tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78370700615197180202024-02-02T11:36:19.433-08:00Being a Mom to My MomThe amazing joy (and challenges) of caring for my Mom with Alzheimer's at homeMom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-91247030540384576962012-01-08T14:51:00.000-08:002012-01-09T16:40:22.205-08:00The Importance of Self Image (September 2011)For the past few weeks every time I pop in to see My Mom, she's leaning w-a-y over in her chair or wheel chair. The staff has done a great job at trying to keep her propped up with a variety of special pillows. I add to their efforts immediately upon arrival, but nothing seems to help straighten My Mom out. In fact, she's becoming irritated at our prodding and I fear even slightly bruised from repeated attempts to straighten her up.<br />Some brief Internet research confirmed the lead caregiver's diagnosis -- this is yet another bizarre symptom of Alzheimer's. Evidently, eventually My Mom will lose control to hold her head up too. I'm dreading that day. Watching her mind crumble was bad enough. I don't need to see her physically fall apart too.<br />Even though we're doing everything possible to help improve My Mom's posture, when I look at her I feel like we're neglecting her care. It breaks my heart.<br />There's no legitimate rationalization, but seeing her in this sad state has somehow made me step up my caregiving skills. I don't know if I'm worried about what people will think when they see her looking pathetic and slouched or if it's for my own personal satisfaction, but it's become ultra important for me to make sure My Mom looks good. I went on a mini buying spree and bought her a half dozen adorable matching shirts and sweaters. And I finally took her hairdryer over to the home and have made a concerted effort to style her gorgeous silver hair poofed just how she likes it.<br />She was looking so good this afternoon with her new coif and slate blue sweater combo, that I pushed her wheelchair into the bedroom to see if I could muster a reaction from her by looking in the mirror. I've said it many times already, My Mom was very vain in her day. She didn't wear a lot of makeup, but she always had a vanity in her bedroom, even at our cottage. She would sit in front of the mirror primping for quite some time before ever heading out of the house. Remember she is a byproduct of the glamour girl era. She spent Saturdays going to matinees watching Greta Garbo, Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich and Ginger Rogers. My Mom and her sisters did their best to carry out the movie star images in their own lives. Throughout her entire life My Mom always made sure she sported the most recent hairstyle of the day. I have a great photo of her back in her 20's laying on the beach at the family cottage painting her toe nails bright red. I'm sure she had bright red lipstick to match. The only place she and her sisters went summer evenings during the war years were to small dances near the cottage and the only guys they had to dance with were farm boys, but it didn't stop them from dolling themselves up to the hilt -- complete with silk stockings. Later she bought herself a mink stole. She loved feeling glamorous.<br /><br />Her room at the private care home has a full length mirror behind the door, so I pushed her all the way in and closed the door. I spun the chair around and began to tap on the mirror to draw her attention in the right direction. I couldn't believe my eyes. She not only came out of her new semi-permanent daze, she immediately noticed her lopsided position and straightened herself up! All on her own! It was like she had come back to life again. I pushed her a little closer to see if she'd inspect the outfit or hair-do. Yep. She adjusted the front of the sweater to make sure the buttons were straight then turned her head to and fro to inspect her hair and face. <br />"Ugh, look at this," she said touching her cheek. She has remarkably few wrinkles for her age, but she refuses to believe she's over 30. Instead of trying to explain away the skin quality, I told her that her hair looked gorgeous. She gave the locks a discerning look, then took her right hand to the bottom of her bob and began to give it a little push skyward to emphasize the oomph. It was fantastic.<br />It's left me wondering how long it's been since we've had My Mom in front of a mirror. The place that had once been so very important to her. She's bathed and brushes her teeth at least twice a day at the bathroom sink, but now that she's primarily relegated to a wheelchair, she can't see the shoulder high mirror over the sink.<br />Keeping My Mom from a mirror certainly wasn't intentional, but not showing her reflection on a regular basis surely took a toll. I wish desperately I would have realized the importance of self image much sooner. I used a mirror the entire time I was caregiving at my home. I played on her vanity to give her a vested interest in helping to care for herself. For that reason, I can't belief I let the ritual of her checking her appearance slip away.<br />I'm smart enough to know I can't beat myself up over every little nuance of her care. The fact that I haven't made mirrors available is certainly not the cause for the horrible disease of Alzheimer's growing steadily worse. If My Mom would have had access to a mirror, quite frankly, it would have resulted in both of us becoming distraught over watching her fail and trust me, My proud Mom would be even more bothered by her current state of debilitation than me. Honestly, I think the lack of a reflection saved her from facing the very painful reality of aging.<br /><br />One thing I've noticed over the past three years, is that My Mom is pretty good at being selective in what she chooses to see. Right now she's focused strictly on her hair, which despite her age looks fantastic. As long as she's happy with what she sees, I'll leave her parked in front of the mirror for as long as she wants. It's the first "activity" we've had in weeks and actually it's turning out to be a great experience for me too. For the moment, she has me fixated on her hair as well. And with the deliberate ways in which she primps each section I no longer see the image of an old, crippling woman. Instead, I focus on that gorgeous silver hair. It's been the same since I was young. Watching her enjoy putting a little bounce in her bob brings back memories of the many, many times I watched her in front of the mirror while I was growing up. Just like when I was young, in the reflection right this minute I only see the beautiful, proud soul that is (and has always been) My Mom.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-8324277984623996312011-12-17T13:53:00.000-08:002011-12-17T15:17:16.300-08:00Some Things You Don't Forget... (July 2011)My Mom's become more and more unresponsive lately. She sleeps a lot and when she's awake, she gazes off into space. When I call her name to gain her attention, she searches the air around her as if blind, unable to find me from even a foot away. I usually take her face in my hands and keep moving myself into her eye sight until she can focus on me. When she does there is recognition and she usually expresses a "there you are" surprise, like I've appeared out of thin air.<br />Decent conversations are all but non-existent now too. She'll answer questions like "how are you," or "how was your day." I might receive an "I'm doing well," or "it was nice," or she might start babbling gibberish.<br />And then, once in a while, poof! An amazing blast of clarity. Tonight was one of those instances. We chit chatted the entire time I fed her dinner. When she finished, I stood from the table.<br />"Whew," My Mom said with a whistle. I thought she would follow it up with a "Man, am I full." As always, skinny Winny had cleaned her plate. Instead she was sizing me up. "You're gaining weight kid," she said patting her stomach. I took a few steps back and looked down at my white shorts. I had just returned from vacation where I had indeed picked up a few pounds. She doesn't consider the comment critical. It's just a fact.<br />"Well, your legs don't look too bad," she said taking in the full picture.<br />I fessed up that I needed to shape up a bit, then told my vain Mom she was lucky that she was skinny.<br />"Are you kidding?" she blurts. "Look at this," she says grabbing at the side of each thigh. "Look at this." The woman weighs a mere 80 pounds. There was nothing to grab except loose skin. She doesn't know where she lives, what year it is, or what she just ate for dinner five minutes ago, but she knows popular opinion says you're supposed to be thin. I think back to my college days of trying to lose weight and how she'd revel in telling me about the diets from her day. I tried her favorite, the green bean diet. I think another time she had me try the grapefruit diet.<br />"No Mom," I stifled a laugh. "I assure you, you're skinny."<br />"Well, thank God," she says emphatically, letting out a sigh of relief.<br /><br />I stop and think about recent outrage over certain magazines airbrushing photos of models to make them look even skinnier than they already are. I think of the very legitimate concern over today's young girls being too wrapped up over body image. I look at My Mom patting her own stomach now, ensuring she's still looking good at 90. I think of generations before her using wooden stays, corsets and girdles to tighten their tummies. The battle of the bulge is nothing new.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-70330563750451517622011-12-15T21:29:00.000-08:002012-01-08T21:03:52.293-08:00Winifred O'Neill Curran October 26, 1921 - November 25, 2011My Mom passed away super peacefully the day after Thanksgiving. We were beyond fortunate that she did not suffer from the scenarios that often inflict Alzheimer’s patients in their final days. For instance, she ate and drank right up until she began to slip away. No feeding tubes or any other ghastly measures. While she never appeared to suffer, the whole ordeal was pure torment for me. Mostly because I feel like I failed her as a caregiver in those final days. I promise I’m not being too hard on myself. It’s just that death and dying doesn’t come with a manual and now that I have some experience, I’d like a do-over. I’m positive I would be a little more tender, a little more gentle and a lot more patient with the process. <br />When I say no one really teaches you how to help someone die, it’s a little bit of a lie. The truth is our small Catholic high school offered a class called “Death and Dying.” I took it freshman year. We read the famous book written by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and are you ready for this? The teacher, sweet Janet Roberge, succumbed to cancer the very term I had the class. How’s that for a life lesson?<br />But that was 30 years ago. Because of the pure shock value of attending the teacher’s funeral, I’ll never forget the class, but I had yet to gain any solid first-hand experience on the topic. <br /><br />My Mom’s main caregiver, Bridget, and the hospice staff tried their best to prep my sister and me on what to expect that final week. Bridget explained that My Mom looked like she was sleeping, but really she was reviewing her life here on earth. Her soul was “processing” lessons learned. I had never heard of the processing concept. I saw My Mom’s eyes fluttering. Her face even looked contorted once in a while like she was receiving some interesting news. As Sunday moved into Monday, it was obvious My Mom had a little unfinished business, but for the most part my sister and I debunked the theories on the number of days the process could take. <br />We come from a really strong Catholic upbringing and when members of our family decide it’s time to go, they literally slip away. Exhausted from his duty of caregiving, My Dad waited for me to arrive to hand off care of My Mom, then snuck out in his sleep that night. My Aunt (a term that could never encompass what this woman meant to us) promised my sister’s girls she’d fight off terminal cancer long enough to spend Christmas with them. She died hours after the celebration. My Grandma waited for a visit from her youngest son before passing.<br /><br />In her right mind, my ever faithful Mom would have made a quietly dramatic exit. She would have squeezed our hands one last time as she told us that death is a part of every life; she would have taken a nice soft inhale, possibly made the sign of the cross, then laid her arms across her chest and pass on. It was now Wednesday and we began realizing the problem. My Mom wasn’t an active participant in the process. Alzheimer’s robbed her of the most beautiful moment in life, the grace to pass to the afterlife peacefully. She couldn’t go on her terms because she didn’t know she could. My sister and I stepped up our duties. We followed suggestions from hospice telling My Mom repeatedly that it was okay to go, that we’d be okay. At times we begged her to go. We also tried praying, playing music and anything else that might help speed the effort along. <br />Exasperated, we formulated a scenario that maybe My Mom was waiting for Thanksgiving. A cousin that called concurred. My Mom owned that holiday. Turkey day was her favorite when she lived at home with seven siblings and she continued to cook the big turkey dinner for a crowd even after moving to a small townhouse when we were growing up.<br />Wednesday night I sat vigil alone. I felt so helpless as the clock ticked past midnight and My Mom’s shallow breathing continued. I stared at this amazing woman and wondered what she would do in my shoes. The answer came immediately. She’d pray. I chose to recite the rosary out loud. I’m an active Christian, but my Catholic skills have slipped over the years. It took the first ten Our Fathers just to get the rust out and get the words right. As my fingers crawled along the blue beads, one phrase kept echoing louder and louder in my brain, “Thy will be done.” I felt like such an idiot. As I continued the prayer ritual I found myself all but wailing. This transition would strictly happen in God’s time. This private and holy interaction was solely between He and My Mom. I could witness the sacred event, but no matter what I tried I would never affect the timing. Between sobs I apologized profusely to My Mom for anything and everything we had done that week that made her feel rushed or maybe even irritated. I thanked God for the enlightenment, then settled in the chair feeling absolutely relieved to wait peacefully for the blessed moment, resigned that it could take forever and that would honestly be okay.<br />Around 3 am a robust, dark skinned nurse knocked lightly on the bedroom door. She entered, but never even looked in the direction of My Mother lying on the bed. She turned her focus immediately to me, speaking in a strong Caribbean accent. “Some people,” she said waggling a finger in an “s” shape in front of me, “say they are ready,” the words trickled out slowly like thick syrup being poured from a bottle, “and they are not.”<br />As if the encounter of the rosary weren’t enough, I seriously felt like I was in my own version of Scrooge, experiencing a series of powerful visits from spirits during the night. How could she have known I just had a major epiphany? “I know, I know,” I told her. “It’s God’s will…” The woman stood calm, surrounded by an aura of gentle knowing while I babbled like a child. “Yes, this is between your mother and her Maker, but she waits on you.”