Thursday, February 19, 2015 

Well, last night on my way home from Pottstown, where I had to buy supplies for a patient, I hit a snow squall. Was never in anything like this at all. Reminded me of North Dakota, where I visited with my brother’s ex-fiancé in the late 1960s. In seconds, I could not see a thing on the road. It was a total whiteout. My headlights made it even worst. So at first, I turned them off thinking I could find my way home in the sudden blizzard. I could not. I was already on the side of the road, because I heard the buzzing sound under my tires—the rumble strip—where the road is etched to warn you that you are too far over. On a clear day, you can see the strips. Last night, I saw nothing but snow darting toward my windshield. I stopped under an overpass. Fortunately so did every other car. My only fear was that some other car or cars would try to trudge on and hit you instead. No one did. We all waited and waited. Inches of snow fell in minutes. Later, I learned that I was only a half mile from my turnoff.

When I finally got moving, I did so with my “Winter” drive. Fortunately, Volvos are equipped with sensible options, this being one of them. Pennsylvania is hilly; so I had that challenge to face, but I made it home. The road below my house runs along the Schuylkill River. It was hauntingly beautiful after the blizzard. I was the only car on the road and watched for deer, but none came. They must have still been hunkered down somewhere. Smart thing to do. I made it up the hill to my house, pulled into the garage, made it upstairs, and put on a pot of milk. Nothing like warm milk. My neck and shoulders were aching.

I only hope everyone on the road last night made it home safely. Had this been North Dakota, the blizzard would likely have engulfed the car, endangering my life and the lives of all the other drivers. But this squall lasted only minutes, even though it seemed so much longer. Quite an experience. Rob watched from our house and could not see the house across the road. He tried to call me, but at that point, I was still driving and did not answer my cell phone.  

This morning, Mom called me:

What are we going to do about coffee?

Mom, what are you talking about?

What if we want coffee? How will we drink it?

We have plenty of cups, Mom. Go back to sleep. 

Our priorities are clearly different.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015 

Mom arose early today. She’s up and our day has begun. A quick trip to the bathroom, and I tried to remove a wad of soiled toilet paper from her diaper, which she too quickly grabbed.

Mom, don’t touch that!

It’s clean. There’s nothing on it. I showed her the mess.

Oh.

Thus began the morning. The mess, the smell. It’s another glorious day of wiping and washing, laundry, and prayer. Oh Lord, why am I such a mess? Why can’t I be more pleasant to this woman? You know how I feel about a dirty home, and now this!

At the kitchen table, mom started her clocking. She reads the clock nearly continuously.

It’s only 8 o’clock.

Yes, mom.

Oh migod, it’s only 8:01.

Yes, mom.

Mom turns toward her word search puzzle. Sandy, see if you can find this word.

No, mom. You usually find the words.

I didn’t do this book. Someone else did. Look! 

This reaction brings me back to the wonderful Maggie Smith film, “My House in Umbria.” A lovely child lost her memory after a “timed device” exploded on the train she and her parents were taking to Milan. She lost her parents and any memory of the incident. Later when Chris Cooper (her distant uncle) came to claim her from Mrs. Delahunty’s (Maggie Smith) home in Umbria, he remarked that her drawings were quite wonderful. When the child denied having done them, another one of the train’s survivors (Werner) also living there said that he had done them. The uncle then speaks with the child’s doctor who later explained that Werner took responsibility for the drawings “out of kindness. If the child didn’t know she did them, then it would be sort of worrying to her.” I often think of this scene. Mother has not clue that she has done the word search puzzles. Yet every day, I tell her that she did them. She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t even remember from one minute to the next what I just said. I often wonder if I am going to spend the rest of my life regretting that I could not be kinder to her. The day is filled with her needs; demands for her sweater, water, tissues, something to eat, something to drink, to change the channel; to cover her.

