Monday, February 29, 2016

It’s that time of year again: Mom begins to slide incrementally further down. It’s too and windy cold for walks and mom strength is at an all-time low. Today, her CNA from hospice mentioned giving her oxygen and bringing in a hospital bed. Seems a little premature. Am hoping the spring and walking the neighborhood will revive her, but she is 99 years old. Mom is wearing down.

And naturally, I am remorseful. I scolded her this morning for calling me incessantly. She fugued all morning about it:

“Did I wake you, Rob? Do I call you, Rob? I don’t call you, do I?” (and on and on and on)

“No, mom. You called me every five minutes.”

But tonight, all is quiet, disturbingly so. Mom is asleep in the next room. Val is asleep in my office next to me. And earlier, I was practicing embroidering letters onto her clothing for her trip to respite next weekend. Wasn’t having much luck, but fortunately, I will be taking a class on Wednesday to master the finer points of the Bernina. My last sewing machine was a Kenmore. It went forward, backward, and zigzag, which was as much as I needed back then. The Bernina, Lord help me, requires reading a manual. I have been examining this manual, but it’s not as illustrative as it might be. And the YouTube videos are not very helpful at all. They were designed to meet the needs of a worldwide market and are done entirely without dialogue.

Respite, as it turns out, might be up in the air, and labeling mom’s clothing might be moot. If mom doesn’t rally, I won’t be packing her off anywhere. Right now, my only concern is seeing to mom’s comfort. She is so tired, one might think she had run a marathon. Sleeping more, of course, attends aging, at least at mom’s stage of life. Perhaps today’s winds took their toll, even though she wasn’t out in them. Still, they kick up stuff, and living close to mushroom country doesn’t help.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings. The uncertainty is difficult.

Monday, February 22, 2016 

Mom has taken to falling more frequently, a disastrous turn of events that can spell her demise. Several nights ago, she hit her hand on the wheelchair parked nearby. We have since moved it, so that mom will have a clear field. But there is still the carpeted floor, which although carpeted still proved a problem. Mom now has a small sore on her buttocks. A pressure point, I assume, that also bore the brunt of the fall. I administered Manuka honey wound dressing and added a soft patch, hoping that would do the job. But yesterday, mom complained of pain. She also seemed cranky. Fortunately, I was able to call hospice and seek advice from our very capable nurse.

Within 15 minutes, L arrived at our home and administered to mom. She placed a derma patch on mom to keep the sore protected and dry until we could examine it again today. I think the patch will serve its purpose and allow the wound to heal quickly.

Well, “it’s always something,” especially when dealing with the very old. But we keep finding solutions. Still, I was following the story of Joey Feek, a young country singer who has a heart for the Lord. Joey is beautiful, has a lovely voice, a very happy marriage (she sings with her husband, a guitarist), a delightful 2-year-old child, a fabulous farm, and is dying of cancer. Joey’s mom sang with her in one concert, a song about supper and going home. I cannot imagine how her mom was able to sing without crying. But she managed. One of Joey’s songs was nominated for a Grammy, and she was able to celebrate that piece of happy news with her husband.

Fact is, we are all meted out different dishes. One may wonder why, but there are no answers here on earth. Whether we will ever have the answers is beyond my ken. I doubt the answers will matter. But mom is 99 and hanging on. Joey Feek is being given more and more morphine as the days and her illness progress. The one thing I could not tolerate is having my mom in pain. Fortunately, we are far from having to administer morphine and may never have to administer it. But even small amounts of pain are intolerable. Joey has her husband Cory who will help keep her comfortable. Mom has Rob and me. It’s still a boatload of work.

Thursday, January 7, 2016 

I work out of my home. My office is next to my mother’s room, the erstwhile dining room. The only remaining vestige of a dining room is the chandelier, now hoisted as high up as possible, and some oil paintings. Mom sits in there most of the day on her rocking chair, watching television. Sometimes she sings—the same songs over and over and over again, even while watching the game shows. She knows only the first lines and usually hums the rest. I have tried printing out the correct lyrics in large print, but she ignores them and merely laughs and offers her usual response, “Oh yeah.”

