Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Busy day yesterday. I accomplished quite a bit. Much to do still today. Mom is blessedly still asleep. She will need a shower this morning. I was unable to give her one yesterday morning, and she doesn’t like to shower in the evening. Wait until tomorrow, she usually says. So I do.
Received a notice via email I had been dreading: Black Powder (aka, Powie) has passed. Powie was a gorgeous, sensitive, and very intelligent Belgian sheep dog (a Groenendahl) bred by my friend Linda and raised by my friend Nita. He was an extraordinary creature and was loved by many and loved as many back. Whenever Nita’s van was gone from her driveway, I knew that she and Matt had taken Powie for a ride somewhere—perhaps to get him ice cream or to visit a nursing home. I had the privilege of giving Powie Reiki not long ago. He was failing for such a long time. It was painful to watch. And I know it will be difficult for Nita and Matt to adjust to this terrible loss.
I still reel from the loss of Lorenzo and Roxy—quite the couple. Lorenzo was the toast of the town when we lived in Trenton. He used to love to run across the walkway bridge to the Delaware River and bark at the trucks. Air horns would blare hellos as he ran back and forth across the bridge. Occasionally, you would hear a driver shout, “Yo, Lorenzo!” God, I miss him something fierce. I awoke in a terrible mood this morning. I am sure now it was because my sorrow at the loss of Lorenzo was rekindled by Powie’s death. And here I sit, with two wonderful pups: Lucia, prone to bladder infections and now on a special diet to see if we can prevent another bout, and Valentino, gorgeous coat and form if ever I saw one, and as crazy as a loon. But Val, my young ‘un, has suffered two seizures. I never know what the day will bring. All I can do is thank God they are both still with me, while my heart breaks even at the thought of parting from them.
And then there is mom, my trial by fire. I am sure, at times, that she is here so that I can find those pieces of her that made her my mother, then fit them together and see her as whole. But I am torn this way and that—my husband, my pups, my work, my home, my friends. You want to go on as though everything is normal, but it is not. Maybe there never was a normal. And maybe normal isn’t what it’s cracked up to be—whatever that is.
I remember the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving drawing that graced one of my first-grade workbooks. There was grandmother with a love ruffle-trimmed white apron and matching white hair, loving husband and family—a far cry from my own family. My maternal grandmother had jet black hair, wore printed cotton smocks, and black shoes. She was less likely to make a turkey than she was a tray of lasagna or Easter pie (as we called it)—that pie filled with eggs, ricotta, ham and sausage. It had the thinnest, golden crust at the top. Nothing like it since. My paternal grandmother barely spoke English. She would make us Easter baskets of a sweet hard bread or sometimes it was savory. Lots of coarsely ground black pepper. But the baskets always had a hard boiled egg in the center. I knew what I had in my grandmothers was quite special. It was my own Italian-American dream. Didn’t quite fit the books in school. But I loved it then, and I love it now. Frankly, my grandmothers would have looked silly wearing white aprons. That’s what the smocks were for. And we were a large and very loving family. Noisy and happy, even outrageous. The children ran without check through my grandparents home, while the women sat and talked in one corner and the men played cards and smoked in another—filling the air with putrid gray clouds. Somehow, we all survived the exposure to second-hand smoke. The one loss to lung cancer was my dear Uncle John, a heavy smoker. He had two bad marriages and quite a bit of misery. But he always managed a smile. He was funny, but insecure. Bad marriages will do that to you.
And just the other day, mom asked about her family:
Am I the only one left.
Break my heart, why don’t you! No mom. You have a brother.
Who’s that?
Your brother C.
Oh, that’s right. Where does he live? (and so on and so forth)
And you have a sister. Rose
Oh how is she. Is she in the hospital?
No mom. She’s in a nursing home and is having a really good time. (From what I hear, she is doing quite well, plays games, gets her hair permed, goes to shows at the home…)
Oh, I want to visit her. Can we visit her?
When the weather gets warmer, we might go.
The trip to the nursing home would take 2.5 hours. That’s a round trip of 5 hours for a visit that might last 5 minutes, if we’re lucky. Apparently Rose has her schedule and, as is her wont, does not like to be thrown off it. Besides which, all my mother will say is You get better and come home Rose. But Rose isn’t going anywhere. This is her last stop, as is my mother’s stay at my house.
It’s raining at the moment, and as much as I am delighted that winter is coming to an end, I wish it were snowing instead.
11:00 am—
It’s 11:00 am and I finally woke mom. She said hello to Rob. In the shower, she asked if Rob were up. When I say she has already spoken to him, mom says, “Oh yeah.” I now use old cloths retired from the pups for her showering. They are clean, but because they will become seriously contaminated, I keep them separate from other cloths and bleach the living daylights out of what’s left of them. When I told Rob I was using retired dog rags, I felt bad. But it’s a necessity. They serve the purpose and it’s a sanitary measure for the rest of us.
Mom is now showered and at the kitchen counter, eating her cereal. The symphony of spoon against bowl begins—the endless clanking. She asks about the rain. Is it raining? Really. I can’t believe it. For some reason, she often says, I can’t believe it. (This actually has been a life-long habit.)
Look at those trees. They all lost their leaves. I can’t believe it. (Mind you, its April. The leaves have been gone a while, but will soon be back.)
That cat is still up there. I can’t believe it!
Is it cold out? Oh really? I can’t believe it!
Look at the time. I can’t believe it!
The white dog sleeps all the time. I can’t believe it!
The black dog is so quiet. I can’t believe it! (Well, neither can I. He’s the Bark Boy.)
This house is so clean even though you have two dogs. I can’t believe it!
Each day brings something new to her life and reasoning.
Later—
Had lunch with Becky, who lost her husband two years ago to a glioblastoma. Same as my sister-in-law. Same as Susan. Always horrible. Becky had been planning to go to Bermuda with her husband before he died. They bought tickets for a cruise, but he didn’t make it. I used to perform Reiki on Gary. What a beautiful couple they were. Becky and I meet at the Sunnybrook Ballroom and have our favorite meal each time: scallops. And we spring for dessert, too. Life is too short!
I stopped off at Warrick’s Jewelers. Too much fun. I talk with the girls and shop. They are closing their clothing line; so, I bought what I could and threw in a pair of colorful earrings. Costume jewelry. Not much money for splurges these days, but enough for a little bit of rare shopping fun.
When we talked about mom, Doris and Diane agreed there was no time and no place for guilt when taking care of someone, especially someone on the downhill. It would be easier, perhaps, if mom were not so sweet. B’s mother, who lived with her for 13 years, was the mother from hell. I prefer my mom. At least she smiles. She sings and smiles. Doesn’t know a darned thing, man, or woman, and often dog. But she sings and smiles.
I went into mom’s room when I arrived back home. She asked where I was. I explained. But not a minute later, she asked again. It’s tough. Mom, why can’t you remember? Try. But it’s too late for that. Far too late. Just go with the flow, and smile and sing.
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