<br />“I’ve told her it’s okay to go,” I started to explain, then remembered with absolute clarity why we were having a middle of the night visit from hospice. At around 9 pm My Mom’s breathing had slowed to virtually non-existent. She surely had passed away. Instinct took over and I jumped from my chair yelling “Mom! Mom!” My voice worked like the paddles they use to revive heart patients. Startled, her breathing resumed. I knew immediately I had made a mistake. My sister had told me she did the very same thing with my aunt during her Christmas day passing. It’s human nature I’m sure. The problem was My Mom’s breathing grew a little raspy after the incident. I wasn’t sure she was comfortable, so we summoned hospice. And now looking at the face of this lovely stranger that responded to that call, I had to confront the truth. I had been telling My Mom all week that I was ready and when the moment arrived I proved I was not.<br />It completely freaked me out that this woman from the islands knew my truth before I did, but I was thankful for the second powerful lesson that night. I didn’t need to confess. She evidently saw the realization on my face.<br />“Pray for the ability to release your mother,” she said. “Pray for the strength to let her go.” Finally she approached the bed. “She is comfortable,” she told me, “in fact she is speeding up her process.”<br />Just hours earlier I would have tried to explain that members of our family usually pass quickly, I might have asked how long she would predict My Mom might last. I wasn’t the least bit tempted to comment. I thanked the woman for the visit and welcomed her warm embrace. The timing was in God’s hands and I had work to do before that hour arrived.<br /><br />I welcomed the sunrise, not to leave the bizarre evening behind but to spread the news. I eagerly greeted Bridget when she arrived for the dayshift and I called my sister anxious to explain my revelations to both of them. It was Thanksgiving. My sister came early, but I told her that our Mom would want her to spend time with her family. She agreed and went home feeling at peace. She too seemed to come to terms with the process. <br /><br />I spent the day quietly thanking My Mom for all the amazing things she had taught me over the years. The life lessons, skills, confidence and faith she instilled in us since our childhood overwhelmed me. My sister had been recollecting my mom’s days of teaching Sunday school and Monday night catechism at the church a lot lately. I barely remembered those days. She only did it for a few years, until economics forced her to return to work in accounting at Chrysler. I think my sister remembers it so clearly because My Mom was a born teacher. She lit up telling stories to the kids and leading them in song. <br /><br />Returning to work wasn’t My Mom’s first choice. I know she would have liked to have stayed home and made teaching her two daughters her primary occupation. She cherished teaching us to walk, to ride a bike, to cook, to write, to laugh, to drive, to primp and to pray. Of all her accomplishments as a parent, by far she was the most proud of raising us to be independent. (Although her son-in-laws took exception to this attribute.) <br /><br />As I ran though the incredibly long list of gratitudes at her bedside that day, I realized the culmination of all her efforts over the years had equipped me for this moment. She had prepared me to be mature enough and secure enough in faith to say goodbye and to know our parting would not be permanent. By clinging to life that week she gave me the opportunity to do a little processing of my own.<br /><br />When I told her that night it was okay to go, I meant it and I know she heard me. I chose to go home that night in case she wanted to slip out privately in her sleep. I arrived the next morning to see a little smile on her face. I called my sister and told her Mom was ready. “I think she already saw Dad and her sisters,” I said. “She has the cutest smile on her face.”<br /><br />I drew a chair up close and sat silently with My Mom. There was nothing more that needed to be said. This time as she drew her final breath and her heartbeat ceased I remained still. She was teaching me her final lesson on this earth -- how to let go. Incredibly peacefully and with dignity she showed me how to answer God’s call.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-55329135725478063192011-12-07T21:06:00.000-08:002011-12-07T21:39:40.339-08:00Seriously? (November 2011)I made it through my business presentations the past two days. The activity kept my mind off the berevity of the situation with My Mom. I'm praying for her to have a peaceful passing when God is ready and that I will be able to gracefully let her go. I also called my sister and sounded the alarm saying she should head over and see Mom before it's too late.<br />I somehow transformed from a sobbing, grieving mess to a hopefully spiritually mature daughter preparing for the inevitable -- this is, as My Mom said so many times over the years, "part of life."<br />Tonight I had the energy and resolve to call the home. "How's our patient?" I asked tentatively.<br />"She's fine," said a chipper caregiver. "She's sitting up tonight. She's eating dinner." I listened in disbelief. "Would you like to talk to her?" she asked.<br />"What?!" I gasped out loud.<br />The caregiver explained that My Mom was having a really good day. (We later thought perhaps she had a minor stroke earlier in the week and had recovered. Who knows when you're 90 and in the full throws of dementia, it's always only a guess. One thing was clear, something had changed.)<br />Since back when My Mom was able-minded we've had a phone mantra. I always start a call by saying "Is this My Momma?" and she always answers with "This is your Momma." Because we've done it so long, she's maintained the exchange even though she no longer fully understands what talking on the phone is all about.<br />I took a deep breath and allowed the caregiver to put My Mom on the phone, completely uncertain of what would happen. Sitting up and eating dinner were both open to interpretation. Her idea of a 'good day' may still be far below par.<br />"Is this My Momma?"<br />"This is your Momma."<br />I'm sure I turned white as a ghost. I struggled to not drop the phone.<br />"How are you?" I asked loudly, so excited to have a conversation with My Mom past the expected due date.<br />"Well I'm fine," she said sounding like My Mom did 20 years ago. "I guess I'll see you this weekend." (the weekend part was purely an educated guess. For years I arrived for a visit on a weekend. But she had put two sentences together. That was unbelievable.)<br />"You will!" I said. I expressed enthusiasm. Not that she had risen from her death sentence. Honestly, I was just excited that she had communicated so definitively. It has been at least a month or two since she sounded so sure of herself. It wasn't until after we hung up that I began trying to process the unexpected turn of events.<br />My sister was taking the next day off work to rush over. The first thing I needed to do was let her know that I may have sounded a false alarm. A nurse, my sister still wanted to visit and check My Mom's vitals. She's the one that came up with the stroke scenario. She wanted to see it for herself.<br />When My Mom first moved to the home one of the caregivers used to call her Lazarus. She'd sleep for hours on end, when this gal would think she was out cold, she'd scare the wits out of her by suddenly walking up behind her in the kitchen.<br />I don't know that I see My Mom getting up and doing any walking, but having my sister take a look at her tomorrow seems like a good idea.<br />I don't want to go through this emotional roller coaster on my own.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-18484447453556554852011-12-07T20:38:00.000-08:002011-12-07T21:04:35.637-08:00Will it EVER be the Right Time??? (November 2011)I left My Mom last night sobbing my little head off. She was slouched to the side in her wheel chair, barely responsive, a little crumbly mess. She looked hopeless. I felt beyond helpless. I don't even know how I navigated the one block drive. I woke up this morning and cried some more while I packed for a business trip. I stopped by the home on my way to the airport and kissed and hugged her as if it were for the last time. When I said "I love you," she mumbled "thank you." More often than not that's been her response lately. Sometimes she still says "I love you too." On those days there's complete recognition of who I am and what we've been through. There's undoubted <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sincerity</span> in the sentiment. She knows it's me and not one of the caregivers she's come to rely on for daily activities.<br />I held it together during the short visit, then cried all the way to the airport, sat like a zombie on the plane and then sobbed and wailed for an hour in the privacy of my hotel room where it dawned on me -- that probably was the last time I would see her.<br />Our physician always called me the ESP Caregiver. I'd take My Mom in for an appointment and say "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">something's</span> not right." He'd always ask me to be more specific with symptoms, I'd tell him I just know it's a urinary tract infection. I could tell by her personality. Sure enough, I'd be right. It took only a couple of visits before he and his nursing staff began to trust my gut instincts. It took three tries to find a suitable, caring doctor for My Mom, we found a gem in Dr. Langdon and his staff.<br />I wished like anything I could call him this time, but I knew there was nothing he could do. My gut instinct told me there was nothing I could do either. There were others waiting to help her this time. As I lay exhausted in the hotel room, I had a clear vision of My Dad and all of My Mom's sisters anxiously waiting to greet her in heaven. It was a heart warming sight, yet heart wrenching all at the same time.<br />We've had the most amazing 3 1/2 years together. Late in life bonding I wish every Mother-Daughter could embrace. They are truly the best years of my life. I have no regrets.<br />I see the love on the faces of those waiting for her, I know it's for the best, yet I wonder if I'll be able to let go...Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-32721885743916460132011-12-07T16:53:00.001-08:002011-12-07T18:11:11.842-08:00Highlights from the Home (September 2011)My sister and I chose a private care home for My Mom. Per state law, it houses six residents max. When Wyn first moved in they were down to only four, so she received lots of personalized attention. Obviously there are pros and cons to going with a smaller home versus a larger fancy facility. New features for family members, like a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">cappuccino</span> bar and frozen yogurt station were slightly enticing, but after the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bureaucracy</span> of the rehab place, it was a no-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">brainer</span> for me. I didn't even factor cost. I wanted a homey atmosphere and control over the care of My Mom. I wasn't sending her back to a big facility to let her decline because "that's the rules."<br />I don't want to hurt any feelings when I describe our private care experience. I have truly adored all the staff that have come and gone over the past year. But yes, they come and go with much frequency. One of the pluses is that the home is directly across the street from my condo -- I can pop in for visits several times a day. I still feel very hands on with her care. (And I never feel like my appearances are spot checks. The system never fails us. It runs like clockwork.) The negative is, the owners don't pay well so the new hires either don't have highly evolved skill sets or they don't stay. They're always nice. That's been a bonus. Same with the food. It's not what I would serve, but with her condition we became more concerned over calorie intake than quality. Frozen fish sticks became part of our lives. We had a couple of amazing people that have stayed the duration, including the facility manager. Overall, the pros by a long shot out-weigh the cons.<br />My biggest concern was feeling comfortable. I still wanted to spend the bulk of the day hanging out with My Mom like I had when she lived with me, but I didn't want to get in the way of household operations. The original three caregivers were amazing at making me feel welcome. "This is your Mom's house. We're just here to help her. You need to act like you're at her home." They meant it. I felt pretty comfortable. I truly feel like all the staff members were extended family and the other residents for that matter too. For the past six months I even sat through dinner almost every night. Partly because My Mom ate better with assistance, mostly I enjoyed the company.<br />We had a number of residents come and go over the year. The house is set up in a ranch design with three bedrooms and baths in wings on both ends and a kitchen, dining area and living room in the center. It doesn't seem like there would be much privacy, but not once did I know when a resident fell ill, unless I was informed by one of their own family members.<br />In fact, twice, I wish I would have known.<br />The first incident took place when we first arrived, last November. I was encouraging My Mom to walk. We made big circles around the ranch home daily using her "wheelie". (She wouldn't use a "walker" because that's for old people, we had to tell her it was called a "wheelie" and sent by rehab to help her regain her strength.) One day I walked her to the opposite wing where we stumbled upon a large group of family members gathered outside a gentleman's bedroom door. It wasn't until My Mom was right in the mix that I realized the situation was dire. Then I had to get her out of there. Now, our 'command' to u-turn is "Alright, let's hokey-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">poky</span> it", that means turn yourself about. Not exactly the kind of phrase you want to say in a hospice situation, but it's the only approach <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">guaranteed</span> to work. I tried it. My Mom swung the wheelie around, but just my luck, she started rubber necking to see what was going on. I had to get her out of there.<br />"Come on, let's see how strong you are," I encouraged. She decided to show off in front of the crowd and picked up a very strong stride heading back to the center of the house. Her head and back impeccably straight. Her gait unbelievably sound. "That's awesome," I continued to coax her away from the drama. "You are walking awesome."<br />She looked at the gathered family members, rolled her eyes and said in exasperation as if I was a nut. "Well, I should hope so. I've been doing it all my life."<br />Luckily they took the levity in stride. I think they even enjoyed a little break from their grieving.<br />Our next interference was a little too over the top to be appreciated by anyone. But again, it was a giant misunderstanding. This one occurred just a few months ago. Another <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">solemn</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occasion</span> and once again, I wasn't aware of it until it was too late.