Memories

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Long morning: walked and fed the pups; did some laundry; picked up my buddy Mike, who did his laundry here; drove Mike to market and to Boscov’s and past Hampden Heights; went to the bank; and had my headlamp replaced at the car dealer. All this before noon. Also completed the sorrowful task of cutting back the hydrangeas (Mike helped with the big one), which did not fare well over the bitter temps this winter, and the gorgeous hostas, which got hit hard during the hail storm two days ago. But as one homeowner, who lost his tile roof and a few windows in his home, pointed out: No lives were lost. Family is fine. Pups are fine. Insurance companies, not so good! 

This morning, mom asked a most amusing question: How are you and Rob related?
I laughed.
Oh c’mon. Don’t laugh, said she.
Well, mom, Rob is my husband.
Oh yeah?
And you were at the wedding with Daddy, Johnny, Aunt Margaret, and Uncle Eddie.
Oh yeah? When was that?
Thirty-four years ago.
Gee, San, you remember everything! 

Well, not exactly, but if you compare my memory to someone who has none, I am doing pretty well!

 

 

 

 

Reassurance

Friday, May 23, 2014 

Had to help out at market yesterday. Before I left, I looked longingly at one of my plants—a glorious azalea-like orange flower with a scent that never ends. Short-lived flower, but what a life. I wanted to take a photo to send to my uncle but thought I had time. Off to market. Photos tomorrow. 

The market building has a flat roof. I would swear it was tin. When it rains, it’s quite the experience. But yesterday, we had two hail storms, resulting in cracked windshields, destroyed car bodies, flash floods, downed trees, and damaged plants. I turned my head up to the heavens and said, “My garden! Oh Lord, not my garden.” But of course, my garden was the least of it all. It survived, rosebuds and all. Quite the mess out there, of course, but the flowers will return. I wait a year for the show and to miss it is more than I can bear. How many more years do I have on earth to watch the spring unfolding. Will I have 20 shows, 25 more shows? If I reach my mother’s age in 30 more years, will I even know there is a show? Will I understand what a flower is? Will I ask that the vase of flowers be thrown away—something my mother does regularly. She always thought flowers were dirty and messy. We rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything. She still screams when bugs or flies get into the house. She demands their immediate demise. Rob and I carry them out to safety and away from her murderous hands and weapon of choice.

Mom has been to the bathroom twice this morning for serious work. She had taken up her sister Rose’s chant: I can’t go. Help me. Get me out of here? I ask her what could possibly be so wrong. I tell her to sit there. Relax. Read a book. Stop complaining. But she doesn’t understand what’s going on. She doesn’t understand bodily processes any more. She doesn’t know that she has only sat for 2 or 3 minutes. To her, it is a lifetime. To her, she is abandoned and will never find her way back to her room, wherever that is. 

I change the topic and tell her that today she will have her hair done, but she is not happy. Nothing can change the mode of the moment. She is on the toilet and worried. She tells me that she doesn’t want to go today, but I know she will change her mind later. I hope she will.

 Later—

Mom has had her hair done, but that didn’t stop her from asking Rob when I was going to take her to get her hair done. But there she was in her room, straightening her clothing, hanging her jacket in the closet, folding her slacks. Ever the neat woman. 

Just now, she insisted again that I go to the bank in Jersey City to get her money to pay for her haircut. I argued. It’s what I do best. I said, Mom, (1) there is no bank account in Jersey City; (2) Jersey City is 2.5 hours away; (3) I write checks when I need cash. But then, it hit me: What am I doing? She has no clue. So I calmed down and said, I’ll be right back. I’m going to bank right now to get the money. She was delighted: Oh will you. I feel so much better.

So, I am off to market. I will pretend that I went to the bank and withdrew her money. I will assure her that I reimbursed myself for her haircut. I must get it into my head that I cannot teach her. I cannot retrain her. I cannot help her focus her mind on anything. It will be so much easier if I continue to do this for her—and for me. Pretending and reassuring.

