Mom & Me Five Archive

    My better judgment tells me I should be fleshing out some of the more important catch up posts, the beginnings of some of which have been sitting in the draft stage for a couple of months, but, well...I feel newsy, at the moment.
    The sale of our car will be unofficially completed on Tuesday with the transfer of cash and title; officially completed on Friday, when the new owner-to-be comes by with a temporary three day registration and drives the car off our property. He's got the battery in his possession as we speak, charging it in the hopes that it will allow him to drive the car home. Otherwise, he and his brother will tow it off our property.
    We developed a plumbing problem which required partial repiping and rerouting of the plumbing underneath our kitchen sink. The surprise wasn't that the problem came to a head; it's been predicted since we've owned the house by every plumber or handyman who's worked in there; it's that the nasty plumbing mechanics underneath our sink held up for ten years. Finally, due to a minor garbage disposal clog of which I wasn't aware, when I ran the dishwasher Tuesday night a connection blew and I awoke Wednesday to a sloshing kitchen floor. Although insurance would have taken care of the clean-up, I wasn't interested in waiting. The under-sink cabinet wasn't affected...the water drained out of there quickly. The plumbing, of course, wasn't covered by insurance, so we're looking forward to the money from the car sale.
    This put a hitch in our hired yardwork plans, though. I decided it would be best if we only hired our guys for one day this week, yesterday, and wait for two weeks for another visit. I'm not sure how much more concentrated hired work we'll need this season. Between the two or three (one of them has classes on Fridays...the other two work for an earth moving company Mondays through Thursdays), our entire property is shaping up very nicely. Yesterday was dump day. Three loads and one more to go. Most of the wood harvested from dead trees is going on our woodpile, of course, but we don't need any more kindling and certain types of branches, like pyracantha, are not good for burning. A couple of the dead trees are staying because they house bird and rodent families. I've directed the guys to leave the last quarter of our property alone in order to encourage wild animals. They'd love to get their hands on it, but they've been good about restraining themselves. So, now, we have three well defined zones: Domesticated, semi-wild and wild.
    Yesterday, on their third dump run, a truck from K-Mart was dumping flat after flat of a variety of plant seedlings. The experienced gardener in my group asked the driver if there was something wrong with the plants...insect or chemical infestation. The driver said, no, they just weren't selling. Hordes of dumpers descended on the plants. My guy picked up some basil plants (a couple of varieties) and one tomato plant for us and several seedlings for his garden. He set ours in yesterday after the dump. I can't help but muse that the female member of our neighbors to the west, were she alive (she died a couple of years ago) would be relieved that I'm finally gardening. Yesterday evening, while Mom was napping, I picked up one of those tomato fences that is supposed to control the growth of the plant and keep it from sagging all over itself. It should afford a bit of protection from nibbling visitors, as well. I'm now considering some fencing but, I don't know...we'll see how it goes. The tomato plant and the basils all survived the night. The basils were so well developed that I used some of the leaves in a salad last night, as well as the well developed shoots from our once-wild onions, which our gardening yard worker split and reset. Both were so flavorful that my mother and I exclaimed several times over our salads.
    While I was picking up the tomato fence and, as well, some apple/pear tree fertilizer (organic), I spotted one lone bag of gladiola bulbs on sale. My mother loves gladiolas and I know they grow well here, so I couldn't resist. Now that I have an idea how to do this stuff from watching our gardening yard worker and asking him to explain what he does, I think I'll set those out this week, once the rain stops and the weather warms. I've also got an old box of wildflower seeds, some free packets of baby's breath and poppies that I picked up here and there, some rununculous seeds, some huckleberry seeds and the gods only know what else. I'm going to find all those and scatter them around, rake them into the soil and spend a little more on water while they get going. It'll be interesting to see how many of them come up and aren't eaten. Since I have expert continuing yard advice, I'm also considering trying roses, again. Of the batch I tried to nurture a few years ago, one has survived despite my black thumb. That one is now under extreme care and appears ready to thrive.
    It has occurred to me that grooming our yard for expected seasonal development from year to year may engineer a subtle incentive to keep Mom headed toward her goal of making 120 years (or thereabouts). She ached to get out in the yard, yesterday, but the wind howling through our trees scared her. She considered it cold, as well. I guess it was, but, you know, when you're out there working it has to be a lot colder than usual to feel it. She sat just inside the back Arcadia screen door, yelled questions and directions to us and kept the cats company. All three of our yard men have fallen in love with my mother. They regularly respond to her, ask her opinions about where plants should be set or how they should be groomed...basically court her involvement in the yard and the work.
    As it turns out, one of the other guys is also a do-it-all handyman, so, it looks like we've got some available handy work help, should we need it. I'm relieved about this.
    A local blogfest is happening this afternoon in Prescott. I received plenty of advance notice on it and waited for several days to decide whether to attend...it depended on Mom, what hours she was keeping, etc. For the last some days, despite her energetic interest in our yard transformation, she's been awake/asleep at unusual times and quite hazy, so I decided not to go this year. She's experiencing a pretty concentrated Dead Zone episode. Last night she had memories of her brother dying before he was an adult (he actually died when he was 62 and my mother had an extended visit with him just hours before he died). Later, she insisted on writing letters to the same brother who became an adult in her mind (which I allowed her to do...last night wasn't a good night to re-break the "news" of her brother's death). She also decided to write a letter to an old beau by the name of "Leo Miller" (I'd not previously heard of him), to whom her brother had introduced her before she went to college. By the time she'd composed a few paragraphs she couldn't remember who "Dear Leo" was, even with prompting. She's also been obsessed with calling "Mother" (her mother) for Mother's Day, this year and has been absolutely insistent that her grandfather and uncle are alive. Depending on the moment, I either confirm or correct her perceptions. Mostly, though, over the last few days, my contributions haven't mattered. Otherwise, she's doing well...we're just in a significant time warp right now. Not a good time to steal away, or to take her to an event that would, no doubt, be extremely confusing for her and require a lot of distractive attention from me.
    We're just approaching her 12-hour-night-sleep-limit. Better check on what kind of a day we'll be having.
    Later.

