Saturday, October 18, 2014 

Friday was tough. Second day at the Farmer’s Market wine shop and word of and editing job came in from a client via email. It won’t be in for another week, thank goodness. At the end of the day, I was mighty tired, but had to drive to Pottstown to see EW, my patient’s son, for dinner. We talked about organist Virgil Fox and his amazing virtuosity. We talked about the stock market, in which I am no longer a participant, having lost everything I ever invested. The market is neither for the faint of heart nor those without plenty to spare (and thus, plenty to lose). I was exhausted when I returned home and promptly went to bed.

Two-thirty in the morning: click (a light switch), bang (uh oh). I ran downstairs to see mom leaning against the wall in her bedroom.

She was in here.

Who was in here, mom?

She was here. And I asked her to get into the bed with me.

No one was in here, mom.

You don’t understand. I asked her… And she was in here.

No one was here.

My shoulder hurts.

Let me check your shoulder.

Leave me alone. You don’t understand. She was standing there and she was here.

You’ll be OK, mom. It was just a dream. 

Of course, one can never be sure. Dream, vision, visitation? Who’s to say? I know only one thing for sure: I didn’t fall back to sleep again. Mom did, almost immediately. She fell asleep on her right shoulder, the one she complained about. So I wasn’t too worried. Today, she had no pain and also no recollection of the morning. 

Back to the Farmer’s Market for the third day. Lots of new things to learn at the wine shop: the order of wines from dry to sweet, the 6 s’s (see, swirl, smell, sip, swallow, and savor—I would add swish in there after sip), the computer, filling the bins, serving samples, locating the wines, making recommendations… All this on a few hours of sleep. Deb and Sue made it all bearable, as did the many visits from friends and neighbors.

I missed Valentino and worried about him a little, but a call home to Rob and I was assured all was well. Mom was doing her word search puzzles. A call to Nancy after work brought more disturbing news. Eric is hanging on by a thread in a medical system unwilling to provide more care for him. The social workers want him out of the hospital, but seizures and strokes keep him there longer. I see little hope, but then… Who am I to say? We are both grateful we were never given a glimpse of the future. It would have been far too much to bear.

I am going to take advantage of the moment: Valentino is outside, and I need to finish vacuuming!

Friday, October 17, 2014

Dear Readers, you might recall “the cat on the fan.” For months now, mom has been seeing the cat on the fan. There was no dissuading her. I tried to show her how the bolts and the motor on the fan were just that: bolts and a motor. But she insisted. Everyday, she would remark with wonder how the cat could stay up there so long. That cat is still there! Through cold and heat, snow and rain, day and night, month after month, it was a cat. But hours ago, the cat became a dog. And now, it’s a boy!

Look at that boy on the fan!

Mom, how can a boy live on a fan?

I don’t know. But he’s always up there.

What happened to the cat?

What cat?

You used to see a cat up there!

I never saw a cat up there! It’s a boy. Can’t you see him?

There are some things I am not privy to, mom. Only you can see him. 

Who am I to argue further! Maybe she does see a boy on the fan. He might have chased the cat away!

I decided, however, to pursue the dog part of her vision. Maybe Lucy had come back to visit.

Mom, what color was the dog?

What dog? I never saw any dog?

You told Rob you saw a dog?

No. I never say any dog.

Rob overheard this exchange and concluded that mom—like those in the White House—didn’t even know about Benghazi until she read about it in the newspapers!

Good night little cat, or little dog, or little boy on the fan.