<br />We finished dinner and My Mom was having a particularly good day. I had given her a harmonica for Christmas last year, so I grabbed it out of the drawer and brought it to the table for a little after dinner entertainment. She played her heart out. When she first got the harmonica she could play just about anything. But a few months ago she became stuck on one tune. It doesn't matter what song you sing, she now hums "Oh Susanna." So we sang "Oh Susanna," to the tune of "Oh Susanna," then we launched into a few other old classics, but every time it circled back to "Oh Susanna." A rather raucous, lively version. I was so proud of her and feeling light and happy until, once her little lungs were exhausted, I went to return the musical instrument to the bottom drawer of her bureau. Along the way I noticed the door cracked open on the sweetest little lady's room. She was in her final hours. The cool thing about the private home is that residents stay til the bitter end. Most on hospice. And normally it's a quiet, peaceful atmosphere in which to go. This poor family should have been playing soothing music, praying, quietly soaking in final moments with their loved one. Instead any peace was being drown out by the wails of Oh Susanna, oh don't you cry for me on a cheap harmonica.<br />In this case the family could add the small homey atmosphere to the cons list -- they would have probably much prefered a giant nursing home with very long hallways and My Mom and I housed at the w-a-y opposite end.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-10765965586265109032011-11-17T20:39:00.001-08:002011-12-07T16:53:10.698-08:00Checking In When You're Mentally Checked Out (November 2010)My entire life I promised My Mom she would never have to go to a nursing home. She despised them, mostly because of the smell. I do too, so it wasn't a big deal to pledge to help her avoid one at all cost. As with most things in life, there's always an exception to the rule. We've run into ours. My Mom needs to recover from a broken hip, you have to climb a flight of stairs to enter my condo. The only answer is a short stay at a glorified nursing home, called a "rehab facility." As I wrote when she was still in the hospital, we're thinking if she's losing her mental faculties, she should at least cling to her physical strength. We did our research and picked the best place in town. Nonetheless, I knew the minute she saw the set up she'd break down. It would take a pretty good sales job to convince her to stay. For starters, I knew she needed to be in a good mood when we arrived.<br />Release from the hospital came on a glorious fall afternoon. Rather than using an ambulance, I was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">permitted</span> to transport her in my own car. Our friend and caregiver <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Tasha</span> came along to assist.<br />"She's out of 'jail' for a while, let's have some fun on the way over," I said. The hospital staff alerted the new facility that we were on our way and to expect our arrival. Instead of following orders, we veered off course and swung by the cider mill. Tasha and My Mom enjoyed the last of the fall colors from the car while I ran in for cider and donuts. We made a big deal out of creating a mini picnic for her in the passenger's seat. We were off to a good start on the fun front.<br />For the remainder of the drive to the facility we sang My Mom's favorite songs, continuing to lift the mood. As we pulled to the back of the building we were greeted by a giant statue of Jesus, almost cartoon looking in his robust shape, his arms reaching out as if to greet us. My Mom stretched her arms out and launched into a loud and lively chorus of "Jesus loves me this I know, cause the Bible tells me so!" Tasha and I joined in. The staff that brought the wheelchair to the passenger door probably thought we stopped at a bar on the way over. I whispered that we were just trying to keep the mood light and the two aides now also joined in as we wheeled through the back lobby, onto to the elevator and all the way to her new room on the second floor.<br />The tactic worked. My Mom loved her new room and was particularly elated when she discovered the Jesus statue in view right outside her window. This discovery led her to launch back into the song again. She was happy. What a relief.<br />I didn't mind the place either. The staff seemed friendly, the amenities were nice and there was no foul odor. We were off to a good start, until the admissions clerk entered the room.<br />It's not that she was mean or anything, I just wonder how well she understood older people, particularly one that we've made very clear is in the advanced stages of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dementia</span>.<br />"Do you know why you're here?" she asked My Mom, her clip board and pen ready to record answers.<br />"She broke her hip," I jumped in.<br />"We prefer to speak directly to the patient," she said. I tried once more to explain that My Mom wasn't really capable, but then decided I liked the idea of treating her with dignity. I'd back off.<br />"So, Wyn," the woman got back on track, "I was asking why you are here."<br />"Because Jesus loves me," My Mom answered boldly. Tasha and I stifled laughs. Unphased, the woman continued.<br />"I see. I'm wondering if you know why you were sent to this facility."<br />"Because the Bible told me so." A few giggles escaped, but we tried to hold it together. The woman asked a few more questions. A few, like birth place and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">birth date</span>, My Mom actually got right. Then she asked a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">doozy</span>: "Who in life do you most admire?" she asked.<br />"My mother," My Mom answered without a pause.<br />"What do you remember about her?"<br />"Well, she's about <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">yay</span> big," My Mom said indicating the size of a gallon milk jug with her frail hands. That was it, Tasha and I both burst out laughing. I thought I was going to fall off the little twin bed.<br />The admission process proved thoroughly entertaining. Sadly, it should have been a warning sign. Although the "rehab facility" advertised being equipped to handle all phases of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">caregiving</span> including memory care, they proved inept at dealing with My Mom's mental state and even worse at rehabilitation. It's not entirely the fault of the facility or the staff -- it's mostly the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bureaucracy</span>. My Mom was at the facility to regain strength, but due to fall risk (insurance), she was forced to sit in wheel chair for safety. She wasn't even allowed to walk with my assistance, only a member of the physical <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">therapy</span> team and that was only a half hour 5 days a week. It was a losing battle. I was vocal about the flaws in the system and we were politely told that My Mom could not be helped because of her mental condition -- yes, at a place that has memory care. They knew we were good advocates for our patient and that was bad news for them. We were politely asked to leave. Tragically, the system ruined My Mom in the process.<br />The woman that walked the hospital halls with a walker the day after her minor hip surgery, sang brilliantly as she walked through the front door of rehab, ate well and worked hard during physical therapy sessions, now has crippling back pain (from a flimsy wheel chair) and no leg strength after 10 days of supposed rehab. We had been so excited for this opportunity for My Mom to regain <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">physical</span> strength to compensate for her mental disabilities and now both had <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">diminished</span> under professional care.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-14516635448444470122011-11-17T18:07:00.000-08:002011-11-17T19:30:58.026-08:00Where Have I Been? Exhaustion or Excuses?Where has the past year gone?! I have all sorts of stories yet to tell, but I haven't had the energy or inclination to write them. They're written in my mind, I just couldn't put them on paper.<br />A lot has happened in 12 months. Mostly decline.<br />After two trips to the hospital, then a deplorable stay at a quote "rehab" facility -- My Mom became too weak to remain in my care. I've said since the beginning of this experience that I'd know when it was time to make a transition. I was right. I had no guilt and no remorse when she went to a private care home instead of back to my place last November.<br />What I didn't expect is how long it would take to recover from the exhaustion of caregiving.<br />It's been a full year since we made the move and I'm just starting to feel like myself again. I've got other excuses about why I haven't had time to journal my experiences. I've been busy finding work again, catching up on my social life and riding my horse a little more often (without worrying about My Mom escaping from the car!) I've also been trying to figure out how to find balance and make time for "visits" to the new home where I attempt to continue to spend quality time with My Mom.<br />But mostly, honestly, I think I have just been recovering from exhaustion. Two and half years of sleepless nights, the growing job of helping My Mom through daily activities, and the final duties of round the clock nursing really took a physical toll. More than I was willing to admit while I was still the main provider.<br />This week for a moment I thought the whole experience was coming to an end. My Mom is now pretty much wheel chair bound, and she's becoming increasingly unresponsive. Luckily, she's super content. Unlike most Alzheimer's patients, she still eats voraciously and she doesn't appear to be in any pain. Even when she's completely out of it, her hands and feet keep time with the music therapist who comes weekly to sing and play the guitar. Until this week the decline had been gradual, but Tuesday night My Mom took a dramatic shift for the worse. It turned out to be a bit of a false alarm. A 'bad day' as we call it when people age. But the episode made me confront the inevitable. She's definitely in the final stages of this horrid disease. I can't stand to watch her grow crumbly when there's nothing I can do about it. I think back to her vigor just a year ago and my exhaustion evaporates.<br />The truth is the time we had together wasn't nearly long enough.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-9834773396209250952010-12-19T05:42:00.000-08:002010-12-19T06:14:00.168-08:00Who's Your Patient Advocate? (written Oct. 2010)With a mere two trips to the hospital under my belt, I now feel the need to become a patient advocate specialist. Wow, did we learn a lot. Some from experience, most from other patients and their families. If you ever go to the hospital, make sure you ask around to determine your rights.<br />The first night in emergency, the staff convinced me that I could not leave My Mom unattended because of her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dementia</span>. This would include sitting with her throughout the night. She was on the list for a room, but they had 50 people waiting for beds. I will admit, because of her condition, they were kind enough to keep us in a room in the ER ward. I told the nurse on duty that I didn't mind staying and keeping My Mom calm for the duration, but we arrived early morning, it would be great to get a bite of dinner before I pulled the all-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">nighter</span>. She overwhelmingly agreed and actually encouraged me to run out for decent food. "We'll pull your Mom's bed right here in front of the nursing station where we can keep an eye on her while you're gone." They did and did it well, but she <em>never</em> explained the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">consequences</span>! My Mom and I lost the room! Someone else was wheeled in the moment she was wheeled out. I now not only had to sit with My Mom for a very long night, but in a bright hallway with 50 other patients waiting for a room. Ugh. I squawked enough that we eventually received another room.<br />When we eventually moved up to the fifth floor, I met my first little helper. My Mom's roommate. It was super sad because she's at the hospital way too much for a young mother, but she knew the rules quite well. It turns out the hospital provides sitters -- if you know to ask! How bout that? I didn't have to sit there through the night. Of course I ordered sitters pronto. That came with it's own challenges. First, every shift has their own "policy" for sitters. Some say it's okay to give a 30-minute notice, some say in a militant way they must be on duty for the duration even if family is in the room and some say sitters must be ordered by the doctor. My concern wasn't <em>how</em> the sitter got there, but whether he or she was competent. They work in four hour shifts. After just one day on site, I realized I needed to be present at the beginning of each shift to see who arrived for the job and if I could trust the person. Please trust me, I wasn't being picky.<br />It clearly states on My Mom's chart that she has <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dementia</span>. It's why she needs a sitter. I came in the very first full day on the real floor to find someone yelling at her. "What's the matter?! Don't you know how to use a fork?!"<br />"Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't," I said as I pulled the curtain. "It's one of the challenges of her disease." You would think this gal would be mortified that I caught her in a moment of frustration. Nope. She complained. "Well she won't eat. She won't even eat the pudding." I sent her packing, then sat and watched as My Mom ate the whole dinner. In the hospital's defense, we had a couple of amazing people too. The problem was, it was always a gamble. So, even though I discovered we could use a sitter, it didn't provide much rest.<br />I complained about the inconsistencies to friends.<br />Beaumont posts a mission statement right in the lobby: To provide the best care possible to patients ... and with dignity. The only way I found effective, efficient and compassionate care was to plant myself on site 24/7. I blamed the situation on 'the system' not being prepared for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dementia</span> patients. A friend quickly corrected me. "It's the same for all patients," she said. "When you're that sick, you're equally out of it." She was right. If you're ever really sick, make sure someone peeks in at least periodically to make sure you're getting adequate care.<br />Hospitals are one of the biggest conglomerations in the country these days. Filled with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bureaucratic</span> red tape. It's all about the bottom line for big business. These places are over worked and under staffed. Sometimes a true caregiver can't even help you if they want to.<br />And that's when my friend hit me with the biggest whammy:<br />This is the sad state of our care institutions <em>before</em> socialized medicine.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-35683210389319915342010-10-20T16:28:00.000-07:002010-10-20T17:00:00.204-07:00Back in the Saddle Again...Well, we just went from our first ever ambulance ride and trip to the hospital to two in two weeks! I wish this job came with a manual. It was just as taxing this time to decide if we really had an emergency and whether it was okay to call 9-1-1. Just like last time, it ended up being imperative.