Monday, June 23, 2014

Company yesterday. Long-time friends whom we had not seen in too long a time. Grilled some chicken burgers and mixed veggies. Am getting better at grilling.

Mom was in usual form:

How are you? I haven’t seen you in so long?

We haven’t met before.

Oh really?

Where do you live?

In Mount Joy

Oh really?

How far away is that?

About 45 minutes

Oh really?

It’s so nice to see you again. Where do you live?

In Mount Joy

Oh. How far away is that?

 

She was fascinated by the iPhone that little Alex (one of our guests) showed her. Mom is usually initially fascinated, but never really interested. I have shown her photos on the computer, but it’s tough keeping her attention focused. When she starts saying Yeah, it’s time to move on.

I mentioned to my friend that mom lived on coffee and bagels with cream cheese for too many years. As I recall, mom was never hungry and ate far too much wheat, far too few omega fatty acids, and far too few vegetables. She is paying the price now. Actually those engaged in her care are. I read recently about a 111-year-old woman who just graduated high school. She considers herself young. She certainly must be to have studied and passed a rigorous four years of school.

I am at school, too. The school for caregivers. I am getting better at interpreting mom’s answers. Yeah, yeah means just that, and it indicates that she is not listening. Her yeah, yeahs are often spoken while you are just finishing your sentence. If you ask her to repeat what you said, she will smile weakly and say she forgot.

She is unable to focus, but there are bits and pieces of her here and there. Scattered wildly to be sure and unpredictable in delivery.

But mom can be obsessed as she is with windows and shutters, doors, the porch fan, the cat on the fan (He’s still up there. Can you believe it?), and the blinking light on the phone. All doors must be closed and locked. All windows must be closed, shutters must be closed. The porch fan must be turned off. The porch door and the kitchen door must be closed and locked. Security is important to her, even though she would invite anyone in. Mom has always preferred a lightless, airless home. But she won’t get one here. I open the shutters and the windows in her room every morning to her dismay. Sometimes I leave the windows opened at night behind closed shutters. She is adamant about the shutters: Someone is trying to get in. I saw him—even though someone would need a ladder to do so. Lights out! She cannot tolerate having a light on, even as she sits under the kitchen light working her word-search puzzles. Says it’s costing me money.

Time for a nonsequitur:

How is it out, Rob? Cold?

No. It’s around 70.

Oh that’s not bad. Yeah.

 

Mom has no clue what the temperature is. But she is obsessed with it. We don’t wear shoes in the house, and she often remarks about how I will catch a cold, particularly if I go out onto the porch without them. She has no real idea that it’s summer and would not be surprised to see me put on a winter coat or my mukluks or wind a scarf around my neck. 

Each time a person leaves a phone message, a red light blinks. Mom will ask repeatedly if someone is trying to call. She cannot hear the phone, but she can see the light. So she assumes that someone is calling. Thus, I need to clear all messages before she drives us crazy with her insistence that the phone is ringing or that someone is trying to reach us. Indeed they were!

Mom does remember people who have visited or questions she recently thought to ask.
Rob, who was that boy who was here yesterday?
He was the son of the man and woman who were here yesterday.
(Change of topic)
Did Sandy go to church?
No that was yesterday. She’s working in her office.
Oh. Good coffee, Rob.

And the current topic of the day:

Rob, where do those people live?
Mount Joy?
Oh yeah? Where is that?
Forty-five minutes from here.
Oh yeah?

Someday I will write a treatise on the many meanings of Oh yeah!