Friday, September 19, 2014

This was Lucy’s last day on earth with me and Val, Rob, and mom. “The white dog” is gone. On Monday, we had company: two long-time friends whom I had not seen in a while. Upon seeing Lucy, Anne commented that I should not be cruel, but put her down. I saw pain in Lucy’s eyes for the first time. It broke my heart. But I wanted so much for Lucy to die in my arms and not on a vet’s cold examination room table.

I had my wish, perhaps sooner than I had hoped. This morning, we started out as usual, but a little later, as I was ill. Aunt Betty called at 7:30 instead of 7:00. I had already fed the kids and decided to give Lucy an extra dollop of yogurt. Glad I did. I peeled off her diaper. Betty had already attached her lead, and off we went.

She did her business on various lawns, and I did my usual cleanup with my Gore-Tex lined shoes—a must on wet lawns. Uncle Dick was not at home, so we didn’t stop for our usual bit of cookie. Instead, we made our way around the corner, where we first saw Sam (Samantha), a cute little black puppy. At first both dogs were quiet, but Val started barking and jumping and Lucy joined in. A minute later, after Sam and her dad walked away, Lucy faltered and fell, tongue hanging, head twisting. I held her, I held onto her for dear life, righted her head, and tried to restore her tongue in her mouth, but I knew she was gone. Her heart was still beating—beating down. Her eyes were fixed. Betty kept yelling at me to get the car, but I wouldn’t let go of Lucy. I didn’t want to leave her. The minute I did, she left, too. I ran crying to get the car. My own chest was beating. Still sobbing, I aroused Rob. Told him that Lucy was dead or dying. He rose with a start. We drove back together for her little body.

Such a gathering: Sam and her dad had come back. Lois was there with Kirk and the woman who walks Yuki was there, too. All friends come to say good-bye and express their sorrow.

Rob loaded Lucy’s little body into the car onto her LL Bean dog bed, still embroidered with her original name, Candy. The same dog bed and the same car, mind you, that I picked her up in 14 years ago. We were living in Pottstown then. I had been ill with the flu and the previous owner insisted that I pick her up as soon as possible. A horrible woman! I drove the 3.5 hours (each way) for my first glimpse of a scruffy while poodle with stuff in her eyes. She ran to me at the front door, where I begged the owner’s children not to give her any treats. I had been warned that she becomes car sick. The children ignored me. Little devils. I gave Lucy the half tablet of Dramamine and off we went, while the former owner bade us, “Good riddance!”

As I neared Pottstown, I called Rob, who met me with Lorenzo, our wonder dog, on the Sunnybrook Ballroom lot, neutral territory. Lorenzo was not terribly excited. I suspect he knew she would be a hellion. For 3 months, I was unable to sleep. Lucy peed through the night, and I cleaned with the Spot Bot. At one point, Rob insisted that I get rid of her. She was a difficult dog, and she ran after foxes, a dangerous thing. We didn’t have a fence then, and I was used to Lorenzo’s excellent behavior. But I kept her, and she was worth it. She had seal-like eyes. I sometimes called her my Harp Seal. Lucy was delicate and beautiful, and now she is with her step-brother, Lorenzo. I always recall a little girl back in the early 70s, when I lived in Princeton. She would say that she was “fenamin and beautiful.” I said the same of Lucy: she was truly fenamin and beautiful.

Mom has been talking about Lucy all day. She asked several times how she died. Each time I explained that it was probably a heart attack. And she told me not to cry. Although I told mom about her sister’s death on Monday, she has not said a word about it since. Rose had become an abstract figure. Lucy was concrete. She saw Lucy every day and loved “The White Dog.” She’s so quiet. I like The White Dog, mom would say. We will all miss Lucy. Our hearts are broken.

 

Later—

Valentino is demonstrating what it is to be hangdog. He spent most of the day moving from the couch, head on his pillow, to the window seat. When Lucy was with us–last night seems like an age ago–Val would refuse to go out for his evening potty break unless she went with him. He would wait by the opened door, unmoving. I would have to herd Lucy out, then Val would follow. Tonight, he would go solo. And so he did. I waited for him dutifully. Didn’t want him to linger out there by the door alone. It was Lucy who used to scratch the door to come in. Val just waited quietly. It was Lucy who would bark if I took too long to let her in. Val would wait quietly. But of course, he wasn’t quiet when it came to play time. I would have to ward him off Lucy many, many times. He was hard on her—knocking her over, biting her hind legs, chewing on her back. But it was mostly for play. Although, there were times she had had enough, and she let him know it. Still, I couldn’t merely watch while he did his crazy act on her. There were times I intervened. And so I did.