...(as mentioned in the last paragraph of this post) so I found a delightful home movie taken by the father of the author of a group of journals primarily about Arizona wildlife called The Firefly Forest. The video is in this post. It's like a thumbnail sketch of the life of a roadrunner. In case the birds move too fast for you to get a clear view, (although, if they do, you need to get your eyes checked) here's a still picture of what one of our roadrunners looks like with a rundown of facts about the birds. My favorite is the note for fans of the cartoon (I'm a fan, too) that roadrunners do not go "beep, beep", followed by a link to a recording of real sounds of roadrunners.

...where everyone for whom you do your job is thrilled to see you. I've had jobs where people were glad I arrived because no one else knew how to do what I did and jobs where no one wanted to do what I did, so they were glad to know I was on the job. I even had a job once, as an insurance adjuster, where everyone I met when I was doing the critical part of my job was having a bad day and wished I my arrival wasn't necessary. I've never, though, worked in any job where I knew people would greet my arrival with joy, great anticipation and relief...such as the plumber, who's on his way as I type, will be greeted.
    I mention this because both my mother and I have been looking forward to his visit. Last night my mother told me, "Be sure I'm up when he arrives." I think this is how most people react who consider themselves masters of their home. I did as I was told. I awoke at 0600 and started talking my mother around at 0630. Final mumbled disposition on the matter?
    "Why are you waking me up this early? I'm sure he'll do fine. You're up. Wake me up when I usually get up."
    So, I guess, my mother, without realizing it, has decided I'm the mistress of the house.
    I'm feeling as though I have a job where just being here is so appreciated that my client can continue with her preferred life. That's nice, too.

