Mom & Me Five Archive

...my mother's response to "we can't just eat pie!" was, "Fruit is nutritious. Flour is nutrious."
    Yesterday, since we had pie twice, she got an extra glipizide in the morning. I should have checked her BG but I didn't think of it. I'm out of the habit. Maybe I'll make a point of doing that, today.
    Really gotta go.
    Later.

    I intended only to take a "little nap", when I laid down at 0030. Early, I know. Both Mom and I went to bed early.
    By the time I decided to just crawl up onto the couch, I figured I'd be up probably around 0230 and would have the energy to hobble into bed. I'm not sure why, but, last night, I was exhausted. I couldn't get it up for anything.
    The reason my plan included eventually reawakening and going to bed was because I sleep close enough to Mom so that, if I'm sufficiently rested, I can hear her move. Thus, I suppose you could say, I rarely get really deep sleep, unless I can't fight it anymore. I was sure I would reawaken after a few hours because I am not really comfortable sleeping on our couch, although that's where I usually nap; and usually awaken with a sleeping arm or an aching shoulder.
    When I actually awoke, this morning at 0534 in the ambient light just before sunrise, I had slept so deeply I was disoriented. Once I realized where I was and why I was there, I felt so rested I thought I'd slept through until 1734, future this evening, and the light was from the sun setting behind Thumb Butte. Mom had slept through, as well, I realized: About 17 hours of sleep. I was incredulous. Ashamed and scared, I hauled ass off the couch, looked around (it didn't look like she'd been up; I wasn't sure which possibility I preferred) and headed into her bedroom. It was then, looking through her east facing window, that I noticed the sun was just coming up, not just going down. I heaved a sigh of relief, partially shaded her windows with the blinds and returned to the living room. I think the reason I slept so soundly and with such satisfaction in such a short time is that I knew I wouldn't be able to hear Mom from the living room...and didn't care, because I was so tired I was sure I hear her from even my bedroom, in which it wasn't necessary to sleep, anyway, since I was too tired to pay attention to night sounds. I think my body just took advantage of this opportunity to take an oh-well-fuck-it sleep.
    I was so full of energy and good cheer, though, when I awoke that I decided to tackle a few not-every-day chores, and, as well, prepare for the next home made pie (blackberry, probably) by making the crust. Not sure if I'll bake it tonight or tomorrow; I'll be baking muffins when I get back from Costco this morning. And I'm broiling salmon for dinner tonight ["We've got to eat something nominally nutritious tomorrow night," I told Mom, scolding us both, last night, "we can't just eat pie!]. The pie activates the oven for about an hour and 15 minutes. Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow morning on that.
    Gotta check the weather, then I'm off. Maybe I'll be able to get Mom up "early", today. I'm itching to paint some more eggs; I think I will whether or not Mom wants to. Chances are, once she sees me starting, she'll join in. Oh, yeah. I need to add that to my shopping list. Jumbo eggs, for painting. More canvas.
    Dewpoint's 47%. Not good for evaporative coolers. It's pleasant, right now, all the windows are open, all fans are on. Maybe we'll be able to get by with just the a/c in the livingroom later today. We'll see. Gotta go.
    Later.

...that I may as well begin another. I added quite a bit more information on Latchstring Inn, a little of the history of my grandparent's owner and operatorship, in case that subject piqued your interest.
    Today's peach pie is out, cooling, and, again, looks like perfection. This is a partially whole wheat crust. It worked up slightly drier than the all white flour crust, but I sprayed some ice cold water on it while working with it to increase it's adherence.
    I should mention something to which some of you might salivate: When you make peach pie with unpeeled peaches, the filling turns blood orange as it bakes. Startling eye candy for table presentation! Hmmm...I wonder if that would happen if you used those white peaches they grow around San Luis Obispo, which have a bit of red pigment in the peeling.
    When my mother awoke today she said something she hasn't said for a long time, when I asked her how she was "doing", "A hundred per." She wasn't chomping at the bit, or anything, but she felt good and looked like it. She got a little stiff while we bathed her, so I gave her an ibuprofen at breakfast instead of aspirin. Then, she announced, when I asked her if she wanted one piece of toast or two, "I think I'll have pie instead of toast." Funny what the demented remember! I reminded her that I'd be baking another, slightly different pie after breakfast and we'd probably try that tonight. "Then we need to remind ourselves of the competition," she insisted. So, we did. While we were sitting there eating, a vision came to me of farm breakfasts, which usually took place after the first three hours of work and which often included things like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob, etc. More a brunch, really, before returning to the field. I asked my mother, since she is the source of my knowledge about these practical and voluminous breakfasts, if she remembers pie being served at breakfast.
    "No," she said, shoving a piece of pie into her mouth, "but it's a good idea."
    We've discussed possible dinner entrées. With each possibility, including our version of Cobb salad, my mother expressed fear that it might not leave enough room for pie. We finally settled on polishing off the last two ears of corn on the cob, then have pie. I, once again, exacted an agreement that she would taste the unadorned pie before pouring cream on it.
    Hmmm...well it looks, from the weathercast, like we're flirting with the monsoon. It felt oppressive today. Overnight, the Dew Point has rendered the evap useless. The overall temperature drops and we've had a nice wind, so fans have helped immensely. I saw a thunderstorm to the south, over someone else. Next week, though, promises to be dry and warm, although about 10 degrees cooler than this week. The possibility of rain, in our near future, is only 30%.
    No reading today. I've been distracted by a variety of activities, most notably, the activity that is my mother. I doubt if I'll get any in tonight. The blueberries are telling me it's time to bake them into muffins.
    Low key night, I guess. Maybe we'll do some more nun reading and watch a movie. Do her hair. Look for rain.
    Later.