The little boy is now bereft, as are Rob and me. Mom’s attentions have been turned to her new shoes, however. I bought her a new pair of slippers. She asks me if they fit. I tell her over and over that she is the only one who can determine that. I tell her that if they don’t hurt, it’s a good start.

I have spent a wad on two pairs of shoes. One pair is simply too tight. They are exactly the same kind she wore for years, but the old ones were broken in. The second pair are sandals of a type she is not used to with broad Velcro leather straps. She claims they are heavy. And they are clunkier than usual, but also of a very high quality. Both pairs of shoes are Made in America. My goal. However, I also bought her a pair of slippers, a half size larger. They also have Velcro closures and sturdy soles. These are not made in the USA, unfortunately, but at least they were inexpensive. Mom kept calling me in to see if the shoes fit. She has grown quite used to the clunky sandals. At least she will be able to wear those with socks through the winter.

As for the events of the day, tomorrow we will learn if mom remembers Lucy’s passing or if we will need to tell her for the first time, again and again.

My dear, sweet Lucia, my little Harp seal with the big beautiful dark eyes, we miss you terribly. I would give anything to see you jump again and bark at one of those yippy little rat-sized dogs that come wimping by. (Lucy despised little yippy dogs. They must have reminded her too much of the Yorkie she was initially raised with and who received all the attention and affection.) Requiescat in pace, my little sweetheart.

 

Sunday, September 14, 2014 

No, not mom. Her younger sister Rose died in a nursing home at the age of 92. I spent the morning on the phone with various cousins, making plans for a memorial service and a get-together. Later I told mom. She cried for about 30 seconds—if that long. Then resumed watching television. I suppose there are advantages to having no memory at all. Loss does not take hold of you. Mourning does not occur. Even though mom lives with continued loss—loss of independence, loss of her home, her ability to walk well, and her ability to cook and care for herself—she is only momentarily aware of these things as she recalls them sporadically. Whether she is aware of loss on a subconscious level, I cannot say. Surely there must be times a memory is triggered that makes her mindful of her losses. I do not know. But she has not mentioned Rose again today. She does not appear to be sad. I cannot say.

I recall bringing Communion to a woman in a nursing home. She had at one time been well dressed and immaculate. When I saw her, she was disheveled and bewildered and living in the Alzheimer’s wing. During earlier visits, she was able to pray The Lord’s Prayer, but could say nothing else. In subsequent visits, she would only cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, while I said the prayer. I wondered whether she was crying for her loss or because the prayer had brought up an emotional response. I do not know.

 

 

Saturday, September 13, 2014

There is nothing more disturbing than seeing your mother cry and throw a tantrum because she doesn’t want to be showered, and then moments later hear her deny that she cried.

 

September 11, 2014

I awoke at around 5:00 am and prayed for the safety of this nation. Barb rescued me early and we drove out to Panera’s for breakfast. Was good to get away.

Later, I gave mom her new shoes. She wore the new sandals briefly yesterday. No problem. The more enclosed pair was a little troublesome. Might have to bring them back for more stretching. Today, everything hurt. She wanted, no demanded, her old shoes back. I told her they were gone, and indeed they are. I threw them away today and the garbage men did the rest. They were old and uneven. Need replacement a long time ago. I was mildly embarrassed when the chiropractor saw the bottoms of her shoes and recommended replacing them. So while I assured mom that new shoes were the doctor’s order of the day, she insisted that the doctor told her to wear her old shoes. Another bad day at Black Rock. Mom is like an Alabama tick: she won’t let go and demands her old shoes time and again. Not possible. She’ll have to live without them!

 

 

Sunday, September 7, 2014

When mom got into the kitchen this morning, she started her usual banter about “The Cat.”

Look at that. That cat is still there. I don’t know how it gets up there. 

