Sunday, November 9, 2014 

Rob was out raking leaves. I was at the farmers’ market. So mom had been alone for a bit. When he came back in, mom was sitting in the living room, and she complained:

There’s someone in the kitchen.

No there isn’t.

I tell you there’s someone in the kitchen. I know. I saw them.

No one is there, Paula.

I saw them. 

Rob said she made an angry face and rolled her eyes at him and waived a hand. After all, he dismissed her vision or her sighting or whatever it had been. So now we have a new rule: If mom says she saw something or someone, then she actually saw something or someone—real or not. We need to honor that and help her through it.

So from now on, the cat in the fan, the man on the tree, the woman in her bedroom, and the person in the kitchen are very real to her and we will acknowledge them as such and help her through it all. We are now entering a new phase in this Twilight Zone of mom’s life. But to tell you the truth, who’s to say that she is not seeing these things. Whose eyes are closed in this scenario? Maybe the closer you get to leaving this earthly plain, the clearer your vision gets.

Thursday, November 6, 2014 

It’s raining. The clocks have been changed for a week now. I thought I could get up early and get some editing done. Guess again.

Mom is seeing men in the trees.

Who are those men?

There are no men in the trees, mom. (No time to placate her. I need to get some work done.)

Well, they’re walking up in the trees.

Think about it, mom. Men can’t walk from treetop to treetop.

Oh. Can they get in here?

No, you have to come inside to open the windows. They’re locked. 

What other story can I give her? What else can I say? There are no men up in the trees. Whatever she sees, I am not privy to. But this goes on and on and on. Her insistence will not end.

Rob!

Mom, what do you want? Rob is still asleep.

Oh. I wanted to know what those men are doing up in the trees.

Mom, I told you. There is no one up in the trees. Now, I have closed the shutters. You cannot see anything or anyone. So why don’t you go back to sleep?

Well, I was afraid they would come in.

Since there aren’t any men up there—you see the tree is moving in the wind and it’s raining out there—you won’t have to worry about them coming in!

Oh. Well, I thought…

No. Go back to sleep. 

I might get a few minutes reprieve. But I can already feel my chest tightening.

November 2, 2014

Worked hard yesterday and awoke after an uncomfortable night. Had to wash the bathroom down twice yesterday and clean mom twice as much as that.

Last night, she started her fugue again. One right after the other: I need to talk to my son. I need to call my son. I need to tell him where I am. Did you call him? Did you leave a telephone number? Did you call 410-555-XXXX? Did you tell him to call us? He needs to know where I am. I am so worried about him. I called John and left a message.

This went on interminably until finally he called back. It was an exhausting night and my patience was thoroughly spent. Mom is wont to say, You don’t like me, do you? But tonight, it was, You don’t like my son, do you? Until finally I said, No, I don’t. She repeated her question and I repeated my answer. It was our fight for the day and it took more out of me (who would remember what I said and what went on) than it took out of her (who would remember none of this).

Today, I felt as though church were the last place on earth I belonged. But I went anyhow. I figure I needed to hear some words of encouragement, and I heard them. Loudly and clearly. After church, Barb and I talked and held hands. This beautiful soul warmed my heart and allowed me to let off steam—as she put it—the way a pressure cooker should.

First Sunday of the month, I was slated for Hearthstone, where I talked about what is left on earth for us to do. I had briefly touched upon things with mom and how I felt I was unworthy to go to church this morning. But I mostly talked about the present, how touching someone—on the hand, on the head or face or shoulder—might be just the encouragement anyone needed and how they could do that for each other. I thanked the Lord for the brace that was given to a woman who had fractured a rib from a fall, for the walkers, for the wheelchairs, for the oxygen, for the food and the hands that make them at Hearthstone, for those who changed the linens and washed the clothing, for those who just touched another warmly to turn the day around—especially on this blustery fall day.

After my sermonette and the closing prayer, I said I would take each person’s hands and give them my love and the Lord’s healing, as I do with the cancer patients at the hospital every other week. And I did. But the healing came right straight back to me. Verna in particular, looked me straight in the eyes and said, I love you and I thank God for you. I hope things get better and easier for you with your mother. Well, that about did it. I was moved to tears, and all the tears saved up inside me for weeks just about flowed out freely. Not only did Verna give me a great blessing, but she also touched upon the one thing that was hurting me deeply—my feelings toward my own mother.

Caregiving is not easy. No one can prepare you for what it will take and no one can help you through it. You are the one who must do the cleaning, the dressing, the cooking, the showering, the bed checks, the running downstairs at night for every bump your hear. You must be alert to needs for food and water, tissues (especially prized by my mother), juices, teas, cakes, and cookies. You must answer each call, each plea: Where do I go? What should I do? Are you hungry? (meaning: I am hungry), Did you eat? (meaning, I am hungry), Do you have any cookies? Are we going out? Are we going to the club? Did you call my son? Did my son call? Where are my clothes? And the dreaded, I have to go in the bathroom. (Mom always says go in instead of go to.) 

And the demands: Close the windows, Get me a tissue, Get me something to drink, Get me a tissue, Get my jacket, Get my robe, Get me a tissue… 

It’s tiring. It’s vexing. It’s exhausting. It’s a lesson and a gift. And if I ever do learn patience, I will have truly earned a wonderful place in heaven. As it is, the Lord will sit me down and lay out for me all the opportunities I missed for pleasing Him and lifting my soul.