Thursday, October 16, 2014 

Many years ago, when the faithful and brilliant Lorenzo was my companion and spirit guide, our beautiful home in NJ was besieged with cluster flies—in the kitchen no less. Horrid things. I set out to kill them with anything I could find: newspapers, magazines, you name it. I recalled having seen this phenomenon up in a cabin in Hunter Mountain one winter. I called an exterminator, who assured me they would be gone in two weeks. There was no known reason for this “convention,” but it happens. Lorenzo tried to stop me from killing the flies one day. He jumped up, put his paws on my arms, and looked at me pleadingly. I was beaten. Lorenzo and the flies were in collusion. One day, I recall stealthily picking up a newspaper. I was sure to make no noise. Not a sound. I would whack the first fly that moved. I was poised—ready, aim… But the thunder of paws was swiftly followed by a jump at my arm and an imploring look, “Don’t kill the flies!” Lorenzo to the rescue. I put down the newspaper. I was beaten. Who were these flies? Who was Lorenzo for that matter?

Ever since that experience, I am given to second thoughts about killing any insect. This is not to say that I have given up my practice entirely, but I give pause. I reflect. And the instinct is diminishing more and more as time goes by.

Mom, however, is a natural born killer. She and my brother—who never grew out of the practice—kill anything that flies or crawls with nary a thought to their brief life spans or their purpose on earth. Most of the time, Rob will carry a creature outside. Recently, I asked him to remove a rather large spider whose suction cup feet looked like army boots on skinny legs. Unfortunately, the spider did not cooperate and did not survive the ordeal. Rob lost sleep that night. I, still somewhat unrepentant, did not. But I am moving closer and closer to respecting the sanctity of all life. (But don’t try me with a venomous snake or other lethal creatures. I am not quite that evolved.)

Mom, on the other hand, will not rest until you, “Kill it! Kill it! Here, take this newspaper!” And so it goes. Yesterday, there was a stinkbug in my car. I had taken mom to the podiatrist. As it turned out, it was pouring rain when we left. Just as mom got into the car, so did a stinkbug. The cry went up:

Wait a minute! There’s a bug. Kill it! Kill it!

No mom, don’t! It’s a stinkbug. Don’t you dare kill it!

I flicked it out with a tissue. There was no way I was going to allow her to kill a stinkbug in my car and raise up that acrid stench. I have no love for stinkbugs, and I don’t want their scent to draw others to my lovely Greta Carbo, my car of 14 years! My chivalry this time was not driven by love or respect for the bug, but by love and respect for Greta.

Many a time, the cry has gone up: Rob, kill it. There it goes! Here’s a tissue. Get it! Get it! Why mom implores Rob to kill a bug is beyond me. He is far less likely to kill one than I am. But she is relentless. This “instinct” is something that continues to distinguish my mother. There is little of her left since her memory disappeared nearly entirely. But this is one part of her that remains—and regrettably so—as I strive to find a kinder place in this besieged world of ours.

Monday, October 13, 2014

 

Yesterday and today were true trials. And I must admit, I failed both days. Mom has the runs, but no knowledge of this problem. I am showering her several times a day, and each time, she emerges with no understanding of why she required multiple showers. I clean the bathroom and do laundry endlessly. My water bill will probably be the highest in the neighborhood, the Commonwealth maybe. Between showering mom, washing her clothing and bedding, washing the bathroom and every fixture, door knob, faucet, and piece of woodwork in the house. I am the bane of eco-nuts everywhere, using more water and product than any of their stingy souls would countenance. The house reeks of Lysol (I used the concentrate). I also use a prodigious amount of paper towels, too. I have given up on using washcloths. I now limit myself to the disposable kind, sparing my washing machine and dryer in the process. Immodium, god of many names, do your stuff.

Mom is in the bathroom now. I have lost count as to how many trips she made today. I took all the paper out of the room, including paper towels. (She is not averse to using them in a pinch and stuffing the toilet.) I told her to stay there for 5 minutes. Just 5 minutes. OK, she says. I am using up gloves and Depends faster than it takes the guys in a pit stop change a tire. I go for brief walks just to clear my head and my nostrils and my lungs.