 

Remembering

Wednesday, Mary 21, 2014 

One-year anniversary of my sister-in-law’s untimely death to the heinous glioblastoma. Sent an e-card to my brother and the girls. No day to talk with them. Mom asked to speak with my son, Johnny Boy. Bad idea. She would forget about it anyhow. She would be sure to ask the usual questions: How is Margie? Is she working? Does she take good care of you? Does she cook for you? Followed by the predictable, Oh how nice or the Oh yeah? No day for my brother to hear mom go on and on about Margie. He visited the cemetery today. I am sure Margie was with him. Margie didn’t make it to 65. Mom is still kicking at 97. There’s no telling why or how—ever!

 I am still exploring buying a doll for mom. Tough to admit the terrible downturn. Spoke with cousin Marje. I asked her what motivated her to buy a doll for her mother. She said that the nurses at the nursing home actually gave her mom the doll. We talked for a bit today about mom, Rose, Margie.

 Glad that it rained all day. The negative ions soothed the day somewhat. Didn’t do much for the pups who were just groomed, but they managed. Went to Loews and bought some more vibrant New Guinea impatiens for the hosta corner in preparation for the wedding shower coming up. Want the gardens to look wonderful. Always much to do. Hydrangeas are lagging very far behind. Have cut some back. Hoping we have more leaves and even some blooms in a few weeks. Things do begin to move quickly when the days warm up. Still, it’s been quite cool. Mom, still playing mother, cautions me to wear a coat or a sweater or to put on shoes when I go out onto the back porch. I listen, but I don’t obey. I walk out onto the back porch with bare feet wishing I had listened. The tiles are cold, but I will be damned if I am going to put shoes on because my mother is asking me to. I tell her I will be fine, and I grin and bear it.

 

 

Wachet Auf! Ruft uns die Stimme!

Tuesday, May 20, 2014 

Lucy is at the groomer. Val is much relieved. And I am back editing files. 

Oh, Sleeper’s Awake! Mom called. She asked again about who gave me my lightweight Polartec jacket. For the hundreth time, I said, Betty. Betty, who comes over every day, twice a day, to walk the pups with me. Mom knows her by name; yet this morning, she asked Do you ever see her anymore? Yes, mom. Every day. 

I go into the kitchen to turn the bentwood stool. Mom would sit right on the edge and has done so before. Am trying to preserve what I can. Must prepare her cereal and coffee and toast. Her earlier shouts woke Rob, who is now back in bed, trying to get more ZZZ’s. 

I showered mom, made her cereal, and told her that Rob would make her coffee. They share a cup. Mom drinks very little. I decided I should sit with her as she ate her cereal. Started a Mozart Divertimento first to soften the sounds. Sitting with mom during breakfast is something I assiduously avoid, as she makes so much noise—mild slurping as if drinking hot soup and the incessant clanking of her spoon against the cereal bowl as she lines up and submerges all the little Cheerios equally. She talked about the cat on the ceiling being up there all day and night and how cold he must be. (Mom has determined somehow that he is a male cat!) She asked no less than 5 to 10 times about where Rob was, commenting each time that he likes to sleep. She asked why he sleeps so late, and I reminded her that she is the one who usually sleeps late, but that Rob goes to bed very late, being a night owl. Explanations are virtually useless. She either does not hear them, does not understand them, or dismisses them summarily. 

Mozart still playing beautifully. Will wash some dishes and get back to work and hope that mom will not disturb me too many times.

 

 

Long Day’s Journey…

Monday, May 19, 2014 

Valentino’s turn at the groomer. Lucy goes tomorrow. Then work all day. Had 12 files to review and get back to a client by the end of the day. While Val was gone, it was peaceful and quiet. The energy of the place was bearable. The minute I picked him up and brought him home (looking gorgeous, of course), the place livened up. A not-so-welcome change when there is work to do.

With mom and Val calling while I worked, it became almost intolerable. I couldn’t yell at my mother, but I lost it with Val, who skulked upstairs, tail down. Of course I was remorseful, but I had to truck on with my work.

I worked late into the night. While mom was watching TV and Val was napping, I heard what I thought was the beginning of a yawn. But it stretched on and on and on and grew louder and louder. At first, I thought it was my mother, but it was too drawn out and too well supported to be anything that came from her. I realized then that Val was having a bad dream. The only other time I had heard a sound like that was when Lorenzo was emerging from anesthesia. Of course I gave Val a bunch of hugs and kisses and massaged his leg to reassure him that everything was OK.