Someone once cheerily suggested that I enjoy this time together with mom and sing along to experience the joy of it all and deepen our relationship. As mom’s musically active times vary through the day and night and often coincide with my work time, singing along is rarely an option. And I, for one, am loathe to sing along in the middle of the night when what I seek instead is a decent night’s sleep. I sometimes play the piano for mom, who talks through it. And I play CDs, but mom neither listens nor enjoys them, but sings her own songs. She is truly a woman who sings and dances to her own tune.

For the nonce, I have my CD player turned up so that I can better hear Wolfgang Holzmair sing Beethoven folk songs and nothing else. Sanity dictates such measures.

Thursday, January 7, 2016 

I work out of my home. My office is next to my mother’s room, the erstwhile dining room. The only remaining vestige of a dining room is the chandelier, now hoisted as high up as possible, and some oil paintings. Mom sits in there most of the day on her rocking chair, watching television. Sometimes she sings—the same songs over and over and over again, even while watching the game shows. She knows only the first lines and usually hums the rest. I have tried printing out the correct lyrics in large print, but she ignores them and merely laughs and offers her usual response, “Oh yeah.”

Someone once cheerily suggested that I enjoy this time together with mom and sing along to experience the joy of it all and deepen our relationship. As mom’s musically active times vary through the day and night and often coincide with my work time, singing along is rarely an option. And I, for one, am loathe to sing along in the middle of the night when what I seek instead is a decent night’s sleep. I sometimes play the piano for mom, who talks through it. And I play CDs, but mom neither listens nor enjoys them, but sings her own songs. She is truly a woman who sings and dances to her own tune.

For the nonce, I have my CD player turned up so that I can better hear Wolfgang Holzmair sing Beethoven folk songs and nothing else. Sanity dictates s

November 14, 2015

Tonight, the nursing home chaplain came over to talk with mom. While he was here, he asked mom if she knew whether she was going to heaven. It went something like this:

Do you know if you’re going to heaven?

Oh no, said mom, I watch what I eat.

Enough said!

November 12, 2015 

Every day, we go through the litany of questions. The same ones over and over and over again. Mom will often ask where I work, if I have to work, when I have to go to work, whether Rob works, where he works, and on and on and on. So I have decided that little information will work as well as complete information.

Sandy, where do you work?

I work over there, mom.

Oh, that’s good.

When do you have to go in?

Later, mom.

Oh, good. Be careful. 

Mom wouldn’t remember what I told her no matter how often I told her. But I have found that any answer suffices. Specifics are no longer necessary. So “over there,” “here,” “later,” “today,” or “tomorrow” are as good as any answer. I think all mom wants are answers, tangential or otherwise, which suffice as an interaction or an acknowledgement.

Mom never listened for answers even when she was relatively cognitively intact. When I was in high school, I recall a woman asking why my mother asks questions yet never waits for the answer; she would instead ask yet another question. This woman’s observation served as a revelation for me. I had been so used to my mother’s ways. For the first time, I realized my mother never discussed anything with anyone. Asking questions was her way of participating in a conversation that would never become a discussion. She worked with a set of questions then that serve her even now. I later determined that she has been nearly deaf since childhood. Listening was too much of an effort then. Today, she doesn’t even bother, being locked in her own ever-shrinking world.

Where does your brother work, Rob?

No, he’s retired.

He’s a leader, isn’t he?

No, he’s 78 years…

How old are you, Rob?

I am…

Do you have the TV on, Rob?

So since mom cannot remember anything I say, I say less, but I do answer. To do otherwise would be cruel. I acknowledge her question, her presence by my words, any words. The answer never mattered anyhow. And it matters far less now.

November 6, 2015 

Sometimes mom sings at night. So at midnight one evening, I explored her purpose.

Why are you singing?

Everybody’s singing, she replied.

To that I had no answer. No quick retort, no admonition. If everyone was singing, why shouldn’t she join them!

Her singing used to bother me. Now I wonder who’s missing out on the fun. Besides, who am I to ask an elderly woman with no social outlets—or at least none that she remembers—and no personal freedom—there are times she cannot even find the bathroom without help—to stop singing.

So, sing on, mother. Sing your heart out. Surely some day I will miss hearing those Neapolitan tunes sung as only she can.