<br />The day started out great. My Mom was recuperating beautifully from the infection that sent her to the hospital. After almost two weeks of coma like sleeping, My Mom returned to herself on Sunday afternoon, bright eyed, big appetite and singing her lungs out, including her signature "Back in the Saddle Again" which ends with a specially added "ruff, ruff, ruff."<br />Well, she was back in the saddle again alright and riding a little too hard. She crashed.<br />Up and at 'em early Monday, she decided to dress herself. Unfortunately she overloaded her little arms and fell backward. The thud was thunderous. Unwilling to drop her favorite blue outfit she hit the ground with no arms to break the fall.<br />I ran in, my heart in my throat and found her looking all happy still surveying her clothes. Didn't seem too bad. Our biggest issue would probably be getting her up off the floor. She had been laying around for over two weeks and was pretty weak.<br />"I can help you up," I explained, "but I'm going to have to grab you around your middle. It may be a little uncomfortable, but it will be over in a minute and I'll have you on the bed."<br />"Yea. I'm not buying that idea. How about I'll just stand up myself." Okay, humor was in tact. That reminded me, I probably should make sure her bones were in tact, as well. The only pain she expressed was in her thigh. There was no bruising, no swelling and thank God, no bone protruding. I had her bend and move the leg. It seemed okay. I hoisted her 90-pound body up to the bed. While trying to sit up straight, she began to feel discomfort a little further into the hip. For the next hour I did everything wrong medically -- yet everything right for My Mom.<br />I let her finish putting on the blue outfit -- I mean she worked so hard to go get it and she'd be mortified to go to emergency half dressed. Then I let her eat the toaster pastry I had made her. Last time we went to emergency we didn't eat for hours and she can't afford to loose an ounce. I even showered. It wasn't until I returned to the room to check on the status of breakfast in bed that I saw her wince again. She was in pain. Suddenly the decision to call for an ambulance didn't seem difficult. I would never get her down the stairs and out to the car. I loved her too much to play a guessing game on whether there was a break. We needed professional help and it was time to roll.<br />Beware if you're ever being held at gunpoint or think you have an intruder, it can take a couple of tries to reach 9-1-1. I let it ring almost 20 times, then hung up to find the Sheriff's non-emergency number for assistance. In the meantime, dispatch called me back and we were off and running. At least 8 men responded. I did the usual second guessing, asking if it was really okay to ask them to carry her out and assist us to the hospital. They insisted I was doing the right thing. Same as last time, docs at ER immediately confirmed my poor little Mom was in the right place. She fractured her hip. We'd need surgery. At 90 pounds, I was sure she'd never make it. You hear of elderly people dying after hip surgery fairly frequently. I took comfort in the fact that it was her fashionista sense that led to the fall. She was back in the saddle, full of life and got bucked off. There are worse ways to go.<br />As it turns out, it wasn't her time. That woman not only made it through surgery, she was zipping around the hallways of the hospital the very next day using a walker. She's rebounding from the surgery remarkably well. So much so that we're seeing this as a big break for My Mom. We've decided that if she has to live this last portion of her life without her full mental faculties, she should at least be in the best physical shape possible -- so she's off to a rehab facility. I'm sad to be temporarily without my roommate and partner in crime, but she loves it there and she's excited about getting back in shape. She's also been hilariously funny -- wait til you hear the stories I have to share!! I'll start to post them as soon as I have a "break", pardon the pun, from the action.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-22851723386842102132010-09-28T16:44:00.000-07:002010-12-19T05:41:55.019-08:00The Sky Really Fell<a href="http://blogs.jamaicans.com/metinking/files/2009/01/chickenlittle.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 279px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 294px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://blogs.jamaicans.com/metinking/files/2009/01/chickenlittle.jpg" /></a><br /><div>“Don’t cry wolf,” My Mom would caution almost daily when we were young. Sometimes she’d even tell elaborate stories of a little girl that made up tall tales. One day this little girl found herself in a lot of trouble and really needed help and no one would believe her. I don’t know about my sister, but I would sit terrorized listening to this story. We used to read about Chicken Little and his cries over “the sky is falling, the sky is falling,” too. He seemed a little more annoying, so I was never too concerned over his well being. And from what I remember, he ended up being right anyway.<br />I guess the message got through. I know for sure my sister never made false claims to garner attention and I hardly did either. My most famous cry wolf didn’t take place until third or fourth grade when I maybe overplayed a sprained ankle a little at summer camp. The minor twist really hurt when it happened, but by the time the pain receded I was already getting piggy back rides around the property. Come on, who would pass up that kind of fun?<br />What I don’t understand is why My Mom was so obsessed with that specific type of precautionary tale back then or why she isn’t heeding her own warning now. That woman is so dramatic over a stubbed toe or a brush against her skin, I actually find myself feeling irritated if she complains of pain rather than checking to see if it’s legitimate or not. Not a good MO for a caregiver. And it landed us in a very traumatic situation yesterday.<br />Actually, let me back up to mid July. It’s one of the blogs I didn’t post yet – My Mom and I were leaving the house and she kept acting exhausted. I <em>knew</em> she was faking it, so I insisted she get moving. We made it to the kitchen sink where she grabbed the side of the counter just as her knees buckled and her feet swung out from under her. I was right by her side, grabbed her and the shock of it all brought her back around again in a split second. She became perky and alert enough to continue to head out of the house. The situation left me shaking like a leaf and very aware of how unprepared I was for an emergency. It also reminded me how lucky I had been that in two and a half years of caregiving, I never had to make a trip to emergency and never had to dial 9-1-1. A few of my friends that have begun caregiving for parents have been strapped with medical emergencies on top of the every day duties. My situation seemed like a breeze in comparison. So as we hit the car and took off for our afternoon of fun, I actually began to doubt once again whether my dramatic Mom hadn’t faked at least a little of the incident.<br />Fast forward to yesterday. We had a replay of feigning exhaustion. She had already been in bed for two days and I was convinced oversleeping was the culprit, nothing truly health related. She did have one of her recurring Urinary Tract Infections. The doctor’s office had already called in the prescription, I figured she could go to adult daycare for a couple of hours of activity while we waited for the scrip to be ready.<br />Through closed eyes and grunts we trudged to the daycare. As expected, her eyes popped open and a smile hit her face as we walked through the door to hear “America the Beautiful” being crooned at the sing-a-long. The only problem was her tummy was grumbling to the music as well.<br />The rest of the group soon left for lunch. My Mom and I stayed behind to make a trip to the restroom. Alone, in a room completely constructed of tile, she pulled the “I’m going down” routine. I yelled, I grabbed her head and told her this wasn’t the place to try this antic and then I realized …. she wasn’t faking it. This was a real emergency. Her eyes rolled back, her body convulsed and I abandoned yelling at her and instead screamed for help at the top of my lungs. No one could hear me – and I wasn’t crying wolf. The whole group had gone downstairs to the lunch room. I was in a giant, empty facility, hoisting My Mom’s crumpled body like a toddler on my hip trying to figure out what to do next. First I begged to hang in there. Next I asked forgiveness for not believing she was really sick. Then, fearing we were both going to hit that hard tile any minute, I propped her on the walker and somehow made it back out to the main room. Her head continued to sway back dangerously. My calls for help remained unanswered. I wrestled between staying with her and running for assistance. Survival won out. She somehow stayed propped half on the walker and half on a table while I ran down the hallway to the front desk. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled, still trying to convince myself it was really an emergency. I had never done anything that weighty. “She might be having a stroke,” I added, mostly to convince myself that, yes, this was real. This was that dreaded emergency that any caregiver knows will happen one day.<br />By the time I got back to the room, the worst of My Mom’s episode had subsided. With help, she sat upright. Eyes closed and even more exhausted than early that day, but alive and somewhat well. Well enough that I started thinking I would look like an idiot in front of the paramedics. Who would look like she was crying wolf now? Just as I debated calling them off, they wheeled in. The first thing I did was apologize. They reassured me I was right to call and even started calling out symptoms as if to make me believe I wasn’t crazy. She was still pale, had almost no blood pressure and was severely dehydrated.<br />“I’m starting to doubt she should go to the hospital,” I admitted.<br />“She is bouncing back,” one of the guys said, but you should have her checked out. <em>But a full blown ambulance ride?</em> I thought to myself. It just seemed too dramatic.<br />“What would you do if it was your mother?” I asked.<br />“Don’t ask me that,” the female answered. “I’d leave her here.” At least, comic relief.<br />“What if she was a good Mom, instead of a bad one?” I added. We all laughed.<br />They assured me we were doing the right thing. I admitted, even to my disbelieving self, that at the age of 88 it was pretty miraculous that this was the first trip to the hospital for an old age concern. It was our first use of an ambulance too. (My Dad even drove himself to the hospital when he had a heart attack.)<br />The ER crew confirmed the need for medical attention. My Mom’s raging infection had likely spread to her blood system. A very serious condition. Her heart rate to this moment remains dangerously low. We had to have two talks with hospital staff to agree on no “heroics” if her heart rate or blood pressure dropped any further. “She could slip away tonight,” the doctor told me. “You made a good decision. That’s a peaceful way to go.”<br />Not so peaceful to the caregiver. Not when you know you dragged your Mom out to daycare when it turns out she was deathly ill. This mistake could consume me with a lifetime of guilt. Or perhaps I've stumbled across the reason My Mom read those bedtime stories all those years, maybe it wasn’t to scare me out of crying wolf, maybe it was to prepare me to accept the reality of life. If you cry wolf enough times there are bound to be consequences and it’s not necessarily your caregiver’s fault.<br />The good news is, My Mom survived. She’s quite lucid today and I was able to truly ask forgiveness for not believing her. I even pledged to take action a little quicker next time she claimed to have an ache or pain. We’re being very loving right this second, but when we get home – she’s gonna hear the warning tale of the little girl that tells stories! In fact, I saw a children’s book section in the gift shop. I wonder if they sell Chicken Little?</div>Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-7122358862485036892010-09-18T19:49:00.000-07:002011-11-17T20:14:58.751-08:00Eat, Pray ... Love???My Mom and I had girl's day out today. Two reasons: one I've been traveling a lot lately and I thought it would be nice to reconnect outside of our daily duties, and two, I was fighting with my boyfriend. What a better escape than a chick flick and what a better partner in crime to hang out with than My Mom. She's a sympathetic listener and God bless her, she always sides with me.<br />I didn't really intend for her to be such an active participant in the outing, nor quite so fun, but we really had a spectacular afternoon.<br />My Mom was pretty perky from the minute I announced we were going to the show. She's been failing again mentally and I honestly don't think she knew <em>where</em> we were going. As always, she was game for anything outside the house. Her enthusiasm boiled over like the popcorn spilling out of the popper as we hit the concession stand.<br />"Look at that," she said in complete awe over all the treats in the lighted case. Music to my ears. A girl's gotta binge while she's working out complex relationship issues (also known as sulking). I was thrilled that My Mom was an eager participant in ordering junk food rather than have her critically comment on the potential pounds I might put on as a result. (Yes, she would go there.)<br />Never have I ordered so much -- and the bonus, it was all at her insistence. How could I refuse? We walked into the theater with a giant bag of popcorn, candy, two drinks and even an order of chicken tenders. On the way, My Mom spotted an advertisement for a place that served ice cream. I assured her we'd make a stop there when the movie was over. Quick confession: My Mom never was much of a movie person, so it's even tougher with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Alzheimer's</span> for her to engage with a film. Seeing she was such a trooper at hanging with me, I thought the least I could do was provide a spectacular picnic movie lunch, including somewhat healthy protein from the chicken tenders. She sits quite well through a flick if I bring enough treats. We were prepared to make it through a double feature.<br />We don't go often, but my only real concern in attending a movie is whether she'll talk disruptively once the show starts. I save key pieces of candy for those moments to distract her from any lengthy conversation. She also hums through everything, but the cinema sound typically drowns her out. We've been shushed at church and a small play, but other than that it's been okay. Finally, I always go in the late afternoon when only a handful of people attend and we sit at a respectful distance from the other moviegoers.<br />I really wished that My Mom could understand where we were or the content of the movie. If this had been released in her day she would have taken both of her daughters to see it in an instant. She loved exposing us to other cultures and, even though she was a devout Catholic, she embraced the idea of attaining higher awareness and universal love. I remember when she and I went to see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Gandhi</span> when it came out when I was in high school. She enjoyed the movie for her own sake, but desperately wanted me to love it too. I remember vividly the animated conversation we carried on about the movie as we left the theater and all the way home.