I am not conveying, of course, the tension in this house as I attempted to get the files out to the client at the end of the day. There were questions and phone calls back and forth. Mixed up files. In some cases, they sent me earlier iterations of files that did not have my corrections. So I had to do some scouting. Problem was that so many of the files were closely named, but for a number at the end of the lengthy title. This meant opening a slew of files and checking to see if my comments were there.

By 10:30, the work was in and mom and Val and Lucy were asleep. We roused the pups briefly for their last trip outside for the night. Then off to wind down and watch a horror flick with Rob: “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I think Washington has already been taken over!

 

Stuffed Animals and Baby Dolls?

Sunday, May 18, 2014 

The Duckster came for breakfast. We sat out on the back porch and ate and chatted up a storm. Donald is into everything and adored by all the women in his church. He does this, that, and the other thing related to amputees, being one himself. Good man. Went from dissolute to absolutely wonderful. But we joke that God had to take his legs to do it! After breakfast, he started his drive back to South Carolina with a bag of Nuts.com organic trail mix (hard to part with these treats) and some water. 

Rob and I then made our way to the farm. The boxes for the luminaries were still in my car. So we made our way down the lane to pick them up and load the boxes into the barn. We also wound up helping to put tables away and undo some of the lovely decorations. I sure hope someone sends me photos. The bride and groom were there, too. They will be off to Hawaii tomorrow. A most memorable wedding and a most beautiful couple. 

We spent about 2.5 hours at the farm, and left mom at the kitchen counter, where she was doing her word search puzzles. But they seem to be getting more difficult for her. Either that or she is getting bored with them or maybe just having a tough day. At night, she asked if she could sleep with me again. I was firm and said no. Then she asked if there were anybody who would sleep with her. We went through a list of neighbors, all of whom were married and lived at home with their spouses. My brother suggested we get her a stuffed animal. My friend Nancy suggested a baby doll for her to take care of. Actually breaks my heart to see mom go down this road. My mother is really gone in a very large sense. Oh sure, there are aspects of her here and there, but she has lost her independence and her strength—among other things. As I have loads of stuffed animals in the basement, I will bring up a suitable candidate for her. Perhaps it will help. “Big” Aunt Marge had a baby doll to care for at the end. I found that bizarre, but we are now in the same position: mother, a little girl and descending.

 

 

Wedding Day at the Farm

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Tough start to the morning. Mom was uncomfortable, but eventually worked things out after three trips to the bathroom. I showered her after the last trip. Today is wedding day for Brian and Liz. I am to pick up the mylar balloons to mark the entrance to the farm and start getting things set up down there. The bulk of the work is done. Still, I have a 2-page, single-spaced list to follow. But at least mom is OK now. Difficult morning, but the worst is over.

Rained heartily yesterday, but today is gorgeous—clear, sunny, breezy, and cool. Will be colder down at the farm. Tough trying to figure out what to wear as “wedding coordinator” for a farm reception. Black jeans, black shirt, Hotter waterproof shoes, a black and white jacket, and minimal jewelry. After all, I am a worker bee, not a wedding guest. But I think the outfit is fine for the occasion. My work might entail going into the cow barn or the house cold cellar to check on the electricity. So I must be prepared for every eventuality.

Mom is feeling better now and back to her old self.

I wonder if that cat up there is cold.
I wouldn’t worry about it, mom. You’re the only one who even knows he’s up there.
Where’s Rob?
He just went upstairs.
I haven’t seen him all day.
He was just in the kitchen and gave you cereal 

Rob is back in the kitchen giving mom a piece of Betty’s applesauce cake.

Who made that Rob?
Betty did.
Did she? 

This is mom’s third piece of cake and at least as many times as she asked Who made that? Her other favorite question is Where did you get that? She often asks this when you are wearing something she admires. (I like that. Where did you get it?)

Betty is off to the casino with Chas. So Rob and mom will be left to deal with the day alone. I will be at the farm until late tonight. A very long day ahead of me! Will report later.

Later—

What a day! Rob and I went to Party City to pick up the balloons. I chose mint green, white, and silver mylar varieties (hearts, circles, and stars). Twelve in all. At the farm, I had a little challenge with the wind, but I prayed for help, and lo, the wind stopped. It was that sudden!