October 8, 2015 

I dropped mom off at a nearby nursing home just 5 days ago. We parted tearfully. Mom didn’t understand why I was leaving her there. The home looked clean enough, but the floor she was on was clearly reserved for the demented of varying ages and conditions. Apart from mom’s woeful lack of memory, she is otherwise fine. Her instincts remain the same. She frets about cleaning dishes and putting things away and turning off lights. She demands that shutters be closed and curtains be drawn and doors be locked. She scolds when I go onto the porch without shoes or socks. She urges me to wear sweaters on the warmest days. (Some things never change. I was made to carry sweaters in mid-summer throughout my childhood and teen years!) And she asks where I bought articles of clothing I wear and how much I paid for them. The more expensive in her book, the better. She used to brag about the value of the Waterford crystal she invested in ages ago: 24 place settings—8 for herself, 8 for Margie, and 8 for me. Unfortunately, my nieces want no part of it. Too formal.

But there was mom—among the truly demented. I slammed things around the room, while the on-duty nurse looked. I admitted that I was upset about leaving mom. The woman merely replied, “I can see that.” Later, Lori, the nurse from the hospice facility, came in to assist. Lori made some good suggestions about lowering the bed so that mom could get in or out without incident. I began to feel more comfortable. It was good to have someone there with me who knew what mom needed. An assistant at the home had me fill out an inventory form, after which, I tearfully drove home.

I spent the next four days driving around Lancaster with my friends from college. The three of us had a wonderful time. We did everything from twist pretzels to eating ice cream at a creamery and visiting a chocolate factory. On the last day, we took the steam engine in Strasburg for a lovely ride through the countryside. Each night, we retreated to my back porch, where we drank wine and supped on salads and organic veggies and grilled whatever. It was a wonderful reunion—our fourth in as many years. I had been concerned about having enough room and being able to do enough with them. But this area is rife with things to do and see. I need not have worried, especially after my friend Nita had laid out our routes and carefully marked every spot of interest on a map. It will take some doing to exhaust the potential of Lancaster and Berks.

On Thursday evening, I drove over to the home to fetch mom. One of the aids said that she and mom became fast friends. When she discovered that mom is Italian, she asked, “How do you make your sauce?” I had a good laugh over that one. Recipes for sauce are at the heart of every Italian home. How much better to break the ice than to discuss cooking with an Italian woman. Mom had been in excellent hands.

Back at home, mom had absolutely no recollection of ever having been away. No memory of the facility at all or anyone in it. She will be returning again in a week for 11 days. All of her friends from hospice will visit and make sure she is well taken care of, but mom won’t remember a thing. Maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.

August 20, 2015 

Today was as special as it was exhausting for mom and me. My two nieces descended with the whole lot: 6 great-grandchildren to entertain mom. Five boys (including a set of triplets) and one lovely young lady. I made chocolate French toast, cranberry pecan French toast, and grilled maple apple sausage. I even had organic chocolate milk on hand and, of course, a bowl of freshly cut fruit. We cut mint from the garden and made mint tea. And the boys buried medals in the yard and gave me the chance to minister to a consequent mosquito bite.

I had never thought of my place as kid-friendly, but indeed it was. The children joyously climbed the horse chestnut tree, much to my delight. I had sworn to remove that tree and replace it with a smaller flowering tree. This spring, the arborists objected and asked me to give it another year. I had trouble parting with it so soon anyhow. It is still lovely and has such beautiful red spiked flowers in the spring. I told my arborists that I could not be there when they cut it down, and fortunately I spared myself that horror. How it lifted my heart to see these beautiful children climbing my tree. Their dad was on hand to help them and then there later to help them bury the objects in the yard. What a delightful day!

The hordes ran through the house as though they had lived in it all their lives. They went upstairs, downstairs, all the rooms. Even asked about playing in the basement, but my basement isn’t designed for play. Everything down there is neatly stored, but it is for storage. I almost regretted not having another play place for the children. Almost. Storage is at a premium here.

They are gone now. Mom is asleep on the porch, where she has been all day and away from those dreadful TV game shows. I am looking forward to the next visit and am planning to take my nieces and their children to Koziar’s Christmas Village. What a lovely trip that will be. It will be cold for sure out there in the country, but we will all warm up with hot cocoa and merriment.

If I could change one thing, I would ask that my departed sister-in-law join us. But then, maybe she was here today and maybe she will be with us again at Christmastime. One can hope and one can pray that her spirit lingers to watch over her children and watch her grandchildren grow.