She is a woman with a mother and a needy child inside: Where are your shoes? You need a coat! Wear your hat! Where are you going? When will you be back? What are you doing? Where are you? Why is that dog barking? Where is the white dog? Who’s at the door? Is the phone ringing? Who was on the phone? What did they want? What did my husband die of? Did my husband die? Is Rob your father? Who is Rob? Is Rose still alive? Where does she live? Why isn’t she here? Where is Sandy? Where did she go? Where is Rob? Is he still sleeping? What time did you get up? What time did Rob get up?

And each answered question is followed by her Oh! 

Right now, she is fugue-ing. Unfortunately, I told her that we were going to the podiatrist today. While Rob assures her that we have four hours before we have to leave, she will endlessly ask: Where did she go? I have to go! I have to get dressed. Where is she? I have to get ready.

You don’t have to go for four hours, says Rob in an attempt to soothe.

Oh. But where is she, I have to get dressed. 

I should not have said a word. A caregiver friend remarked how the cared-for live a 24-hour day, while the caregiver trudges through a 36-hour day. It’s endless. Nancy knows this, too. Every day, the routine lengthens. What took 20 minutes the day before seems to take 40 minutes some days. And when you hit a good day, you become lulled into thinking that you can handle it. Then for some reason, she calls endlessly through the night and all during the day. You wish there were some way to stop it. You wish that one day you did not have to wipe feces from the lightswitch plates and the woodwork and her cane and her clothing and the table or wherever she has been. You wish that you had never said a word about going out, because she will not call you every 30 seconds—yes, every 30 seconds or maybe 15 seconds, or if you’re lucky, every minute—to determine where you are going, why you are going, when you are going, what she should wear and to hurry, hurry, hurry.

My office door is closed, but I can hear her questions. And what’s worse, Valentino is not in here with me. I need my pup. I want him to be close to me, and I don’t want him to feel shut out. I’ll go look for him. Frankly, I would much rather be with Valentino than with my own mother. And I don’t feel a bit guilty about that at all.

Monday, February 9, 2015 

Someone, somewhere must have been praying for me. I was in a better mood today as I worked with mom. Was not feeling chipper this morning and tried to stay in bed. Never works. So I walked Val and then went for my annual physical. My doctor and his wife cared for his own father for a while. After his wife could bear caregiving no longer, his sister took her father in. She swore she would never put him in a nursing home. This lasted a mere six weeks. As my physician knows what I am going through, he said that caregiving will probably rob me of years of life. I am more than prepared for that eventuality. I certainly don’t want to live as long as my mother has, unless I could be completely independent.

Caregiving is so difficult—in case you do not get the picture by now. Nancy’s job is even worse, since her husband can no longer communicate with her, except by grunting or shouting. He can’t even point as his arms are atrophying and his hands are in fists. So I offer each day’s difficulties for her and Eric. It’s the least and perhaps also the most I can do right now, besides being a phone call away.

Prepared a quiche dough à la Julia Child, as I used to years ago. Decided to make a shrimp quiche. The dough was perfect and so was the finished product. It browned beautifully. Was not enamored of the supermarket gruyère that I used. Other than that, it was so much fun to prepare and eat. Mom enjoyed it, too. Made a spring green salad with my special vinaigrette. Am ready to take the afternoon off, unless some editing work comes in.

I love to cook. Hence, my wonderful stove. But I always give pause before I start. I must prepare like a surgeon, because mom invariably calls me into the bathroom, necessitating my scrubbing for minutes before I return to the kitchen. She always seems to know when I am cooking. As I said, I love cooking, and mom knows how to put a crimp in my style. She always did. Did I tell you about the time I had called her from my little cottage in Princeton. I had rented a small apartment from Esther, a wonderful Quaker woman. She lived amid a mass of flowering trees. One day, I was determined to sit on the deck, take in the beauty, and relax. But that ended. Mom called. I told her my plan, and the conversation went like this:

It’s such a gorgeous day. I am going to sit on the hammock and do absolutely nothing but enjoy the sky.

You should wash your windows.

I will do no such thing! 

Of course, after I hung up, I washed the windows. So I called her back.

Well, I washed the windows.

Why would you do that on a day like this? You should relax. 

Life with my mother has always been more than frustrating. Always! And now, I have reached the pinnacle.