<br />I felt that same way toward her as we sat in the theater today. I wanted her to embrace the story. I hoped at the very least she'd enjoy the scenery. It was the kind of the thing the old her would have really appreciated.<br />I never expected her to become absorbed in the movie. My Mom was mesmerized almost from the minute the movie started. First of all, one of the opening scenes featured a baby. She's always enthralled with babies. Then she thought she knew Julia Roberts. She actually laughed at the jokes and elbowed me at one point to ask if <em>I</em> got it. In Italy the female characters were lying on the floor trying to button up jeans. I thought I should explain to My Mom that the girls had been eating too much and that's why the jeans were tight. "I know, she told me," My Mom replied. Hilarious. Indeed, the main character had said they that needed to go shopping for bigger pants in the previous scene. My Mom thought she was part of the discussion.<br />A little later when the Julia Roberts character was crying, My Mom stretched her arm toward the big screen to hand her a tissue. Touching yes, but also a sign of just how distorted My Mom's reality has become. I'm the one that needed a tissue at that point.<br />While My Mom was reaching out to the character in the movie, I was relating. When the book came out multiple people bought it for me and dozens, if not more than a hundred, said it was a 'must read' for me. I didn't make it past the opening chapters back then. The author was <em>so</em> like me, it wasn't even entertaining. I figured if I wanted to relive that type of pain, I would just go back and read my own journals.<br />That was some time ago. I feel differently now. I was anxious to see the movie. I knew it would speak to my soul, so I wanted to be in the right mindset to see it and I wanted to be with the right girlfriend.<br />How awesome that person ended up being My Mom. Today proved to be the perfect day and My Mom the perfect partner to escape to all the wonderful landscapes shown in the movie. She genuinely enjoyed every scene. It was remarkable.<br />My Mom and I appropriately ate our way through the 'Eat' portion of the story in Italy along with the characters. We fully embraced the trip to Indonesia for the 'Pray' portion and then we found ourselves run right off the road to happiness just as we hit 'Love'.<br />A handsome man driving a jeep rolled into town in the film. Immediately I knew it was the love interest. I felt my heart come to life, exactly as a desperate tap hit my right arm.<br />"I have to go to the bathroom," My Mom said as her stomach confirmed the urgency with a loud gurgle. There was no time for disappointment. With swift speed we wheeled out of theater six and made our way to the closest restroom. I needed to contain the pending concession stand <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">catastrophe</span> as best as possible. The treats took their toll.<br />By the time we were done changing and cleaning up it didn't seem worth heading back in for the final minutes of the movie. What <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">good's</span> a happy ending without the romantic build up? I stopped at the customer service desk and they were kind enough to give me a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">rain check</span> to go back later tonight and watch the ending. I have to. As much as I love My Mom and didn't mind for one second having to take her home -- I can't risk what happened today becoming the story of my life -- Eating, Praying then totally missing out on Love.<br />I'll wait until she falls asleep and sneak back to the theater. I don't want to miss out on a happy ending!Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-46081211820598132932010-09-09T18:35:00.000-07:002010-09-09T19:21:37.175-07:00The Dancing Queen and other tidbits from this week...My heart is about to burst. I have My Mom watching Momma Mia while I get a little work done on the computer and I looked up to see her full blown dancing, well, from the waist up anyway. The arms were swaying skyward, punching and swinging to the beat and her face was just beaming as the TV screen transformed her into the Dancing Queen. She caught me watching.<br />"What are you smiling at?" she asked.<br />"I'm thinking this movie looks pretty fun," I said quickly sending my arms into action so she'd continue dancing without feeling like I was making fun of her. Instead, she took a poke at me.<br />"See, this is good for you," she said as she watched my chair dancing maneuvers with interest. "You usually stay back."<br />She's right. I grew up super introverted. She doesn't remember having children, but she remembers my core personality. The shyness has been pretty much gone since high school, but I still slip back on occasion. It made me realize caring for her has really helped me over the final hurdles of living in fear -- we pull some pretty crazy antics. Come to think of it, all the silly things I wish I would have done when I was young. My Mom not only gave me life, but at 88 with full blown Alzheimer's, she's continuing to teach me how to live it to the fullest.<br />We're on "Super Duper Lights are Gonna Find Me" now. I'm not even sure that I have the words right, but regardless, we're singing them at the top of our lungs. We've rewound the scene several times to try and get the lyrics right. Such fun!<br />Monday we performed "I could have danced all night" from My Fair Lady over and over again.<br />(Okay, if we had a Peeping Tom, he'd tell you we play that one often.)<br /><br />I have several stories to post -- I'm sooooo behind!<br />In the meantime, two funny highlights from this week:<br />Tuesday I told My Mom that it was the first day back to school for the kids. I suggested we call her granddaughters to ask how the day went but she was deep in thought, almost as if she was troubled by the news of school starting.<br />"The weather's getting colder, summer's coming to an end, it's time to go back to school," I told her.<br />Her brain whirled, her eyes shifted around the room calculating. What exactly she was thinking about, I had no idea, until she spoke. "I think I'm sick," she said feebly.<br />Seriously?<br />"So you're not ready to go back to school?" I couldn't believe that's what she thought, but I went with it anyway.<br />She clutched her throat and managed to add a little hoarse quality to her words. "My throat, my chest," she complained.<br />I assured her she didn't have to go to school which of course led to a miraculous healing.<br /><br />The next morning we had a distinct fall chill in the air. I turned the heater on to blast a little warm air in her room before waking her up, just as she did for us every fall when we were young. She had a particularly good morning, so after putting her outfit on, I left her to put on her shoes and socks.<br />It's a 50-50 gamble on whether she'll carry out that type of task. If she starts right away, she'll usually stay focused and get the job done. If something in the room catches her eye, she's off target and anything can happen when she tries to remember what she's supposed to do. I've come back in moments later to find her putting on several layers of clothes or collecting pencils from her night stand. That morning she was quite with it and upset that she had misplaced her socks. I only stepped out for 2 minutes, but when I came back she was agitated and rather animated about the loss.<br />"I can't find my socks!" she complained with extreme exasperation. "I just had them!"<br />Sure enough, her feet were bare. I checked the floor to see if the socks had fallen from her lap.<br />"Oh come on!" she said pounding her fists into the air. I glanced up in time to see her animated gestures.<br />"Are you ready for a good one?" I asked her. "I found them."<br />I pointed to her hands. It was a chilly morning all right -- she was wearing them as mittens!Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-7579403395498464582010-06-19T18:38:00.000-07:002010-06-19T19:21:05.478-07:00Help -- My Life is Going to the Dogs!It's not so much that I mind being home on a Saturday night... My Mom, the dogs, the cat and I are enjoying a quiet evening and beautiful sunset. The trouble is we're dealing with fleas. A super minor case, but a major pain in the neck when your Mom has Alzheimer's.<br />It seemed bad enough when I tried to escape into the kitchen to give them each a bath. My Mom would not stay in her chair, she kept asking where I went and trying to get up to come find me. I have an open floor plan so I could see her dangerously teetering out of the recliner chair with the footrest up, she couldn't see me because her chair faces the opposite direction. If only I would have known she'd be so needy today, I would have turned it around <em>before</em> I started Riley's bath. Instead, I had one hand trying to hold a small slippery dog all covered with suds, while I craned my head over the counter trying to prove I wasn't more than ten feet away. The flea soap had to stay on for a full five minutes to be effective, by minute three I had no choice but to abandon the bather and scoot into the living room to put My Mom back in place. Terrified Riley would leap down to the tile floor leading to an even greater veterinary emergency, I gave a stern "stay", "stay" as I cautiously left him and made my way around to the living room. Riley escaped to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">counter top</span>, but My Mom took the command quite well. She heard the order and backed right down into the chair!<br />Maybe that's the moment the transformation took place, honestly I can't be sure, but from there the whole ordeal took an insane twist. Trying to remain in her line of vision, I moved the post bath activities to the living room floor. From there I applied <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Frontline</span>, brushed both dogs and even trimmed their toes. Guess who got jealous? This by far became the most ridiculous behavior ever displayed by My Poor failing Mom.<br />It started as I applied the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Frontline</span> prevention. Here's how the activity went from there:<br />(Late add: one part might seem a little tasteless, but it happened so I'm writing about it.)<br />"What would happen if I got one?" she asked referring to the medicine.<br />"I don't know," I said stunned that she'd even ask for something being applied to a dog. "You'd probably break out in a rash."<br />"I'd like to try it anyway."<br />"You're not a dog."<br />"I know."<br />"And, you don't have fleas," determined to make sure she understood that's a good thing I added "you should be thankful for that!"<br />"I could probably get some," she said brushing her head, as in hopefully she'd get them.<br />Then I began brushing the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sheltie</span>.<br />"That's so nice." She paused as I continued to work. "I'd like to get brushed."<br />"You don't have any fur," I said shocked yet again, looking up in time to see her brushing her own arms with her hands to see how it would feel.<br />"No, but I have these," she retaliated by hoisting her barely there breasts through her shirt.<br />"I don't think you should brush your boobs either," I answered, trying not to laugh and wondering what could possibly come next. I could physically see her processing the situation, so I thought I'd toss a little more ammo in the conversation to convince any good remaining brain cells that she shouldn't compete with the dogs for attention.<br />"Besides, it's a steel brush, it would probably hurt."<br />"If you want to be that way." Pure dejection, until... about a half hour later she saw a yellow bag of treats on the table. She lit up.<br />"Now who put those there?"<br />"I did. They're dog treats."<br />"Well I didn't get one..."<br />What's going to happen when they start a game of tug of war with the pull toy????Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-12430998535276157762010-06-17T08:17:00.000-07:002010-06-17T11:36:01.369-07:00A "Quick" ErrandFirst of all, it goes without say, <em>nothing</em> goes quickly with an 88-year-old Mom whose average pace is a shuffle. It's not just about mobility. Behind the handles of a walker or a shopping cart she can power walk when she wants to, the problem is she needs to absorb every nuance during an outing right down to reading every sign and examining every piece of litter on the ground. Some environments exasperate the situation. The worst culprit for me -- the grocery store.<br />I used to sympathize with the moms who complain about the frustration of stores displaying enticing candy within arms reach of toddlers at the checkout -- I now say you have it easy. Your battle starts at the end of the shopping experience. Mine starts before we ever enter the store.<br /><br /><br />The other night after a long day out, I wanted to run in the grocery store and pick up two items for dinner. I should have left My Mom in the car. I didn't. Instead I coached her. "We've had a long day, we're just running in for two quick things for dinner. We're not actually shopping..." Did I honestly think she'd remember any of that? The "in and out" errand for two items nearly took two hours. It was a Sunday night and the Kroger staff had just finished peppering the <em>entire</em> store with bright yellow cards identifying every single item in the sale ad. My Mom is a shopaholic, she especially loves sales. We encountered the first "deal" on the sidewalk on the way in.<br />"Look at these, they're beautiful," she said beelining her cart to the hanging plants out front. A big bold $19.99 sign hung above the spindly, pathetic looking impatiens. Some of the flowers looked great. These particular baskets were no deal. "Let's take a couple," she said. Not wanting to start a fight, I told her we'd pick them up on the way out. Then in the foyer she found a gas grill for a mere $187 and a GIANT bag of charcoal on sale for, are you ready? Only $9.99. I couldn't convince her that she wouldn't need charcoal with a gas grill, but they were on sale so she wanted both. She already racked up over $200 in pretend purchases and we weren't through the second set of sliding doors yet. Nothing seemed out of her reach financially, but luckily for me the items were out of her reach physically. The plants hung high over head and the grill and bar-b-que supplies were up on a pallet. Inside the door it was another story. Within 3 feet we already had a half dozen 'must haves' including by one get one free coffee cakes, 10 for $10 pineapples (even though there's a one per customer limit), brownies and bread. I somehow pushed through produce, let her take one of the 10 for $10 cheese puffs and tired of hearing "wait, wait" at every single sign, I lured her a little faster into the store with the promise of finding the candy aisle.<br />You have to understand she doesn't just grab everything in site, she actually carefully weighs whether it's a good purchase, which is partly how these expeditions take so long, she just doesn't consider whether she really needs the merchandise. If it's a good deal, it's going in the basket. I couldn't wait for her to start analyzing the candy. There were 3 different types of sales and I was dying to see what made the most sense to her failing, yet often still cunningly alert, analytical mind. Giant Hershey bars were 10 for $10, bags of Willy Wonka chocolate squares were 3 for $6, and packs of Mars candy bars were 2 for $5. Would she notice quantity? Size or servings? Maybe even take the brand name into consideration? I stood back to let her do her thing. Within seconds she made her decision. One of each. "Well, you can't go wrong with chocolate, right?" Who could argue with that?!