I had finally had it. So I asked her to walk over to the sink. Of course, closer to the source, it was clear—or should have been—that there is no cat.

Oh where did it go?

Well, those two bolts and the fan motor look like a cat to you. But there is no cat up there, mom.

Oh.

No cat could live that long up there.

Oh, I see (resignedly, or so I thought). But look at that cat. I don’t know how it got up there. Rob, that’s not a cat up there? (She won’t take my word for it anymore.) 

Oh well, like Rose, the cat will always be perched on the ceiling fan out on the porch—no matter the weather. He is there night and day, day and night—at least to mom’s mind. He never goes for a walk and never eats. He’s a magic cat. But at least he has mom’s attention and Rose is gone for the nonce.

 

Saturday, September 6, 2014 

Bad Day at Black Rock! Hot out there. And the mosquitoes and gnats are making a feast of me. I have type O blood, the kind that attracts the hungriest among them. Betty and I took the dogs on a short walk then made a beeline (mosquito-line?) onto the back porch.

Apart from the heat and the mosquitoes, there was the shadow of Aunt Rose! Mom awoke and called for her sister: Why doesn’t Rose ever come into my room to see me? Well, I decided that today she should speak with her sister. Of course, the memory of the can of worms such a phone call opened last time had dissipated.

I made the call. You couldn’t make out much of the babble because Rose cried and talked while she cried and babbled some more. Then in the clearest voice she asked me where her money and jewelry are! Holy Somolians! Ann, mom and Rose’s former caregiver (God bless her), donated $5.00 worth of pennies so that mom and Rose could play BINGO for money. Rose still talks about how we are enjoying “her” money, and now, her jewelry. If you count poppit beads and the gaudy necklaces you get at Mardi Gras or they used to get at casinos in Atlantic City, Rose did not have much in the way of jewelry. In fact, one of my cousins is holding her only two pieces: a ring to be given to another cousin and Rose’s dime-store wristwatch.

At any rate, mom spoke with Rose. Promised her she would visit. That was a few hours ago. Mom is still in the kitchen, fugue-ing about the entire thing. 

Give me Pat’s phone number. I’ll call her and she can take me to see my sister Rose.

No, mom. Pat lives 2.5 hours away in north Jersey. And Rose is 2.5 hours away. in another part of New Jersey. I said I will take you there in 2 weeks when the weather cools down.

Let me call Pat.

No, mom. I will take you myself.

Rob, get me Pat’s telephone number.

No, Sandy will take you there. 

After an hour of this, I called my cousin Lois and told her what was going on. We arranged for her to tell mom that she would take her to see Aunt Rose.

 

Two minutes later:

Let me call Pat.

No, mom. I will take you myself.

Rob, get me Pat’s telephone number.

No, Sandy will take you there.

I want to talk to her doctor and see if he can move her closer to me.

Mom, that’s not possible. She’s on Medicaid. She cannot be moved.

I don’t understand why she can’t be moved. Let me talk to her doctor.

Mom, Aunt Rose can’t walk.

They can help people to walk again. I don’t understand why she can’t walk. Bring her here. I’ll take care of her.

Mom, you can’t take care of yourself. 

 

Mom is calling me from the kitchen even as I write. It’s going to be a tough day. She’s driving me nuts!

 

Take me to see Rose today.

Not today. It’s too hot.

Is she OK?

Yes, you spoke to her just a few moments ago.

No I didn’t.

Yes, you did.

Well, can we see her today?

No, it’s too hot.

What about tomorrow? Lois said tomorrow.

No she didn’t! She said next week.

Well, then tomorrow?

No. Next week. It’s too hot right now.

Can’t we move her closer to us?

No, she’s on Medicaid in New Jersey. She cannot be moved.

Why can’t we move her closer? I don’t understand. Let me call the doctor.

You cannot call the doctor. We will see her in a week.

Why can’t we go today?

It’s too hot.

Then we can go tomorrow?

No. It will still be too hot.

Let me talk to the doctor…

 

Oh, how I am hoping she will forget all of this very soon. Now, she’s in the kitchen directing Rob to kill bugs. I don’t like to kill anything in my house. She might be after a few fruit flies this time. Hard to catch them. Poor little things. Their lives are short enough! Well, at least it has distracted her from her moanings about her sister Rose!