This morning, I led two tours through the farmhouse in Virginville—second oldest working farm in the county. The last member of the family, a distant cousin, lived there until 2005. No plumbing, little heat. By the time he died, Jacob was quite disabled and unable to take care of himself. Evidence of his incontinence was everywhere. Vestiges of it still emerge pungently when you bring in buckets of hot water to clean the furniture. A sad ending to any life, indeed. In mother’s case, it is even more poignant, because cleanliness was important to her. That side of her character died an untimely death.

You might well ask about the role my organic specialties might have played in this purging. Pumpkin soup, however, should have had an ameliorative effect. It did not. This morning, I allowed only toast (flourless Ezekiel bread) and black tea. This afternoon, I gave mom organic macaroni and cheese (Amy’s brand), and then I made my own with roasted butternut squash. I thought the mac and cheese would help a bit. Thus far, it did not.

Yesterday morning, mom was speaking gibberish—clue #1 for dehydration. We gave her juice; mom will not drink water. Initially, I suspected the juice was part of the problem, but it should have worked its way out of her system by now. Sleuth work continues.

As mom makes her evening novena of trips to the bathroom, I am at the ready with gloves, wipes, and Depends, plus the shower, if the wipes are insufficient. Don’t complain, dear reader, that this is too graphic for you. Be assured, I have spared you the full picture of the cleanup detail.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Betty and I took Val for his walk. Then I repaired home to make the squash soup with a little onion. I am adding sherry and cream. Can hardly wait. If mom doesn’t want any, I am sure I will find enough room.

Off to take Valentino on our 1.5-mile hike. I think he looks for Lucy while we’re out there. He stops and looks to the right and then the left. Maybe we shouldn’t anthropomorphize our animals, but I would like to think that Val loved Lucy and that he misses her as much as I do.

My friend Mia suggested I put the pineapple light back in mom’s room. Just keep trying, she said. I did, and she was right. Ah, much-needed wisdom from a friend.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Busy morning: Walked Valentino, fed him, prepared mom’s breakfast dish, then dashed off to bring my car in for an oil change and inspection. Stopped off at the bank on the way home, finished a project, washed the fence where I had cut the roses back, took Val on a 1.5-mile hike, then dashed off again—this time to pick up my organic food order at Rodale: more kale, more beets, more onions, loads more potatoes and peppers, winter squash, and apples. I think that’s about it. So before I dashed for a third time to meet Carol and Carol at the local pizzeria (our Thursday night haunt), I did some food prep: cleaned kale, made applesauce, roasted beets, and baked the winter squash. Fourth dash—walked Valentino. Then off to meet Carol and Carol. Had a great night—we were joined by Mark and Martha. Then back home to finish the kale and potato soup and peel and slice the beets. Also sautéed beet greens with onion and garlic. The rest will have to wait till morning.

Before I left to meet Carol and Carol, I fed mom my organic roasted pumpkin soup. Took a while to roast the pumpkin. Pureed it with herbs from the garden, sautéed onions (have to use them up before they go bad) and added a little cream. It went like this:

I’ve never had this before.

It’s delicious, mom. You’ll love it.

I can’t eat it all. It’s too much. Here, you have some.

Mom, you didn’t even taste it. Try it. I roasted the pumpkin myself.

Oh. It’s too hot.

Well, wait a bit.

Here have some.

No, mom. Try it yourself. You’ll love it. I know you will. (Mom took a spoonful.)

It’s good, but it’s too much.

Well, just eat what you can. I am off to meet Carol and Carol. 

And so it went and so it goes. Tomorrow, I will finish the cooking!

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The pineapple light doesn’t work. I found it in my office yesterday morning, the cord neatly wrapped around its base. I figured Rob had put it there. Indeed he had. Mom had protested that she didn’t want the lamp in her room and made him “get rid of it”—so much for my valiant effort to help her overcome fear of the dark. Apparently, lights also spook mom. There’s no telling.

Mom and I have a chiropractic appointment at 2:00 with Dr. B. So when mom got up this morning, I showered and dressed her immediately. No protest this time. I don’t use washcloths anymore; I now use paper towels. They are soft enough when wet and laden with liquid soap, and I don’t have to worry about disinfecting the life out of them.