<br />It turned out to be a really good deal for both of us. She came home with probably 10 pounds of chocolate and I told her she couldn't have one until we hit the checkout which made her really motor through the rest of the shopping. A delight for us both.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-82544690900702407942010-05-31T20:38:00.000-07:002011-11-17T20:26:12.309-08:00My Real Mom for a Moment<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpim3KKZwWCKHulFhGP5Z3sNZlMvhdmpSZQDP690QZTrvv8MChxIOAjgWo8qLTNgGwI_IbQcmxWsN4FCQ0vwuBVLhwBR0EXjsI4ZKQh2AHjj_f5l_1oBLkX5sDskY_rq52g5_UfyNIJ98v/s1600/005.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477653122840327618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpim3KKZwWCKHulFhGP5Z3sNZlMvhdmpSZQDP690QZTrvv8MChxIOAjgWo8qLTNgGwI_IbQcmxWsN4FCQ0vwuBVLhwBR0EXjsI4ZKQh2AHjj_f5l_1oBLkX5sDskY_rq52g5_UfyNIJ98v/s200/005.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div>I adopted a new horse last week. He's just a baby and my horse friends have been awesome at celebrating this first for me, complete with an "it's a boy" baby shower! (I called it a "bridle" shower.) My Mom totally got the humor behind it all and is thrilled to have the It's a Boy helium balloon here at home now. She loves looking at the adorable light blue Teddy bears.</div><br /><br /><div>"Trend" as he's called, went to his first horse show this weekend and I took My Mom out to meet him. I can't tell you enough times how much she detested animals and barn smells while we were growing up, and now she's now practically Dr. Dolittle. She loves our two dogs and Bug Kitty and she's now the very proud grandma of a 3-year-old horse, acting like she's had horses her entire life.</div><br /><div>More celebrations ensued this weekend, including a champagne toast to the new horse. I included two other friends who are also new moms to young horses and I was even more pleased to offer a far more special toast. Although it's always sad to see parents in decline, I'm so proud at the number of my horse friends that are rising to the occasion and caring for their parents. I raised my glass in a toast to them Saturday, but want to acknowledge them again here. Maren, Jacki and Jules all have parents in varying stages of dementia, but they are each being women and daughters anyone would be proud of by stepping in as caregivers to their parents and doing a great job.</div><br /><div>We're forming a little mini community where we can share advice and vent frustrations with each other. As we end the weekend, my biggest advice is to not only enjoy the little moments you often hear about, but to not forget sometimes they need to be created. </div><br /><br /><div>Now that I'm two years into this experience, I'm relying more on caregivers, which means I don't often take My Mom to the places I once did. My reasons are loving and genuine -- I need a break and she's becoming increasingly anxious in unfamiliar surroundings. This weekend I wasn't riding, so it seemed reasonable to take her along with me to the show. I'm so glad I did.</div><br /><div>On the first afternoon we placed chairs in the shade near the stables where we could watch the show from a distance. The atmosphere was incredibly peaceful. "Now this is what I like," she said. I felt the warm breeze, I looked at the rolling green countryside and then I looked at My Mom sitting next to me, both of us taking in the beauty all around us, and I thought "me too." I'm thrilled with the moments when she's genuinely happy in her new life. I was so pleased with her love for the outdoors, I took her back again the next day.</div><br /><div>This time we faced a totally different set of circumstances and in the end, she's the one that had a chance to spread happiness. The champagne toast cocktail party with a bunch of loud, excited women telling stories on top of each other and howling laughing proved a bit overwhelming for My Mom. She was edgy and ready to head home. Instead of leaving immediately, I moved a few chairs out front to the peaceful little plot of earth we occupied the day before. I wanted to try and relive the incredible feeling of having My Mom back for a few moments just like I had experienced the previous evening. Soon others joined and we had a little circle out front -- the perfect place for my show-off Mom to entertain! At my encouragement, I admit, she launched into her Scottish songs, followed by standards from the Sound of Music and Annie. She had the whole gang singing along and two of our youngest girls squealing with laughter when she'd point to them and give them a "boop, boop, boop" when she didn't know the words. </div><br /><div>At first it seemed selfish for wanting to stay, but if I would have jumped and packed her in the car at the first sign of anxiousness, one of the brightest parts of the evening would have never seen the light of day.</div>Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-6755258819959641002010-05-31T19:45:00.001-07:002010-05-31T21:28:36.249-07:00What Was I Thinking?!We ended Memorial Day weekend with a good round of thunderstorms this afternoon and there could be another form of a rumble around here before long if I'm not a little more careful.<br />It all started when My Mom said she hated rainy days -- which floured me. I LOVE stormy weather and rainy days because of how she raised us.<br />When we were little she kept a stash of toys in the linen closet that we could only play with when we were sick or it was rainy. As I grew older I often wondered how the sick thing never backfired on her. Most kids want to stay home from school in the first place, if there are special toys involved, it should just up the incentive, right? I don't recall that being the case with my sister or myself. It must have been understood that we only played with those toys when it was an unavoidable sickness like the measles, chicken pox or the plague.<br />Rainy days, if you think about it, fall in that unavoidable category too. There's nothing you can do about being stuck in the house during a thunderstorm except maybe be scared, or in our case have fun. I think the have fun initiative grew out of someone in our house being a fraidy cat. Probably me, but I honestly don't remember. What I do remember is the feeling of anticipation building at the first sign of a dark cloud. Something special was about to happen. My Mom would gather us close and first we'd talk about how there was nothing to be afraid of as the thunder started to rumble, then we'd bake cookies, play with the sacred toys and often climb into my parent's big queen-sized bed for a group nap with My Mom telling us how awesome it was to listen to the rain as we fell asleep. I still love finding special things to do on a rainy day. Today proved no exception.<br />After My Mom announced that she hated rainy days, I started thinking of all the exciting activities she might enjoy while we were stuck in the house, like painting, baking, or even reading out loud. What I really wanted was a cozy afternoon nap, but she has been up half the night the last three nights, so as much as I could use a little rest, the last thing I would <em>ever</em> allow was My Mom to grab a little shut eye. I needed her as tired as possible so we can both sleep through the night tonight. My dire need for sleep led to a great inspiration.<br />I decided we'd do a little workout, and not the usual yoga stretches, I upped the ante and selected a full blown Jillian Michaels workout from the free on demand service from the cable company. (She's the tough chick from the show Biggest Loser.) I justified that I could use a little extra push as we head into bathing suit season and My Mom could use a little high energy exercise to hopefully grow so tired she just might sleep through the night. She found the new workout routine engaging alright. As always, I made her stay firmly planted on the recliner chair, but her feet were tapping, her legs were kicking and her arms were pumping in all directions as she followed the commands of this new tough TV instructor.<br />Evidently Jillian Michaels came from the world of kickboxing, one of my all-time favorite workouts. She incorporated a number of punching and kicking maneuvers in the sets. My Mom, much to my surprise and dismay (or more likely ultimately my demise), followed along like a pro. Those skinny frail arms were throwing all kinds of punches -- hooks, jabs, crossovers and even an elbow.<br />What was I thinking?!<br />The worst part of having My Mom act like a jack-in-the-box at night isn't necessarily sleep deprivation for me, it's trying to get her out of bed the next morning. In her defense, she's exhausted. In my mind, she needs to get up and back on schedule so we don't continue the cycle. As you know from past entries, the rise and shine routine can become rather ugly. Just in the past few days she tried to break my arm in defiance as I led her to the bathroom, she threatened to "call the cops" and yesterday she told our friend and temporary caregiver Tasha, "I'm gonna scream!" as she took a turn rattling the night owl out of bed. My Mom sincerely meant each and every one of those threats and now I've gone and taught her to punch. And not a sucker or weak punch, no, she just spent 45 minutes practicing hardcore hooks.<br />I can hear her in her bedroom right now humming. It's probably going to be another long night of asking her to go back to bed repeatedly, followed by a rather short morning when I try to wake her up and she knocks me out with a one-two punch. (Does anyone know if being unconscious counts as sleep???)Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-36884164710991297682010-05-24T19:30:00.000-07:002010-05-24T21:01:22.634-07:00Please Sir... Donate to a Good Cause<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBjoJpja6EEGEEK_N44WIbYM51mOJOGqEPY-0pqPa1p6nBb7iSNS4MWW8DcRIBvz_tNVCCpEu6nKQSPDVSDnRbOK8GNnyprU14skYHux0RijVaWLluy_4RBV_Cp_Wd6aVdrjd5XwiFFcr/s1600/bucket.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475052834347512658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBjoJpja6EEGEEK_N44WIbYM51mOJOGqEPY-0pqPa1p6nBb7iSNS4MWW8DcRIBvz_tNVCCpEu6nKQSPDVSDnRbOK8GNnyprU14skYHux0RijVaWLluy_4RBV_Cp_Wd6aVdrjd5XwiFFcr/s200/bucket.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Although it could never compete with singing, arts and crafts definitely ranks as one of the all time highlights of attending daycare for My Mom. I keep saying my condo would now be an art gallery for her creations if she had her way. Her group pretty much makes the same types of things you'd see at a kindergarten classroom: traditional pictures, snowflake cutouts, tissue paper hanging mobiles, story books and even objects made out of brown paper bags. Almost every creation involves gluing on glitter or little heart shaped or star type cutouts.<br /><br />Most of the artwork would be the type of thing you'd hang somewhere in the home either with a little scotch tape or sometimes a convenient little string incorporated into the design. And most of the time, a day or two counts as a full showing before My Mom forgets about it and the piece can be retired out of sight.<br />Neither proved the case for this Coolwhip container. She's had the thing a full year and refuses to part with it. The worst thing is, I can't seem to find a purpose for it -- and believe me, I've tried!<br />It's not deep enough to create a center piece of some type. It doesn't drain, so it can't hold a plant and sadly, it's just too unattractive to fit in with any decor.<br />I tried using it to hold her pens and pencils, but the opening was too wide. On a great brainstorm, I bought ping pong balls and created a game where she had to toss the plastic balls into the little bucket. It sat on her lap, and she'd flip the balls into the opening. A great exercise for dexterity -- until the dog and cat decided to play and rebound her misses. We now have two sets of mangled ping pong balls, pierced with teeth marks. And the little bucket, as of last week, was back to serving no purpose except collecting dust.<br /><br />I let it sit around. I thought maybe, if it sat on display long enough, she'd grow tired of it, just as she does with all her other creations and we could finally put it away.<br />Instead, daily she'd pick it up, inspect it, comment on its beauty and one afternoon, to my utter surprise -- <em>she</em> found it's purpose!<br /><br />I had walked out of the room for who knows what, and walked back in to find her with a pathetic little look on her face. She held the bucket in both hands, stretching it gingerly toward me.<br />"Please sir... could you help me out?"<br />A beggar's bucket?!<br />"Could you make just a small donation? I'd be so appreciative."<br />My Mom relished the part and played it so well, I had to go get a dollar and drop it in the bucket. Her face changed instantaneously from starved peasant to elated lottery winner. She would have kicked her heels if she could.<br />"Wow! I'm outta here!" she exclaimed, pretending to bolt from her chair.<br />This is why I have My Mom. She makes me laugh til I cry at least once a day. Surely that's complete payment for taking care of her -- although come to think of it, she's now the one hustling for money.<br /><br />Just like everything else, I thought she'd quickly forget about her latest antic, but the next day when the caregiver arrived she was at it again. This time with a bigger story.<br />"My family has no food. Please, could you please help put food on the table?" she uttered in a weak voice followed with a feeble grin. (We're still awaiting the dentures, so the missing teeth truly help her cause.)<br />I went and grabbed a couple pennies to drop in the bucket to appease her.<br />"Cheapskate!" she called out. We were howling. Trying to set the caregiver up for a good evening while I went out to dinner, I gave her a five dollar bill to toss in. The move catapulted her to instant hero status.<br /><br />Interestingly enough, this is not My Mom's first foray into begging. She and her sister Sarah actually got in trouble for singing and dancing on the boat to America when they traveled to this country with my Grandma from Scotland. People evidently threw money at their feet while they performed. The oldest sister tattled and my Grandma made them return the money.<br />I asked My Mom if she remembered that story. She was only six or seven at the time. She said she did, but she made no correlation to the current begging gig. Evidently receiving payment for showmanship falls into a different category than straight up panhandling. Or keeping in mind this whole begging thing is an act as well, maybe she just doesn't want to break character long enough to talk about it, after all she's netting quite a haul.</div>Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-89787199738771941652010-05-17T18:43:00.000-07:002010-05-17T20:19:40.684-07:00What Will I Remember?My Mom's had some pretty rough days lately, which reminds me that this disease of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dementia</span> will progress. Some day it will be time to transition to a home and one day she won't be here any more.