Hmm. Turns out there were no bugs in the kitchen. I had some potatoes on the kitchen counter and apparently some of the potato dust appeared to be moving. Probably no less or no more than the cat on the ceiling fan or the dog’s tail at the back gate. Mom is at least one case where having cataract surgery did little to abate her dementia.

As Rob said, some days with mom are like a water torture—steady, constant, never-ending, but instead of drop by drop, it’s word by word!

P.S. At the end of the evening, mom asked where Rose was. I told her she went shopping and would return soon. Seemed to placate her for the night. Won’t be mentioning or calling Rose any time soon! Here’s hoping tomorrow will be a Rose-less day!

 

 

September 1, 2014

We are on our way to Cheryl’s house in Pottstown. Mom is in the living room, waiting to be walked to the car. She spent the morning asking for the usual things: tissue, juice, and for me to comb her hair. Yes, I washed her hair again this morning. She hates having her hair washed. But why not today? Valentino just got groomed. The whole family will be spic and span, with the exception of Lucia, who will be groomed on Wednesday.

And, yes, mom asked for her fuzzy jacket (a lightweight Polartec). It’s August and it’s 86 degrees in the shade, mind you. The humidity is horrible and the bugs are biting. And, yes, mom asked me if I had my coat, too. No, I am not carrying my coat. It’s hot out there. Shades of my youth. I had to carry a coat or a sweater for half my life (OK, for one-third of my life) nearly everywhere I went. I would rather freeze than carry another item. I don’t even carry a purse any more. I carried stuff, lots of stuff, while I was living at home. I’m an adult now, having lived on my own lo these many years. And I don’t want to carry anything! Got it!

Well, today is one of those days. The mold count is high. The mosquitoes have had their lunch break on me yet again. (I swear the government is out to see if they can cut down on the population by reintroducing yellow fever and malaria!) But I remember mosquitoes being far worse at the outdoor theater. Those days were wild. The pics didn’t work against the mosquitoes, and their offspring are still out to show that our meager attempts at keeping them at bay remain useless.

 

 

Friday, August 29, 2014

Awoke a little after 5:00. Mom makes quite a racket when she goes to the bathroom. Thumps cane loudly, slams doors shut, slams windows shut. Ah the symphony that is my mother. Later, she will add her other instrument: the spoons!

I decided to run some errands after she went back to bed: Farmer’s Market, where I had tea with RB and shopped for cheese, milk, and organic veggies; PetSmart for dog food; the bank; and the post office. I am back home and ready to sit down and begin working on an edit for a foreign client.

Mom is in the kitchen clanking away at her cereal. She asked about her husband again.

What did he die of?

Heart disease.

Oh.

Do you know who my father was?

I forget.

Do you remember who your husband was?

I forget.

I showed mom a photo of dad and herself.

Who’s this?

My husband.

Well, he was also my father.

I know.

Pointing to her, I asked, Who is this?”

His wife.

Mom, that’s you.

I know. That’s me. 

The mind is a very strange thing. We can compartmentalize things to such a degree that it makes very little sense in the real world. Or is what we are experiencing the real world, indeed?

And now, another mind might be laying to rest. Nancy’s husband is unresponsive. Very low blood pressure and was taken to the ER from Kessler early this morning. Nancy and Eric were slated to return home on Tuesday. All bets might be off at this point for his returning as soon. Here was a brilliant and successful man, only in his late 60s. He was an avid tennis player and in otherwise excellent shape, still contributing to society. And now…

And then there’s my mother. Some of life makes very little sense. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy that my mother is still alive, but very little of who she was survived with her physical body.

 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

 

This morning, I am Rose, maybe.

Where’s Sandy?

I don’t know. (I am Sandy, but I’m tired and not feeling playful. I woke up exasperated!)

Are you Rose?

No, who am I?

I don’t know. Are you Rose?

No.

Are you Sandy?

Do you think I am?

I don’t know.

 Not an auspicious start of the day.

I showered mom and filled her cereal bowl. She is now in the kitchen beating the hell out of the Cheerios. It’s a wonder my cereal bowls aren’t all chipped by now! This is one of those days for me. Not a good one. I need to go out onto the porch and escape whatever madness awaits me.