Nate appeared just as I was tying down the balloons. I asked him to make sure they were secure, and we both figured they were. The rest of the morning was spent in putting out tables for hors d’oeuvres, wine and beer, and caterers; setting out the platform wagon for the musicians near the utility barn; setting up chairs for guests to watch the bride and groom dance their first dance; plugging in electric and turning on the magical lights in the barn. Later, opening the white tent; putting out the ice; checking to be sure the tables in the white tent were OK; cutting wild flowers for the head tables; putting out the cookies and the wines and the lemonade and iced tea; greeting Keith Breitzenhoff (the square dance caller) and showing him where to go; setting out the ice cream and toppings for the dessert section of the barn; and setting up the luminaries down the 1/4 mile drive! (We did the latter twice, as we forgot the cars would be going out through the field. And oh it was magical!)

The bride and groom and company arrived on a wagon being driven by their uncle Eric. The bridesmaids were gorgeous in mint and wearing cowboy boots for the evening’s festivities. The groomsmen had changed their white shirts for ice-cream colored plaid shirts. Such fun! And the festivities began.

Of course, Rob has been alone with mom all day. Apparently, she had him call “her son” three times, but they called the house phone and not his cell. So they never connected. This made mom quite nervous. Things were not as happy here as they were at the farm!

 

 

Ageism!

Thursday, May 15, 2014 

Looks like rain. Smells like rain. Bugs buzzing wildly around your head, screaming Rain!

Awoke from a dream abruptly this morning at 4:45. Mom was taking a bathroom break. So I went downstairs, cleaned the bathroom, opened the window, and crawled back into bed. The dream I had been having was disjointed, except for the ending. I was sitting at a table with Rob and mom. She had decided it was time to be “dismantled.” That was the word. Time to die and be dismantled, like an old car. I was taken by surprise and protested the usual: “But I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to live without my mother.” As cogent as ever I heard her, she said, “My mind is made up. There’s no reason to go on living like this.”

Just before I went to bed last night, I was editing questions for a nursing exam. One of them asked to identify the attitude of a teenager, who said of his grandfather that he didn’t want to become like him, all broken down and decrepid. The answer was to be “ageism.” The boy suffered from ageism. I was floored. Maybe the kid was a little harsh; although, he didn’t say this to the grandfather’s face, but to a nurse. But he had a point. I didn’t interpret his complaint as holding something against his grandfather or elderly people in general, but as fearing of being in such a condition himself.

This “ism” is very disturbing and unwarranted. Tags, tags, tags everywhere. We surely don’t need another. But living to a very old age has very little to recommend it. Of course, I might eat those words myself if I live as long as my mother has. Rob recently pointed out that people shorter than 5’4” live longer. Mom was about 5’2.” Being taller might spare me a few years. Yet, here I write, certainly not hoping for an early demise, but for a better life in the so-called golden years.

Mom’s life isn’t all that bad. She has a good and comfortable home, good food, and good attention. The worst part is having lost her sisters and her friends. She has no life outside of this house and depends on Rob and me for everything—but, we are there for her. The government will refuse her serious medical care, but we will do what we can to keep her comfortable for as long as we can. Being taller than my mother, I might not live as long. Having no one to care for me would make that a blessing. I wouldn’t want to be shoved into some government holding pen until the day I die or worse yet, be given a lethal injection because I am no longer useful to society.

Living with an old woman doesn’t necessarily prepare you for the future, but it gives you pause about it. Still, I enjoy the spring; I continue to take photos of my favorite trees and flowers; I continue to hope that my hydrangeas will revive and flower again; I continue to plan for the window box and buy plants accordingly. Life goes on and joyfully so. I have this weekend’s wedding, then the wedding shower and the second summer wedding. Had to send a “no” reply to a cousin’s wedding, but sent a gift. So much life and enjoyment. And I look at it all so differently now: they have no idea what lies ahead and how little time is left. But you don’t go there. You never utter those words to the young and fearless and joyful. You enter into the spirit with them and with the season—their joy, your joy for them, the flowers, life altogether. Jamie and Stasia are having their second babies this summer, too. And Linda’s son just had a gorgeous baby boy! How much there is to celebrate! And Lucy and Val are still hopping around. I washed some poodle ears this morning and they will be romping in the rain later and tomorrow. It is good to be alive and to have them all with me. And it is good to have mom here, even though caring for her is a challenge. I wish she could go to a wedding or would even know what a wedding is at this stage. I wish she could go on a walk with the pups and make it around the neighborhood. I wish she could help plant bulbs and trim bushes and enjoy the fruit of her labors. I wish she had the strength to hold a baby in her arms or could even recognize that the photo I am showing her is of a baby. Heck, I even wish that when she went to the viewing of her sister-in-law Phyllis that she had not asked “Who is that [in the casket]?”