...gets better and better. Although the peach filling is scrumptious, the crust is perfection. My fluting looked like a pastry chef had done it. The quality of the crust was superb...tiny flakes all the way through. Instead of using the suggestion from the Joy of Cooking [pie crust recipe] to cover the fluting with aluminum foil after it had browned, I covered it at the beginning, then exposed it during the last half of the baking, when the oven is at a lower temperature. Not only does the flute not burn, it bakes up tender but firm. This particular crust was made two weeks ago. The book says not to refrigerate over two days, then, transfer crust dough to the freezer. I didn't read those instructions during the first and second batches. The crust was perfect, anyway.
    I never, ever thought I'd ever be able to make a perfect crust, because so much of it requires kinesthetic and observational senses that can't easily be lingualized. I realized yesterday, though, mixing up my third batch of crust dough in three weeks, that I've got the hang of it. I recognized all the signs, did the proper dances and, voila, a crust even I enjoy! In case you're curious about the recipe, this recipe and direction is very similar to the Joy of Cooking one I use. The only difference in the ingredients is, per recipe, I use 1 stick sweet butter and 1/2 cup solid shortening (I use the butter flavored sticks), and, for fruit pies, 2 Tbl powdered sugar. I use 1/3 cup ice water to start, because everything is so dry, up here. If I need more, I add it by increments of a Tablespoon. As far as the directions are concerned, I hadn't considered chilling my fat pieces in ice water before cutting into the flour mixture. Not a bad idea, but I don't know, I seem to be doing okay and I'm all about no-more-fuss-than-necessary when cooking.
    I'm experimenting with the peaches. I increased the sugar (dark brown) by a quarter cup, still using two and a half pounds of peaches. This batch is the ripest, yet. [I should be writing about this over at Caring. About Food. Oh well. Maybe I'll transfer it over, later.] The thing about pie fillings is that I'm eccentrically particular. I prefer fruit with the peelings on. If it's a berry pie, I want at least a few of the type of berry to be graphically distinguishable. Don't like runny pies. Don't like overly sweet pies. Used to absolutely hate crust. My mother used to use those Pillsbury pre-mixed blocks and canned fruit. I don't have a problem with canned cherries, but I don't buy pre-made filling...I buy unsweetened, packed in water or juice, canned cherries. So, with these peaches, which, even hard, were amazingly fragrant, except for the first pie, I let them sit in a paper bag for a couple of days. They were ripe, juicy and firm, falling easily easily away from the pit. I mixed 2.5 pounds unpeeled peach slices (5 peaches) with a mixture of: 1 cup dark brown sugar; 3.5 Tbl minute tapioca; 1/8th tsp salt; maybe 1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg. I added 1/4 tsp almond extract and 3 Tbl fresh squeezed lemon juice to the fruit/sugar/tapioca mixture. Stirred all that. Let it sit for 15 minutes while I was placing the bottom crust in the pie pan. Every time you're not working with the crust you are advised to refrigerate it, in order to keep the delicate layers of butter/flour from creating a glutenized mush. I do this.
    This pie was wonderful. From this result, though, the next (and probably last) peach pie, which I've decided to bake and then freeze today, will have the following changes: I will add 1/2 cup sliced, pan-toasted (last night) almonds to the filling; I will add 4 Tbl minute tapioca, rather than 3.5. This filling was not terribly runny, and I'm naturally suspicious of a stand-up filling, but it could be a little thicker.
    Yesterday's pie tasted and smelled (from about 15 minutes after it began baking until long after we'd eaten a slice) like it had been baked in Peach Heaven. The crust did not get in the way of the pie...it added flavor depth and texture contrast. A hefty slice of warm-from-the-oven peach pie was all we had for dinner last night. Mom asked for unwhipped whipping cream to pour over it after tasting it on it's own. I was the one who insisted that she take a bite before creaming it, for me, to tell me what she thought. She'll pour pure cream over anything before tasting it, on the assumption that it can only make it better.
    Last night, as Mom and I exclaimed over yesterday's pie (most of which will be cut into pieces and frozen) we talked about taking advantage of the season and assembling and freezing a variety of fruit pies to be used when "company comes". Capital idea, especially since it will require me to divest the freezer of almost three year old stored bits of dinners! She loves watching me "make a pie". I think it may remind her of watching her mother make pies. More than once she has said, "You know, Mother (her mother) used to enjoy making pies."
    Actually, I think, after awhile, Mom's sister took over the pie making, as she took over the bread and pastry pantry at Latchstring Inn. But even I have one memory of Grandma making a pie, a vigorous memory of a skillful, knowledgeable, self-aware woman briskly assembling a pie, so she must have done it fairly often. I don't remember if I liked her pies. I was a difficult child when it came to desserts, so I might not have. I loved Grandma's rhubarb crisp, though, with the soft serve ice cream from the machine they had at the lunch counter inside the tourist shop at The Inn. I used to like her chocolate chip cookies better than anyone's until I contracted what was probably food poisoning from another source, but, when it hit, the last thing I'd eaten was Grandma's chocolate chip cookies, so they were the first and the most plentiful up, and, to this day...well, you know how that story goes.
    So, I should probably recommence taking at least Mom's blood sugar stats, once to twice a day. I think we'll be fine during pie season on her present schedule. Her BG recovers quickly from spikes on 20mg/day of glipizide. I've been told not to worry about it unless it is above 200 several hours after a meal, so I don't. I should probably also add her blood pressure, at least in the morning. It's been a little over a month since we've been on the full 40 mg/day lisinopril dosage. I think I've got the schedule worked out, now, and she's adjusting to what was alarming slowness when I just popped 20 mg at a time at her back in April. So, let's see. It's taken about two and a half months to take her from 20mg/day to 40/mg per day, in 5mg increments. That's not too bad. I'm curious to see what her BP is now. I noticed a Medscape article about the kind of BP my mother sports: Iffy Systolic/Perennially Wonderful, Startlingly low Diastolic. I haven't read the article, yet, but I've read other articles that classify her BP as "low BP" as long as the diastolic is below 70, regardless of what this systolic is. I tend to feel, from my experience in charting her BP, that a diastolic in the 60's and low 70's and a systolic above 105 and under 130 is most effectual for Mom, at this point in her life.
    Anyway, because she's not on much lisinopril, relatively speaking, it always surprises me when she responds to an up in dosage by shaking out the fogginess in sleep. But, I think we're fairly through all that, now, and I've learned a lot about how to tell if she needs the sleep upon which she's insisting and indulging. Truth is, she usually does. She's pert and spritely and usually remembers who's dead and who's not, and moves around a lot more, and usually doesn't want or need oxygen when sitting, when she gets "enough" sleep, even if that should be a 14 hour stint. I continually remind myself that throughout most of her life, Katherine Hepburn admitted to needing at least 14 hours of sleep a night. Something about lionesses, I guess. Oh well. When I insist on no more than 12 hours per night, though, and none of her, body or mind, is ready to awaken, she spends the first part of her day, pre-nap, groggy, testy and constantly trying to head back for bed, argumentative about when she can do this. Then, after a nap, she's her revived self, again.
    One more batch of blueberry muffins to make, too. I make the small size. My mother blanches when she's confronted with an industrial strength muffin. Funny, she'll eat two at a sitting of the smaller ones, but isn't sure what to do with mega-muffins! She likes them, but considers them personal cakes and would rather consider them an evening dessert.
    By the way, I just searched for a link to "Latchstring Inn" above and came across the page to which I linked. It supposedly has a history, somewhat tragic, of the inn. It quotes an email from a woman who states that Ms. Woodworth was the "original" owner of the inn. Not true. She bought the inn from my grandparents, although, when this girl's friend worked the inn it had long belonged to Ms. Woodworth. It's renown, not only in "The Hills" but in the area, including eastern Wyoming and various states south of South Dakota's border, was due to my grandparents owning the inn for several decades. They created an institution of Latchstring, including publishing a short, informal history; making a name for the attached chapel as "The Church by the Side of the Road". I think they may have built the chapel, actually. It was equipped with a small, old pump organ which was played by a variety of people, depending on who was visiting, or by my cousin or my aunt. During The Season guest pastors would conduct regular Sunday services. Busloads of tourists and natives would come from the surrounding towns to attend. Sunday dinner at the Inn restaurant was a weekly event. My grandparents sold in 1969, I think, although it may have been a few years later. They completely retired, at that point. This is when they moved to Prescott, AZ. Although they are not included in this above linked history of "The Inn", it's reputation was made and nourished under them. I believe it was their longest running business venture, and most successful. I don't remember much about the sale except for long talks with all adult family members about the details of it and the buyers. I can't remember whether it was before or after the sale, but I remember several family members bemoaning the fact that it was the buyer's intention to obtain a liquor license and operate a bar out of the inn. About half of the family members participating in the ongoing discussion, that summer, were alcoholics, so it was interesting to me, an older teen, to discover that not even they wanted Latchstring Inn to have a liquor license. My feeling was, and is, that any buyer, at that time, would have intended to make this upgrade to the services provided by the inn. The cocktail generation were the people with the most disposable income, at the time. Latchstring had long snubbed this profitable clientele.
    Think I'll check on Mom, see how she looks and sounds. She was up until 0230 this morning. Can't remember what we were doing, but it was apparently involving.
    Maybe I can get a little more reading in.
    Later.