<br />I'm positive she'll go to heaven, so when I contemplate her final days it's not in a morbid or sad way. In fact, the thing that plagues me is actually pretty funny. I wonder exactly how and when her brain will kick back into gear. When someone with a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">debilitating</span> illness passes, the comment is always "well, she won't be in pain anymore," right? So I'm wondering, when exactly will my Mom be free of the faulty brain wiring?<br />I'm assuming when she gets to the pearly gates she'll be greeted by and actually recognize my Dad, her sisters and brother, her parents and all the great friends she has had in her life. I'm counting on the fact that she'll know she's in the presence of God and be rewarded by the peace and glory of the afterlife. But then I'm wondering, if after she absorbs the awe of it all, will she wonder where the hell she's been for the last 10 years?<br />Will God give her recharged brain a quick replay to show her the great care my Dad provided in Florida, then the big move to Michigan when she came to live with me? I'd love to see the look on her face when she discovers she became an animal lover and the life of a party with her singing and dancing. I wonder if she'll be as perplexed as we are over where she came up with the song "High Jokes the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kiltee</span>" and how it has become her signature song?<br /><br />My other big question is, how will I remember her? What will be my lasting image of My Mom?<br />A friend echoed the sentiment of so many people the other night when he said that I will never regret caring for my Mom. It's true. I already cherish every minute spent with my Mom in these new conditions -- on so many different levels. But if I'm completely honest, mostly our time together fills the void of never having my own children. She's my toddler and I thoroughly embrace and even nurture her childlike qualities. I don't see her often as my Mother any more.<br />So, I can't help but wonder how will I recall her after she passes...<br />Will I remember the woman that walked out the door each morning dressed in a power suit carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a purse in the other, one of the few working Mom's of her day? Will I remember what a great athlete she was, so proud bringing home golfing trophies even late into life? Or even how excited she was when her girls were old enough to buy gifts for her on their own so she'd get a great new golf outfit for Mother's Day rather than fuzzy animal head covers from my Dad?<br />Right this minute I don't remember that woman very well. Even when I look at old pictures I have trouble remembering my Mom for who she once was.<br />For once, I'm living in the moment and my moment right now is looking at the water color picture she brought home from daycare today. It's sloppy, with way too much paint in one area and hardly any in another. We critiqued the artwork driving home tonight. She knew it wasn't good. I assured her that was the charm of watercolors. I even took her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">new found</span> art ambitions seriously and told her if she wanted to paint more deliberately, she should switch to oils. She agreed and ultimately embraced her latest creation.<br /><br />So, will these new moments be the memories I cherish the rest of my life? Will my refrigerator be filled with pictures that look like they were created by a 3-year-old? Or will I eventually box these new achievements away and return to remembering my Mom's amazing accomplishments from days gone past? Maybe time will be the great equalizer and allow me to recall all the facets of our amazing, evolving relationship with the same intensity.<br />I hope so, but I really don't know.<br />I do know one thing. Even though images of my former Mom aren't as strong as I'd like them to be, there's no question I've taken on the job of caregiver because of the woman she was and the woman she molded me to be -- I'll never forget that.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-4736992227545353612010-04-27T08:44:00.000-07:002010-04-27T09:25:51.637-07:00SpringI just love the first signs of spring...<br />The trees and flowers are in bloom, the weather is getting warmer and My Mom is riding shotgun again.<br />She had been sleeping half the day away all winter. I figured we were experiencing a new part of aging. I warned others if you tried waking her before noon it was like rousing a bear. Well, the analogy wasn't too far off. She appears to have been hibernating during the cold months!<br />Twice this week she was up and fully dressed with the sun -- catching me quite off guard I'll admit. I took a quick trip to Atlanta Friday. A friend and I left for the airport at 6 am. I told our caregiver if she arrived any time before 9 that would be fine -- it should have been.<br />I had a text message at 7 with the following: "Good thing I got here early. She's up and dressed in at least 50 layers of clothes!"<br />Murphy's Law, right? She must have heard me leave the house or something. Mystified by the whole clothes layering phenomenon, I've spied on her to figure out how it works.<br />She shuffles over to her shelves. (I keep clothes out in plain site specifically so she can still dress herself.) She eyes a "favorite" sweater and puts it on. Once it's in place she seems to forget about it. She eyes another favorite and puts it on... The cycle continues until she either a.) somehow manages to layer them all, which seems to have happened Friday, or b.) I catch her in the act and remind her that we have to take the pajamas off first. It really is pretty funny, but not as entertaining as riding with her in the car.<br />I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying having her back on outings again. She rides kind of low in the seat observing everything and anything passing by. Sometimes she'll read every sign, sometimes she gives commentary on people, sometimes we talk about life.<br />I've mentioned it before, but it doesn't hurt to say it again. There's something about being in the quiet cabin of the car that helps her focus. We have our best conversations in the car. She's almost lucid in the passenger seat. In the past few weeks we've been to a horse show, out to eat with my sister and her family, even just grocery shopping and every time the real treat is talking in the car. It's like I have my real Mom back as we travel from point A to point B.<br />She's full of life and jokes. She has renewed energy. A little too much energy some days. The trip to Atlanta was to find a new horse. I'm not positive yet that it will all work out, but as an activity last night, I asked her to give the new horse a name. She studied the pictures for quite some time and finally said, "I tell you what," her eyes glistened as she concocted a plan, "let's take a little ride and go see him!" She was so excited at the prospect of going on an adventure. "That would be awesome," I said, "but he's not here yet. He's still down in Georgia."<br />My Mom contemplated the news for about a millisecond. "Okay, then let's just go for ice cream!"<br />Like the flowers throughout our subdivision, she's definitely come back to life after a long dormant winter. "Sounds great!" I answered, confidently relying on her fleeting memory. At a few strokes before midnight, it was no time to be running around town.<br />Instead, I enjoyed watching her enthusiasm just at the thought of once again being on the go. She's definitely blossoming again and I suspect, we're going to make it through at least one more season.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-22846239414217768642010-04-12T18:06:00.000-07:002010-04-12T20:59:23.895-07:00When You're Smiling...My Mom smiles at everyone and everyone smiles back. She really brightens a lot of days.<br />So there's nothing I wish more than that she had better teeth.<br />Sadly, what should be her 'pearly whites' are more witch-like these days. I'm not being mean. She's visited the dentist quarterly for as long as I've been alive, it's absolutely not her fault.<br /><br />She spent the first six years of her life in Scotland where they never used fluoride. The damage from those early years was insurmountable for any human, and any dentist. The first time I stepped up as advocate for my aging parents was with a secret call to the dentist. I told Dr. Magar I'd pay for tooth whitening and he could tell her it was covered by insurance. She is such a beautiful lady, I didn't want her to miss out on the latest technology that may help recapture a little sparkle. That saint of a dentist personally took my call and spent a good half hour explaining that although he'd be glad to take my money, no whitening on the planet would work. My pretty hip Mother, it turns out, had already requested whitening on her own and received the same answer. She suffered from a 20-some letter condition that I no longer recall, mostly a direct result of poor dental care as a child that caused premature discoloration and eventually decay.<br />There was no way around it. Her teeth and gums would be the first features to betray her age and beauty. Her failing brain would soon after prove too unpredictable to do anything about it.<br /><br />When My Mom came to live with me, my first order of business was to get a second opinion. I was determined to help enhance her smile. Two dentists. Two opinions. Both the same. You can't cap bad teeth or you heighten chances of severe infection. Dentures, in general, don't work with dementia patients. The primary reason, they lose them. It's best to leave the teeth they have in place. They might not constitute a full set, but at least they're permanent.<br />Now that we mingle regularly with other Alzheimer's patients, I've accepted the dental status. I don't think much of it when I see a tooth missing here or there on our new friends and I've yet to see anyone react terribly adversely to My Mom's lackluster smile. But even though the twinkle in her eye compensates for a sparkle in her teeth, I kept holding out hope that somehow, someday, she could snag a better smile.<br /><br />Well, the time has come. She's begun losing enough teeth that the only option is to pull them all -- creating a now or never time to try dentures. It's kind of a last ditch effort. Nothing to lose, except, of course, her new teeth if they're carelessly wrapped in a napkin, left on a dinner plate, or I just heard, perhaps flushed down a toilet...<br />Hoping she won't have the track record of my high school retainers, we thought we'd give it a shot. I expected my heart to be filled with joy at the thought of her getting a great big new smile. I thought I'd be ecstatic. I was wrong.<br />I'm a wreck. This is by far the toughest decision I've ever had to make as a caregiver, maybe even the toughest decision of my whole life.<br />We went to see the specialist today. He couldn't have been kinder, sweeter or better with My Mom. She was in a very upbeat mood, all excited about the prospect of getting a smile like mine. In the car, on the way to the appointment, I very seriously explained the situation, including that although she'd get a great new smile, they'd have to pull teeth to make it happen.<br />"I want a new smile," she said very confidently. Pause. "I <em>deserve</em> a new smile." We had lowered the vanity mirror on the passenger side for her to assess the situation. She looked side to side at her face as we discussed the topic. "Do you think he could shave a little off my nose too?"<br />(Note to self: It might be time to cut back on the Hollywood entertainment news shows...)<br />That very vanity was my selling point for convincing our primary dentist that My Mom just might keep the new teeth in her mouth. Wyn has always been concerned about looks, which makes her a better than average candidate for dentures. I felt so confident about the decision as we entered the office.<br />The specialist met all my expectations. He was kind, gentle and so good with My Mom. It's the most personality she's ever expressed with strangers. Then he said he'd be happy to perform the extractions himself. He went on to say he had done them <em>a lot</em>. In Egypt. Tons of them. My dark mind spun out of control. Where exactly had he accumulated this vast experience? In a torture chamber?<br />My Mom still has 19 teeth. Who am I to say 'let's yank them all out'? The whole process of replacing the teeth takes almost three months. This decision would leave her gumming-it for a minimum of 10-12 weeks.<br />The prospect of putting her through that kind of pain practically paralyzed me. It took all the lure of a new smile right out of the equation. Who would decide the price of beauty when it came to My Mother? Not me. I did the only thing I could think of, I deferred the decision to my sister.<br />She jumped in where I left off. With even more questions. How many teeth would he pull at a time? With My Mom's condition, could she alert us properly if she was in pain? What would she eat? Would she understand the gum look was temporary? That we weren't trying to torture her? Paranoia is a strong component of dementia. She might think we're selling her teeth on the black market or something.<br />While everyone else in the dental world seemed to only be concerned over the odds of her losing the dentures, cost didn't even factor into our concerns. We only cared about comfort.<br />Then we analyzed the other side. What if we left the teeth as is? The front one already cracked. Infection and choking on one were potentially serious consequences. But those side effects at least would be caused by Mother Nature. We wouldn't be to blame.<br />As we prepared to leave the dental office today, I turned to My Mom one more time, hoping the environment would solidify the seriousness of our decision. Honestly hoping she'd show me a remarkable moment of clarity and make the decision herself.<br />"You can have a new smile, but you heard the dentist. He'll have to pull all your teeth first, to make that happen. Do you still want a new smile with dentures?"<br />My Mom didn't hear me. She was too busy interacting with her new friends, Dr. Badr and Pam, the receptionist. She went from being the sophisticated woman gazing in the car mirror an hour earlier, to a child, amused over the toy cars, horses and stuffed animals displayed in the office. Pam gave My Mom a little stuffed bear and she lit up. The joy on her face made her current smile beam like a million bucks. "I'm naming him My Boy," she said with such joy. "Oh, I loved meeting you," she gushed. "I'll come back here a lot."<br />We all laughed at the irony.<br />"Yes you will," I answered. "If all this goes through, you'll definitely be visiting here <em>a lot</em>."<br />If only I could be convinced she'll come out of the process with the same enthusiasm.<br />Seeing her smile at these new people today. Knowing the joy she experiences over a good laugh. Seeing the sad state of her poor little mouth today. It seems worth a shot.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-33502842100467433852010-04-06T21:11:00.000-07:002011-12-17T13:51:12.765-08:00To Tell the Truth?I've been using real life flashcards with My Mom again. In other words, instead of holding up cards with pictures of objects, I point to the real thing.<br />It can be an object, like a candle, or a living, breathing being like one of the dogs. <br />Tonight we covered "plate, cup, bowl, fork, knife and spoon." I wrapped the exercise with my usual final question. "And who am I?" It's always a gamble on whether she'll answer correctly. Sometimes I'm a "really good friend," sometimes "her sister," or sometimes she'll deflect with a crafty "well I hope you know who you are."