Ageism, indeed! I wish with all my heart that she could do these things and know people again.

Here’s another question that just came through in an email file requiring editing: “Which age group generally has the most difficulty adapting to major losses?” The answer is “older adults.” One doesn’t get used to loss toward the end of life, because I suppose it shows so clearly where you are headed. And you don’t get inured of death and all the losses on the way either. By the same token, I recall the story told to me by a tow truck driver. He happened to be first on the scene of an accident to which he had been called. The driver of the car was dead and slumped over the seat. The tow truck driver was shaken when he thought that that morning, when the man awoke and brushed his teeth or shaved his beard, he didn’t know it would be his last day on earth.

And, too, I think of Margie, who, 7 years ago, was here to celebrate my birthday. Who would have thought she wouldn’t make it to her 65th birthday. I am sure glad we didn’t know then what we know now.

When Yogananda’s teacher died, he was devastated. I was floored! Surely Yogananda knew that life went on. That his teacher would always be with him. That they really weren’t separated. But while you are in the physical body—no matter its condition or age—the physical world is your strongest reality, or at least the reality that kicks into gear most easily. And it’s not a very forgiving world when your youth and your memory of it are gone.

Ageism indeed!

 

Working and Planning

Monday, May 12, 2014 

Caught up on two editing jobs this morning after walking and feeding the pups. Was warm today. Low 80s. But the pollen and mold counts are exceptionally high. Sat out on the porch for a while. Rob had blessedly replaced two of the screens. This is a huge job. If I could afford it, I would get a new porch system. As it is, we have to replace 26 windows and install screens. Not an easy job.

After breakfast on the porch and later lunch on the porch, I sat with a cup of tea. By then, I was so wiped out, I fell asleep on the glider. Nice not to have to do any more planting for now. Mulching and weeding, yes. But most of the planting is done. Only lost two plants this winter: my Mediterranean plants, Erica. A disappointment, but I replaced them with some lovely annuals. We needed more color out front anyhow.

Preparing for the wedding shower soon. Bonnie’s daughter Amy will be having a wedding shower here. Can’t wait. Porch is in decent shape, and I think I can manage 20 women. Will be fun to have an “event” here. We’ll see how Valentino behaves!

Rains on the way. Coming from Bernville. Bugs are going wild and clustering around your face. I went for a walk before it began. Nice to get out. Have not been to the gym in 2 weeks. Prefer to be outside now that the weather is better. But I need to continue to go for toning.

Mom ate very little lunch. I didn’t feel like dealing too much with her, as I burned my finger badly on the stove. Had a plate too close to the flame. That sucker gets hot! But I decided mom needed a shower nonetheless. Rob and I both noticed the need. It’s hard to bear when your once pristine mother smells worse than a child. Her “underpants” as she calls them hold in the moisture and contribute to the foul odor. Someone should invent a diaper that breathes. But at least she has no serious problem with her bowels. N was telling me how her daughter’s grandmother-in-law digs down into the diapers and flings her mess onto the wall. I will just count my blessings while I have them.

Mom is watching Steve Harvey again and seems to be comfortable in her dark, airless room. She asks that shutters and windows be closed. This is nothing new, but how she has always lived. Mom was never a fan of light and air. Fortunately, we have central air, and she won’t be able to turn off a window A/C, as she did in NJ.

On to more work. Have a book I should be getting to. More anon…

 

 

Mother’s Day

Sunday, May 11, 2014 

Mom is in the kitchen eating her cereal and performing in the percussion section—spoon and plate. I am in my office eating my cereal. Have already walked and fed the pups and washed the kitchen floor. Too much pollen everywhere. Am showered and off to church in a few minutes. Will be a little late. Rob is still sleeping. Need to settle mom and prefer to miss the “praise” music. Very unmusical. Preys on emotions. Prefer the old hymns and lyrics of yesteryear, when people knew how to create melodies and write beautiful verse.