After her shower, mom brushed her hair, which falls out prodigiously. When I went in to inspect why the water was running full tilt, I found that she was cleaning her brush out in the sink and washing the hair down the drain, possibly accounting for the foul smell I have been getting from the sink. I use drain cleaner and white vinegar often enough, but now I will have to keep my eye on her brush-cleaning tactics. She assured me there were only 2 hairs on the brush. Uh huh. Drain cleaner at the ready.

Well, at least mom is washed, has eaten breakfast, and is ready to go. This windy fall day looms ahead. Who knows what other surprises will be dropped at my feet.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014 

Mom has a new habit. She now pulls herself up from the toilet by holding onto the glass shower doors. The doors can easily come loose from their tracks if a person pulls hard enough. I tried explaining that she can injure herself. I demonstrated how dangerous this was and showed her where to place her hands on the tub.

All I got was a heads down and away. She won’t listen. Never does this. Says only, I never do that. 

What does one do? I imagine the horror of finding mom bleeding in the bathroom, the shower door in pieces, the EMTs coming into the house to see mom seriously injured from broken glass, the hospital social worked questioning me about my treatment of mom.

My bathroom is too small to do away with a shower door. Everything would get wet. And there is no chance that I can train mom. She won’t be corrected. She denies ever having done anything wrong or dangerous. Constant supervision throughout the day and night is as impossible here as it would be in a nursing home. I recall having to handwash the nightgown covered in feces after she stayed the weekend at a local assisted-living facility. The aids made no attempt to clean up the mess. They merely stuck her filthy nightgown in a plastic bag and sent it home to me. Of course, I can only imagine the state of the bathroom and the white towels as mom left them at that facility. I am sure this is why they are no longer eager to have mom come and stay. They increased the price on us and told us it took too long for mom to acclimate—code for Don’t bring her back here!

Nope. Mom is solely our worry now.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Still not recuperated. And I am here alone with mom. Rob is taking a course at a local college on Excel. I need one of those courses, too. I know precious little about creating Excel files, but oh well.

Made mom her breakfast and tried talking with her this morning, but it’s a bit frustrating. First, I turned her bench seat. It’s bentwood and Rob and I turn the seat so she won’t sit on the edge and break it. As usual, I turned the seat before she sat on it.

I don’t need that.

Why not? I don’t want you to sit on the curved edge.

I know how to sit down. Here, let me show you.

And of course, she attempted to sit on the bent edge.

 

Later, I made her breakfast.

Would you like coffee, mom?

Are you having any?

No, I don’t drink coffee. Do you want any?

OK.

Getting her to say she wants something is always a chore.

 

Then I tried to make conversation. Who’s crazy here?

Rob is taking a 2-day course at a local community college.

Oh.

Did you hear me?

Yes, I heard you.

Then where’s Rob.

He’s at the barber shop?

No. He’s taking a course.

I heard you!

No you didn’t. He’s taking a 2-day course at the community college. Did you hear me?

He’s at the barber shop?

No, he’s at the local college.

Oh.

Did you hear me?

Yes

What did I say?

What?

What did I say?

When?

What I said about Rob.

Oh, where is he?

At the local community college

The barber?

No!

AARRGH!!!!!!!!!

I have retreated to my office. Mom is sitting at the kitchen counter. There’s no point in trying to talk with her or be with her. She only repeats the same question until you can’t take it anymore or responds with an Oh to your comment. Hers must be a lonely world, but this has been going on for decades—long before dementia kicked in. I remember a woman in our hometown who asked me why my mother asks questions but doesn’t wait for the answers. It was mom’s way of being present. I do not say communicating, because she was not capable of doing so on any large scale or even one-on-one. Mom still asks the same series of questions and is still incapable of hearing the answers. One might ask why we don’t get her a hearing aid. Don’t even go there! That battle was lost a long time ago. Enough said.