    I'll bet you remember an episode from your childhood when your parents were wholly responsible for your life, you and they faced off over something you really, really, really wanted to do and their final edict was some form of the following, "When you're an adult, you can do whatever you want. Right now, you're a kid and you do what I want you to do."
    My mom is an adult...she could even be said to be an adult's adult. She knows what everyone else says is good for her, and bad for her, and she's got remembered experience to back her up when she decides that typical risk factors have been disproved in her case. When I remind her of whys and wherefores regarding a particular risk, she remembers those. She also knows what she likes, what she wants and exactly with what level of risk she's willing to live. Granted, because of our partnership in her life, her levels of risk intimately affect my life. I'll occasionally play a trump card if I surmise that a level of risk she's willing to take might alter our lived-together life in ways that neither she nor I would find interesting or negotiable, but, for the most part, I accept her courage and am willing to live with a fairly high level of mom-chosen risk on her behalf because, well, it's her life and she's not demented enough to allow me to manipulate her into healthy habits without her knowledge.
    We're having an issue with bacon, or, rather, the lack of it. It's not that my mother doesn't like Canadian bacon. She just likes the more treacherous kind lots better. Within the first week of initiating the change from Treacherous bacon to Canadian bacon, every other day my mother stared at the lean, tasty slices on her plate (I've been giving her several, under the mistaken assumption that this would allay any sense of deprivation) and said, "Why don't we have real bacon tomorrow?" When I'd reminded her, in detail, why we made the switch, she'd listen, nod, and respond, "I'm not worried. I don't see any reason why you should worry."
    I have a few reasons to worry...every situation in an Ancient One's life, it seems, gives a caregiver a few reasons to worry. With this particular situation, the worry is specifically focused: My mother could mini-stroke again. Of course, considering her age, she may do that anyway, but there's a chance that life could remain at our current level of ease for both of us, I figure, if we try to allay some of the mini-stroke possibility.
    She doesn't see it this way. As far as she's concerned, she hasn't mini-stroked since the one episode (at least as far as we know), and, if she has, it hasn't made our lives more difficult. As well, she has confidence in my ability to handle anything. Finally, after several years, so do I.
    So, I've hit upon a compromise: Treacherous bacon every couple of days, and a voiced determination to talk to her PCP about cholesterol lowering meds that would be appropriate for her. Since the initial study, back in the early 90's, indicating that treating high cholesterol in those of advanced age has no effect on stroke or death rates, other medications have been created, other related research has been reported. While confusing the issue of cardiac health and the elderly, especially the research related to cholesterol levels and dementia, there have been a few blinds drawn back from few small windows that suggest that in some cases, my mother's case possibly falling into those categories, treatment for high cholesterol might not do any harm and might protect her from further mini-stroking.
    I know that my mother's strength of will and spirit will not allow me to become too much more restrictive or creative with her food choices, unless I want to whip up a constantly combative undercurrent in our lives. It's possible that, as happened with diet vs. diabetes, she will slowly but surely, of her own accord, choose a more healthful diet as she notices that I am incorporating those changes into my diet. She isn't beyond this possibility. However, as I recall how long it took her to fully accept what is now a fairly sugarless diet and factor in her current age, I'm thinking that dietary changes are less promising. As well, back when I was trying to subvert her preference for a high level of refined carbohydrates, the difference in my plates of food and hers were obvious, and mine always looks more interesting. There are no noticeable eye-candy changes appearing, now, though, between her plate and mine, even though there are fairly significant nutritional changes.
    So, I'll be doing research on cholesterol treatments prior to her next doctor's visit which, if nothing emergent occurs, will be in September. I'll be encouraging, by example, changes in what appears on her plate between now and then. And, every couple of days, she'll continue to eat her beloved, thick sliced, as lean as possible, hickory smoked, sugar cured bacon.
    She is, after all, an adult. Considering her overall health and wellbeing profile, she is not likely to ever forget that adults get to do what they want.
    Later.

    Support groups have been on my mind recently. If you've read even a little here, you probably know that I discovered some time ago that I'm not a support group kind of gal, for a number of reasons, the chief three being:

• I was born into the unapologetic loner's life and, being, as well, socially adept, naturally friendly and deeply interested in people on both meet-and-greet and intimate levels, I have struggled all my life to find enough time alone, rather than enough time with supportive comrades;
• especially now in my caregiving phase, if I manage to find some time that I can successfully pretend is my own, the last thing I want to do is seek out any group of people, let alone a group bonded by the one experience in my life, at this time, that hinders my desire for and delight in the products of self-absorption, and;
• I am a prime example that support isn't a one-size-fits-all phenomenon. For me, the most important support is often not the most obvious. The caregiving support community tends to forget what I talked about when I was criticizing the NFCA. Formally organized support groups certainly answer an overwhelming need for many people, perhaps even a majority, but not all. I am cheese and, as we all know, the cheese not only stands alone, certain types of cheese prefer to stand alone.