...now, from Vanderbilt Press to quote from Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories and permission from the author to quote from Kinflicks. Since receiving both permissions, I started reading backward and forward from the Kinflicks passage, which is smack dab in the middle of the book, and have decided, since, to reread the book. I'm not completely sure of the quote's context in my own life, although I know it's significant. I think rereading the story will give me a better (although altered, I'm sure) idea of how Ginny relates to this quote. It will, I think, give me some space to clarify its importance to me. I know, at this point, that I take, and believe it, verbatim. I did the first time I read the book about thirty years ago, long before I was to become so involved in the life maintenance of someone whose path toward death can no longer be diverted. I remember worrying my recollection of this quote over and over as I confronted her recalcitrant anemia and wondered, out loud, somewhere in the journal, something about what was the existential significance of her battle with iron. I also wonder if any of her doctors looked into her physical profile and saw her future, up to and including her death. Not that I'd want to know (although I probably would) how her death will play out, but I'd be curious to see if what is really happening is what a thoughtful physician, here and there, casually calculated...and what that physician considered within the calculation.
    I've got an early errand to run, which I'd better do right now, after refilling the portable evap. Then, if I'm lucky, I'll have an hour or two to read before Mom arises. She was up pretty late, last night. At one point she turned to me, unbidden, and said, "I'm staying up because I know you don't like to be up alone."
    I was so shocked I could not hide my reaction. I laughed. "Mom," I assured her, "you can go to bed anytime. I have no problem with being up alone. Lately, I usually am."
    She sneered at the light dig about her ever more prodigious sleeping habits, of late. I'm a little bit calmer about them, now, as I've found, from experimentation, if she doesn't get the sleep her body apparently needs (and maybe her psyche, too) it's visible to me. She has been making up for some of that sleep by staying up extra late, though.
    Back to the conversation. She responded: "Well, maybe I'm staying up because I don't like being up alone!"
    I laughed again. "Well, then, I'm your man! Anytime you want to be up, I'll be up."
    I hear her coughing. May have to put the errand off till this afternoon.
    Later.