<br />Tonight she was spot on. "I know. You're my daughter," she said quite proudly. Upon closer observation she added, "but I might not recognize you for much longer."<br /><em>Wow</em>, I thought, <em>is she acknowledging her crippling mental disease</em>? <br />"You're getting fat," she said bluntly, puffing out her cheeks and patting her belly. I can't be offended, she wasn't wrong. I had definitely put on a few pounds lately. <br />The problem is, she speaks the truth a lot lately and it's mortifying when she does it to other people.<br /><br />Last year a good friend of the family came to visit. I've called him Uncle Bill my whole life. My aunt raised his wife. Sadly, his wife died fairly recently and he reached out to us as family at the holidays. He came for what I'm sure he hoped would be an uplifting Christmas experience.<br />Poor Uncle Bill. He walked into the living room with a big smile on his face and embraced My Mom. I could tell she recognized his voice, but had trouble placing him, so I introduced him to her.<br />"Oh my goodness, I would have never recognized you!" She sized him up, taking in every feature. "Look at all that gray hair."<br />"Yea, well, I guess we're all aging," he said, handling the comment good naturedly. I jumped in prompting other conversation. A few minutes later My Mom asked who he was again. Same routine:<br />"I don't even recognize you," she said.<br />"I know, the hair," Bill said, still trying to laugh it off.<br />"And you've gained a lot of weight," she added. I could have died.<br />It's not just weight and hair, she'll critique anything that catches her eye -- which is quite a bit, especially when you consider she only has partial vision.<br /><br />When I first started hiring caregivers I really worried about what she might say to them, but so far she seems to win them over well enough in the good moments that they, like me, aren't too terribly offended when she throws a verbal zinger.<br />In fact, one caregiver, Emily, recently relied on My Mom's candor. I'm known for my being a good cook, however, I admitted I wasn't sure about a batch of matza ball soup right before serving. A guy I was dating at the time had put in the special request. I had him try it in front of My Mom and Emily. Truly a recipe for disaster. In this odd family affair, I dished up a bowl for the date, one for My Mom, then started to serve Emily. She hestitated. The date took a sip and said it was good, but that wasn't good enough for Emily.<br />"I'll wait until Wyn tastes it. She'll tell the truth."<br />Thank goodness, My Mom loved it, and of course, said so.<br /><br />Luckily the truth can go both ways, critical and complimentary. She'll often tell me I look nice, or that my teeth look good. Virtually every night, regardless of what transpired that day, My Mom will tell me she "had the best day ever" as I tuck her in to bed. No matter how rough of a day it really was, I know in that moment that's what she believes. And as I close the bedroom door whispering one last good night to my now very content Mother, I leave whatever earlier stress we experienced behind and reflect on how grateful she sounded. In that moment it becomes the best day ever for me too.Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-40103503911289903342010-04-05T12:23:00.000-07:002011-12-17T13:32:35.934-08:00Uh-oh....Guess who's legitmately sick today???<br />And guess who's finally feeling better and not in the mood to be homebound???<br />I just made My Mom chicken noodle soup. Wondering if I can sneak out and ride my horse? Maybe if she takes a good nap...Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-15729760413130604442010-04-04T06:33:00.001-07:002011-12-17T13:31:51.802-08:00I'm sick. No I'm Sick....I'm finally feeling better, much better after a knock down, drag out sinus infection. I was already feeling a little lousy when I wrote the last entry. The minute I hit "post" I realized my foggy brain forgot to add the couple of funny stories about where we used to go as kids when My Mom handed us off, and now all the crazy places she's been and people she's probably met now that I hand her off... I just couldn't pull enough energy together to write a post.<br /><br />As it would go, My Mom was still completely in "go mode" when I needed life to come to a screeching halt this week. She gets 'jazzed up' as she would call it from being on the go. It's as if someone pumped caffeine intravenously into her frail little body. For two full days now I've desperately needed rest and she keeps acting like she's on speed. We've been hanging out in the living room where I can lay on the couch and keep an eye on her. Every two to three minutes she has both feet off the recliner footrest asking me "are we ready yet?" or saying "okay, let's go." At first I humored her, "Where do you want to go?" I'd ask. Completely buzzed up from all the action she experienced the previous few weeks, she was literally game for anything. The question gave her brain some much needed exercise as she struggled to think up an answer. "Well... you know, there." Not good enough. "No, like where?" I pushed her. Realizing I wasn't budging until she came up with a solid plan, she really put her thinking cap on. "How bout the movies?" she suggested. My Mom never wants to go to the movies, but evidently anything seemed a viable option that day compared to being home bound. Later she added we could go to the store, home, or a couple times even to see her mother (who passed away almost 30 years ago.)<br /><br />By the end of the second day of feeling lousy I couldn't take her jack-in-the-box behavior anymore. I decided it was time to really push the sympathy route. "Mom, I'm really not feeling well," I moaned. She looked genuinely compassionate. "You should have told me," she said. I could have laughed. I've done nothing but tell her I didn't feel well for over 48 hours. This was, however, the first time I groaned as I said it. That must have been the necessary emphasis to catch her attention. She was always great at caring for us when she was able-minded, the nurturing skills kicked in to gear. "Honey, you should have a good Hot Tottie and be in bed." (For the Scottish, whiskey is the number one cure-all. We use it for a multitude of ailments, starting with teething as a baby.) I thanked her for caring and told her what I really needed was to rest. "You need to relax and stay on the chair for me to do that," I said. She still wanted up and about. "I'll go get you something to drink," she replied, both feet back to teetering dangerously over the edge of the footrest. I desperately wished she could care for me, but the reality is she's much to unstable to wander around on her own. She also wouldn't know what to do or where to find anything once she hit the kitchen. Just to see what she'd do if I accepted her offer, I played along. The reason she doesn't know her way around the kitchen is that she always has an excuse to get out of cooking or cleaning these days when I try and include her. <br />"Okay a little juice would be good," I said. Sure enough, that did it. The thought of work sent her lazy little fanny plunking right back into the chair. Then she set out to make sure nothing further could be asked of her. Leaning back she now started to moan, raising her head to her forehead. "I'm the one who needs juice... I'm all clogged up." I wanted to say "Are you kidding me?!" but at least she was safely sticking to the chair for the moment.<br />I let her play sick for a while to keep her planted in the chair, but as this ridiculous sinus infection raged on, I needed her to help herself a little bit more than usual. Bedtime that night proved difficult. "Okay, get yourself into your pajamas," I coached. Pause. "Please, Mom, I'm really not feeling well."<br />"You're not feeling well? Look at me." She made her voice weak and raspy to match mine, and she even feigned a little fake cough. "My throat, my head," she gave a side look over at me taking inventory to see if she missed any major symptoms, "my chest. I'm a mess."<br />"I bet you are Sarah Bernhardt." She used to call us Sarah Bernhardt when we were little when she thought we were acting. Evidently Sarah was a contemporary of Mary Pickford or something. All I knew is that it was an insult. Well, what goes around comes around. It was my turn to use the term. My Mom could win an Oscar for this performance. She was as irritated as I used to get for being accused of acting. In fact, she was down right indignant. She sputtered a cough and tried to eek out a few tears. "No one even cares. Here I am so sick and I'm trying to do all this myself."<br />'All this', for clarification, encompassed putting her right foot into the pant leg of her pajamas. She absolutely looked on the brink of a breakdown over the small task.<br />And so it went on, for three very long days. Any time I coughed, sneezed or tried to speak, she too cough, sneezed and wheezed -- matching my ailments point for point. I guess looking back, I'm glad she only caught a fake cold. I was concerned that whatever I had might be contagious. Trying to care for her and myself if she was really sick would have been a lot to manage.<br />(Side note: We're 'both' on the mend this weekend, so I've got her back on the move. Last night we braved a rain storm to go shopping. We bought her a cute new mint green sweater which she'll wear today when we're once again heading out -- this time for Easter brunch.)<br />Enjoy the spring weather!!Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7837070061519718020.post-12432774417077194982010-03-27T07:46:00.000-07:002010-03-27T08:36:14.391-07:00If Everyone had a NikkiFor a long time I've said "If everyone had a Nikki, anyone could be a working mom."<br />Nikki is the very first person that came to help care for My Mom. She's remarkable. Two summers ago, I came home from a long day of work to find all the laundry clean and folded, the house vacuumed, My Mom was showered, her hair styled and, are you ready? -- dinner on the stove! A working woman's dream! And it saved me from a horrible nightmare. A big summer storm hit an hour later, knocking power out for 5 days. No one had electricity, not even businesses. So while the unprepared couldn't even order a pizza, we ate a lovely candle lit dinner. As the power outage stretched for days, I kept thanking God for Nikki -- we had a clean house and a pile of clean clothes to carry us through.<br />This week while at our house, Nikki remembered my sister's birthday and had My Mom call and leave a message. My sister called me crying. "Nikki had Mom call. She sang in tune and sounded so happy!" she gushed. "I'm keeping the message." What a gift. They all spoke later that night which only heightened the joy.<br /><br />Honestly, I've had great luck with virtually every person that's walked through the front door. While so many people insist on carrying out the burden of caregiving alone, I don't have any trouble hiring help. Maybe that's due to to My Mom.<br />I remember distinctly when my sister and I were little My Mom explaining her theory on babysitters to friends and family: "You need a break," she'd say. "It's healthy for us to have a little couple time (referring to her and my dad) and it's good for the girls to have a little independence and spend time with other people." She'd always say she'd come back from a night out or weekend off refreshed and a better, more patient parent. Part sales pitch for taking off for a fun golf weekend, part true belief I'm guessing.<br /><br />Now that I'm in her position, I'm heralding the same message. Dementia patients become very dependent on their caregiver, to the point of being dangerously obsessive. By bringing in a variety of people, I keep her less focused on needing just me and I'm preparing her for the ultimate transition to a facility when the time comes. Odds are she'll have to go to full time care some day. Imagine how jarring that move would be if she'd relied soley on me for the past two years?<br />Now who sounds like she's making a bit of a sales pitch? I use the help when I want to ride my horses regularly or travel. I just returned from almost three weeks straight on the road. The duties were divided between Nikki and my friend Tasha. I'm happy to say I was completely confident the entire time I was gone. Part of the trip, as you know was to New York. It was one of the best weekends of my life -- I have to credit these two fabulous women for instilling me with the peace of mind to fully enjoy myself without worrying whether everything was okay back at home.<br />A lot of people ask how I find good people. I wish I had a more scientific answer. The truth is I pray for the right solutions and the ability to recognize the right person for the job. I started out using agencies, but was sorely disappointed. I started with a big name firm. The local branch and the woman who ran it came highly recommended. It was summer, I had the front window open and I literally heard her greet a candidate on the sidewalk and tell her to act like she had worked for the agency for a while. I was appalled. Another agency left me hanging on a morning I had a huge presentation to give. When I called at 7am, (after waiting since 6) the manager said "just leave your mom, we'll have someone there by 10 or 10:30." Was she kidding? How can you trust care to someone willing to abandon you for more than 3 hours?!<br />With that record from supposedly proven sources, I decided I could do just as well on my own. I ran an ad in the paper, prayed and ran background checks (not too high tech, but better than meeting on a sidewalk...) Just the mention of a check weeded most bad applicants out. Upon hearing I'd run a profile, one woman was forced to admit she was calling me from a drug treatment center and she then confessed, her boyfriend, who drove a cab, might not be all that reliable at getting her to my place on time. She bowed out on her own.<br />Most of my luck these days is through word of mouth. We've had a friend's mom, a friend from the barn, and a couple of nursing students. Nikki took a full time job, but she's still in the mix too. She's been part of our family for the full two years. Even though she looks nothing like me (we'll have to post a photo), My Mom doesn't seem to notice when she and I change places. It's become seamless. And the two of them have a great time together. We have Nikki's mom, Doris, in the mix now too. Extended family!<br /><br />I'm not going to lie, I'm a prima donna and I love having the help, but more importantly, I love each of the people who have entered our life through this journey. While it's awesome to come home and find the bed made, a little laundry neatly folded and, of course, My Mom looking bright and chipper -- the added joy these women bring to our home overpowers everything else.<br />My Mom has a ton of fun experiences along the way too. She becomes part of the other women's lives -- going shopping, to dance class, family parties and even for rides in a convertible. She loves the action.<br />The truth is, My Mom was right all those years ago -- the break does us both good. It does My Mom good to mingle with fresh faces and I come home refreshed. I don't have the burden of catching up on chores and I can give full attention to the one who deserves it most -- My Mom.<br /><br />Thank you to all the wonderful people who make our life complete!! And completely wonderful!!Mom to My Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06396128748688968284noreply@blogger.com0