Sunday, July 13, 2014 

I awoke thinking of the day my sister-in-law threw the bouquet to me. We had agreed long in advance that she would throw the bouquet to me, and so she did. The beautiful bride poised to throw the bouquet over her head but then turned and threw it directly at me to the dismay of all the other young single women that day. There were cries of protest from some of my cousins, “She cheated.” But we were all having too much fun to do anything about it. The bride threw the bouquet and had delivered as promised. I remember her eyes—always bigger than life. She had a beauty that matched her smile. And now she’s gone. How will I feel when mom is gone?

We had enjoyable company yesterday, my cousin and her dear friend. Mom sat out on the porch with us and ate with us, but was never really part of the conversation. Her hearing and her lack of memory impeded such. We took photos, talked about everything under the sun, and pretty much relaxed. It was very warm to begin with but cooled down considerably. We sat through a blessed rainstorm that did the trick. Fortunately, it didn’t end up being one of those storms that makes you feel as though you’re in a rain forest.

Toward the end of the visit, mom had some problems. A quick shower, a change of “panties,” and she was back out on the porch. But there were more visits to the bathroom and more changes. Our delightful company soon left and mom retreated to her room to partake in her favorite pastime, watching television game shows. We have a birthday party to attend today, where she will see yet more relatives; however, I am debating taking her. She might be better served just sitting at home and relaxing instead of taking the 45-minute drive with me. Besides, I am not sure what her condition will be. I can hardly leave a diaper in my cousin’s bathroom wastebasket. Besides, it looks like rain.

This will be a tough week: Several jobs came in at once. Besides that, I am slated to go down the shore for an overnight on Wednesday. Then back out on Friday for my third annual reunion with college friends who grew up in my hometown. I am bringing the smoke pork chops from the local butcher, and of course, salad greens, which I should have aplenty from the food cooperative.

During this time, mom will be at Rittenhouse, a local assisted-living/nursing home. I know she will be anxious, but I will write a note that she can refer to daily. Am hoping this will alleviate some of her anxiety. I, too, would fear being left somewhere with no way to get back home. There is so little I can do, apart from never going away and never leaving her with someone else. Even yesterday’s visit was a bit much for her. Having company disrupted mom’s normal routine, even though she seems to enjoy the change of pace—at least momentarily. Rob and I, of course, had a wonderful time. He joined us last minute, as is his wont, and was glad he did.

But I think mom fears running out of questions to ask: Where do you live? Do you like it there? How far away is it? How long have you lived there? It’s as though she is working phrases from an English language course, Level I. And indeed she is. I am currently studying Japanese. I know the feeling. You can ask a question, but when the native speaker rambles on about something beyond your ken, the only response you can give is the deer-in-the-headlights look. I feel that way even when I do understand the speaker. When Rob and I arrived in Salzburg years ago, a native asked me in French how long I would be staying. I was so startled that I struggled to answer. I had found myself in a language dilemma. Should I answer in French, German, or English. And I had trouble changing gears. I finally stuttered something in German that was most likely ungrammatical. A sudden change of language for me sometimes results in a misfire, as though I need a change of sparkplugs. I first recognize the language, understand the language, and then have to make a decision to answer in that language or another, especially when the speaker is clearly bi-lingual. But mom never learned another language and her own is failing her miserably.

Valentino did his usual barking at the window. All I have to do is appear, and he stops. But by then, it’s too late. The alarm has sounded.

Sandy!

What mom?

Where do we have to go today?

Nowhere mom. Go back to sleep. It’s only 7 o’clock.

Oh, OK. 

I think mom would be happy to stay home today.

 

 

Friday, July 11, 2014 

One of those days. I spent much of the morning cleaning the porch and the house in preparation for company tomorrow, my cousin and her friend. Mom is now up and in rare form. 

Is your brother married, Rob?

Does he have any children?
Yes. Five of them.

Oh my God.

Well, mom (I said), you came from a family of ten.

I did not. That’s ridiculous.

Then I named her siblings.

Rob then produced the family portrait and asked her to name her family members, which she did with no prompting, except for two youngest siblings.

See, mom, there are ten children.

How many children does your brother have, Rob?

That’s a lot.

Do you ever visit him?

It must be nice there.

Yes, it is, but it’s no better than this.

Is he married?

Where does he live?

In California.

Does he like it there?

Have you ever visited him?

Yes.

Is he older than you?

How many children does he have?

Oh come on. He’s too young.

How old do you think he is, Paula?

I don’t know.

He’s 77.

Oh come on. He’s not that old.

Well, he is.

How old is your brother, Rob?

He looks younger.

Does he have any children? 

And so it goes. Mom only has a few sentence structures left and she uses them as frequently as she can. 

Yesterday, we went to the GP for a checkup. When I told the doctor I hoped to escape dementia because I read, am a musician, and continue to study, he said that was no guarantee. Just this morning after I wrote about this exchange to my uncle, Rob came in to tell me that Dr. Schnetzler, a brilliant scientist for whom he worked, developed Alzheimer’s disease. He was killed by a car while wandering one evening. How horrible. Blew a hole in my theory. 

And you only have one brother? That’s it?

No more?

Did you ever meet his wife?

And your brother lives in California. Where do your parents live?

They are gone.

What did my little sister Marge die of, Rob? I don’t remember.

Heart disease.

Rob, your brother didn’t come with his wife, huh?

And what did my big sister Marge die of, Rob? A heart attack?

Old age.

What what did my father die of?

A heart attack.

Oh. Where did you get this cup, Rob. It’s cute.

 

 

Wednesday, February 9, 2014 

I feel like a miser. When I prepare mom’s lunch or dinner plates, I put so little on her plate that I feel as though I am cheating her of some wonderful food. But she rarely finishes anything, and I wind up throwing so much out. She has not been very hungry lately, something I can understand. It’s summer. My appetite lessens in summer, too. Much too warm to eat heartily. But I joined the Rodale food coop and I am laden with an abundance of wonderful organic vegetables and greens every week. On pickup day, I come home and check out recipes. Then I begin slicing, dicing, steaming, stir frying, puréeing… you name it. Even bought a steel wok for the occasion. Although half the share belongs to a friend, we still have enough to keep our household of three very well fed and satisfied. We have an abundance of soups right now—cucumber, avocado, and yogurt soup; zucchini soup; and swiss chard soup. And yet, mom won’t eat or she eats very little. She just had a cup of zucchini soup and left only a small amount at the bottom.

I am bringing her to Rittenhouse for respite while I am on my reunion weekend. For the last two years, four of us get together for a summer weekend away. This is our third year, and I am preparing mom for a weekend away to give Rob time off, too; although, he still has the pups to contend with. And another friend has been asking me to join his family down at the shore for the past three years. Thus far, I have been unable to go. This year, I am hoping to bring mom to Rittenhouse for another night away to permit me to spend a night down at the Jersey shore. She might enjoy spending time with others, rather than falling asleep in her rocking chair. It’s hard to say what her reaction will be. We shall soon find out.