Am remembering Margie and how she came here to celebrate my 60th birthday with the girls and cousin Marje and her daughters. We didn’t know then that Margie would not make it to her 65th birthday. I’m glad we didn’t. I’m glad we lived unknowing as we did. I plan to send the girls a mother’s day e-card. This is going to be a tough one for them to celebrate. Marcy is also celebrating her birthday today.

And here I am with my mother—97 years old and banging away on her cereal bowl, killing those little Cheerios and knocking whatever cheer is left in them. She refused at first to pee this morning. But I sent her back into the bathroom, and sure enough… Obstinate woman, but always grateful. I need to get to the bottom of my rising anger. This is the same woman who said, “I always preferred my son over my daughter.” I am sure she is here with me for a good reason. I have things to work out and most assuredly wish I did not! I also most assuredly will not be canonized any time soon!

I tell you there is another thing that bothers me. Everyone seems to think it’s so nice that I take such good care of my mother. But I feel that, although I see to her physical needs very carefully, I do not or cannot see to any other need. It’s so frustrating. How do you discuss anything or say anything of substance or meaning to a woman who queries why I would call her husband, “daddy”? Something to ponder another time. Off to church. Dr. Mary called earlier and left a message. She has put my name in the Ardas again and is praying for me under Yogi Bhajan’s banyan tree at this very moment. And now I am crying. God bless Dr. Mary! God bless Yogi Bhajan! God bless my mommy and my daddy.

 

Later—

Been receiving these Facebook poems and notes all day about how wonderful it would be to have mother alive—if only she were here to tell me how much she loves me. Let me tell you having your mother here to change her diaper, to wash her and care for her is one thing. To answer to Rose or Ann is another. This business about it being your turn to take care of her is pure bunk. My mother is on the decline. She is not a growing, smiling, happy child. She won’t outgrow the diapers. She won’t outgrow the need for me to hold her hand. She won’t outgrow asking the same questions over and over again. She won’t outgrow asking your husband’s name or the name of “the white dog” or “the black dog.” She won’t stop seeing the cat on the ceiling fan or the man in the tree. She won’t learn how to tie her shoes or put on her socks. She will never walk alone. She will never prepare another meal.

It’s no fun watching your mother deteriorate. You take care of her with a good heart or as good as you can muster at the moment. But it’s taxing. It isn’t fun. It isn’t heartwarming. It’s heartbreaking. And you fight with yourself every minute as you think “someday this room will be my dining room.” You won’t let yourself go there out of both guilt and sorrow. But you do go there and stop yourself each time. You berate yourself each time. You ask for forgiveness each time. And you wonder how it fell to your lot to see your mother decline and be given the task to love her through this time. It’s almost too much to bear.

As for this day: I grilled some pepper steaks and broccoli with onions in my special grill basket. For dessert, we had apple strudel. Quite delicious. I hope mom enjoyed the meal. I know if I ask her about it now, she won’t remember a thing. But she will laugh and smile and say, “Oh yes, it was delicious.” Yet, she will have no idea what I am talking about.

For all those who wish they still had a mother, please come here. I would be happy to share my mother with you. When I go to the symphony, I won’t have to hire a sitter. When I go to the supermarket, I won’t have to call Betty to tell her I am leaving my house; keep an eye on mom. Rob and I don’t go out much, and we rarely go out together. When I garden, I have mom sit on the porch so she can see me. When I work, she is on her own and very lonely. Mom doesn’t want to talk necessarily or she will be found out that she knows nothing and no one. She just wants company, particularly someone to sleep with—something she will not get.

She is uncomfortable at other people’s houses and she cannot take long car trips. She needs to be in her known environment. She needs to be at home, where she knows how to find the bathroom, her bed, her television, her tissues, her nightgown. Hers is a small world and getting smaller. There is no expansion. There is contraction. There is no increasing joy. There is increasing fear. Is she here merely because she is afraid to go? I can hardly know the answer. But I do know that my role in this is yet to be defined. Perhaps it will be when she is gone. And I dread that day, because each day, we inch closer and closer to it. And I am less ready than she is.