her cereal like soup and clank her spoon on the dish to assiduously arrange her Cheerios. But I think I will miss this when she is gone. How then do I manage a cheerful countenance while she is here? I forgive Lucy her occasional mishaps. So must I do for mom.

Today was another shower day and laundry day. Mom’s nightgown and towel are soiled yet again. When I show her, she says, “That isn’t bad. Leave it.” The mom I knew would never have tolerated such a mess. Mom has already asked three times, “Where is Rob?” So why is it so difficult to hear the same question over and over and over again. Children ask questions repeatedly, but at least their chains of questions vary. Is it easier to hear, “Why is the moon so large? Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green?” than it is to hear,

Where’s Rob? (I answer)
Two minutes later: Where’s Rob? (I answer)
Two minutes later: Where’s Rob? (I answer)

Or is it more difficult to hear this from your mother who used to answer the previous questions with some sagacity or perhaps even duplicity.

Mom is in the kitchen eating her cereal now. And I am in my office, typing and then eating my cereal between sentences. I will go keep her company and make some tea.

Later—

Symphony tonight. Finally! And no snow or ice. Temps are moderate, at long last. Finally went for a walk (our second this week) with Betty and the dogs. Was good to get out. Had to wear sunglasses.

Snapshot—

So what am I doing now? I am listening to Jeanne Robertson on YouTube, imprisoning crazed Valentino in my office (the kid across the street is out with his skateboard and Val gets wild!), and answering mom (What’s going on? What are you doing?). Meantime, Val gets out and goes crazy on the window seat again. I coax him back into the office, fix the couch cover (protection against poodles), make a quick bathroom run, and return to the office. So here I am again. This is why I keep a water purifier in my office. It’s for emergencies. You never know when you will be trapped in here with a crazed poodle. But I have to leave now and prepare the kids’ supper and see if mom wants something to drink. This was one moment in the life of a poodle-mother caregiver. Never a dull moment. Never a quiet moment. I am looking forward to the symphony, where I might even nod off.

Needs—

My mother needs very few things. Every now and again, she will ask for juice or cookies. But if she has nothing in her hands, she will always ask for a “Kleenex,” and always by brand name. They were never tissues to her, but Kleenex. She collects them and stuffs them up her sleeves, in her pants pockets, in her coat pockets, under her pillow, and almost everywhere she sits. When I picked her up from Hearthstone, where she stayed for 10 days after I had my foot surgery, the attendants gave me a huge sack of tissues, napkins, and paper towels she had amassed during her stay. With the stash, I could have held a picnic for 140 people and given each one of them enough tissues and napkins to get them through a 2-day Maryland crab festival. You just never know.

Worries—

Just returned from a night at the Reading Symphony. Heard Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings in C, the Rota trombone concerto (quite nice), and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 2 in D. But it was one of those nights. I worried about mom, the pups, the car on the corner as we turned onto Stoudts Ferry Bridge Rd—Who were those people? When paranoia and worry set in, there is no stopping me. On top of that, Rob commented that he hoped my mother was OK. Still, I knew everything was fine. I prayed hard enough during the concert. And mom is fine. She is asleep and looking quite comfortable. I turned the television off when we arrived home. Pups are fine, too, and went for their evening turn in the yard. It’s good to be home again.