    That being said, over the last week or so support groups have come to the fore, again, in my life. I decided to set up an area over at MySpace [if you're using IE, my profile and blog will appear fairly sloppy...use Firefox or Safari, instead] with the explicit intention of seeking out sites to which I can refer readers in which caregivers are writing online about eldercare experiences other than caring for those with Progressive Alzheimer's. Karma's comment on the immediately previous post also triggered an internal reexamination of why I no longer seek out support groups, despite their success for many other people in similar straits. Serendipitously, within a few hours of establishing myself at MySpace, I discovered another online caregiver journalist there, who I mention in the same post upon which Karma commented, who is writing about eldercare that doesn't revolve around negotiating Alzheimer's. We struck up a conversation and she invited me to a support group site that features an area for caregivers, regardless of the circumstances of the care recipient, Daily Strength Caregivers Support Community. I was immediately attracted by the overview definition of Caregivers, a few-holds-barred explanation of the circumstances to which this term currently applies. I decided to join, look around and see if I'd feel confident recommending it to others who are seeking online support. It's been interesting because the concept and the driving atmosphere of the area are completely out of character for me, but, I figured, I enjoy out of character experience and could certainly use the practice of writing with restrictions. As it turns out, I feel confident in recommending the support group with a few caveats: Daily Strength's Terms of Use contract (I'm one of those Policy Geeks who always reads the Privacy and Terms of Use/Service statements when I join a site) explicitly states that rights to all member content will be wholly owned by Daily Strength, which covers copyright of member material, including "ideas". This is a deal stretcher for me, as I admit in the first and only post in "my" (obviously, according to the terms of membership contract, it's not "my") fledging Daily Strength journal. It encourages me to self-impose severe restrictions on what I write there. The site is also touchy-feely: There's a "Hug" area, which includes informal ratings of how many hugs a member has given and received. My innate touchy-feely instincts are fundamentally different than those at the site, but I'm comfortable with the site's instincts, as well, and realize that being a member of the community requires the ability to enter into the specific camaraderie defined by the site, so, as long as I'm there on a regular basis I'm game. The site, as well, has a strong undercurrent of Abrahamic god centered/hugs-and-bears-and-bright-thoughts spirituality. Communicating through this filter, though, is not an implicit requirement and certainly not universally observed. If you're looking for identification with the more dour moments of the caregiving experience, it's not hard to find there.
    It was with these overriding thoughts that I began what became an unexpectedly active weekend for both Mom and me. Saturday, around noon, a trio of related men looking for landscaping work and noticing the sorry state of our property stopped by to sell themselves. This is common in our neighborhood. After discussing terms (one being my desire and intention to work alongside them as my mother-care duties permit, since I have a strong, hands-on affection for our yard) and leading them on an extended tour of our property, explaining how little, as well as how much, grooming my mother and I prefer, I hired them. They began work that afternoon and worked through Sunday with an agreement to return next weekend, beginning Friday. I am overjoyed to announce that I seem to have not only successfully filled the gap created by Mr. Everything's move to Winslow, these guys get it even better than Mr. Everything did. They have startlingly appropriate ideas on my "wild and domesticated" theme. It didn't take them long to accept and enjoy that I love being out there working along side them. They are, as well, a trio of family oriented men (two brothers and the son of one brother/nephew of the other), so they were enthusiastic about Mom's desire, yesterday, to spend time in the backyard, watching the process of shaping it into an area benevolent to her desire to spend time there. The four of us energetically cursed through the process of opening our intransigently baffling yard umbrella for her, they enthusiastically embraced her pleasure in watching the activity and even helped me find small chores for her to perform while she sat on her walker and watched the transformation.
    Because Mom has been so inactive, lately, she tired quickly, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge this, so I let her rip for as long as she could. Finally, she decided she needed lunch. Once inside and fed, she opted for the nap she'd been struggling to forgo. It was a short one, though, and the only thing that prevented her from heading out a second time was that she was a little shaky after all the walkering involved in the earlier session.
    As our yard work session came to an end a significant rainstorm settled over our area. The men and I agreed this was a sign that what we'd done that day, including resetting some bulbs I'd planted last fall that aren't doing well (I got kidded, a lot about my black thumb), planting lots more and domesticating our wild onion patch, "was good."
    Later, Mom not only acknowledged her difficulties with her outdoor session, she independently proposed a solution, "I'll just have to get out there more often."
    I assured her that, even though these guys are only available on weekends, their promising start has allowed for lots of little projects that she and I can pursue outside on weekdays.
    This was not the end of yesterday's exhilarating business. We have two cars, one of which is a 1992 Toyota Corolla sedan which has been sitting idle with a dead battery for almost a year. I've continually put off replacing the battery because the car sits so low that it is almost impossible for my mother to negotiate; thus, we don't use the car much and I almost never think about it. I've come to ignore its presence in our carport. The man with the son has been looking for a good used car for his wife. During the course of the afternoon he asked about its obviously retired state (it's covered by a curtain of dust) and expressed an interest in buying it. In response, my mother's sharp trader instincts kicked in. I did some quick research on Kelley Blue Book and Edmunds (Edmunds, by the way, was far more helpful than Kelley to our purposes), Mom and I came up with an acceptable price and the only thing left was for the interested party to bring his wife over in the evening to take a look at the car and bring one of those handy-dandy battery starters to see if it was only the battery that was the problem. Around 1900 not only did the man and his wife arrive, so did the kids. Buying a car was a much anticipated family enterprise. Everyone had a merry session in our carport. The car started with one hitch, which was due to misplacement of the leads and was quickly corrected. My mother came out on the stoop for introductions but quickly, with regret, retired into the house. It was too cool outside for her and she didn't want to wear a coat while the rest of us were in shirtsleeves. She was celebrated, though, by everyone. As the man and his wife discussed the deal while letting the car run for a good 20 minutes to get an idea of operating temperature, the kids piled into the car with me. We checked out the features, I set the clock, and, as often happens with kids, I was peppered with questions about Mom and me.
    "How old is she?" the youngest asked.
    I told them she will be 90 this August.
    "Ooohhhh..." was the chorus.
    They wanted to know details about her condition, her life and why she no longer drives; was I married; how we supported ourselves; whether my earrings were heavy; the list was endless. The more spectacular answers, especially regarding Mom's life and my marital status, elicited "Ooohhhh..." after "Ooohhh...".
    Once everyone was satisfied, the deal was closed with a handshake between the husband and me and a hug from the wife.
    I told Mom, "We should have set up your walker outside, Mom, and you should have accepted wearing a coat. The kids were fascinated with you and asked me all kinds of questions about you and me." I delineated the list of questions, answers and responses.
    She was delighted. She laughed several times at their awed reactions to her age, my marital status and her driving experiences that put the dents in the car and finally prodded me to take over all driving. For the rest of the evening we rehashed various aspects of the day.
    As we were preparing her for bed I said, "You know, Mom, I'm really looking forward to us getting out in the yard, more, watching the transformation that'll be taking place, especially knowing that we now have exactly the right companions in yard care, maintenance and appreciation."
    She grinned and nodded. "I was just thinking the same thing."
    After Mom retired, as I was considering the day and the change in both our moods it had triggered, I realized, this weekend was exactly the kind of "support group" that is appropriate for me, and, apparently, Mom, as well. It didn't involve a narrow focus on the day-to-day caregiver routine and its detail, joys and frustrations. It, rather, involved a multifaceted focus on life, on living it, and those details, joys and frustrations. It involved several people pursuing their own purposes and mindsets while interacting with others doing the same. I recalled a moment, late in the afternoon, while Mom and I were breaking up large, dry branches for next winter's kindling and planning the reconstruction of the quail/squirrel den that our kindling pile has become, while we were listening to the growl of the chainsaw cutting down dead trees in our wild area and watching two of our crew scattering our home-made compost and mulch over the yard and manicuring it into an invitation to spend time outside, when I thought, "Men, chainsaws, yard work and Mom in the middle, that's my kind of support group."
    The issue of support groups is impossible to avoid when one is a companion and caregiver to an Ancient One. Everywhere one goes, everyone one meets, at one point or another, finds a chance to recommend specialized support groups to the caregiver, especially if the caregiver in question is venting or complaining in "mixed company". Observation tells me a couple of things about this issue:

• I think lay people (people, that is, who are not directly involved in eldercare) suggest support groups so vociferously because they feel helpless to respond to the experiences of the eldercare giver.
• I cannot deny the testimony that caregiver support groups are valuable for many people, and I wish all those people well.
• I must reassert, though, especially in light of my experience this weekend, that the above mentioned support groups are not appropriate for all caregivers. I'm one for whom they are wildly inappropriate.
• Some of us find our best support in the serendipity of unspecialized life, unspecialized community and, as well, the support implicit in alone time within which we can contemplate our situations with no other resource than our thoughts.

    Here's a rarely considered way in which our communities at large can support all caregivers:

    Before you spout to caregivers the value of standard-style support groups, listen to the caregiver in question. Remember that we are all, caregiver or not, unique, and, involved in living. While many find support in standard caregiver support groups, some of us do not, and, anyway, by the time you're talking to us, we probably all know about their existence. We're talking to you because we're not interested in talking only to our colleagues, at the moment. A few of us even find caregiver support groups more onerous than the activity of giving care.
    Listen as closely to the caregiver with whom you're conversing as you would to anyone else. You will hear broad hints that will clue you into the eccentric needs of your conversational companion. Heed them...and think, twice, before you offer standard solutions. In casual conversation at a store, while working along side someone pursuing a task that appears to have nothing to do with caregiving, while gossiping on the phone with an acquaintance, you might be providing exactly the "support group" a caregiver needs. Don't alienate the recipient by jumping in to direct them elsewhere. Stay with the pursuit of life alongside your community in all its variety. This, I think, for some of us, maybe for all of us, whether or not we find intrinsic value in formally organized caregiver support groups, is the most important support activity of all.

    As I'm wrapping up this post I'm watching a roadrunner cautiously negotiating our front yard in stunted darts, a lizard in its mouth. Amazing! I didn't know roadrunners lived this far up! I've never seen one here! Hmmm...something "good" obviously happened this weekend. I'm looking forward to seeing what other kinds of "support" show up, here, next!