 

• Make sure Mom is up and ready to watch Yankee Doodle Dandy at 1430.
• Assemble a peach pie sometime today. Maybe bake it.
• Make another crust for another pie.
• No overt July 4th celebrations planned. Don't even know what I'll be serving for dinner, except that it will involve corn-on-the-cob.
• Endure the heat.

    I've completed the aforementioned (in the immediately previous post) spreadsheet and received permission to quote, under Fair Use, 300 words from The Book, so I'm set. I don't know whether I'll get around to writing about The Book today, though.
    Well, I've got a little online maintenance to do, then probably a peach pie to assemble...
    ...maybe I'll be back...
    ...later.

    I wrote a review of Mothering Mother for Midwest Book Review on spec, it was accepted and has already been published as one of July 2007's Reviewer's Choice offerings. You will need to search the page for "Mothering Mother" to find it, or scroll down and hunt 'n peck. This edition features two reviews of O'Dell's book. My review is the first. When I perused the site after being notified that my review had been accepted, I noticed that the site, about which I was unaware until just last week, seems to feature very well written reviews of off-the-beaten-path books. Whether or not you can stand to read ME spouting off, yet again, about something I've read, you might find Midwest Book Review an interesting source.
    I've finished Dementia Caregiver Share Their Stories. There's some fact checking I'm doing within the book at the moment. Once I get the spreadsheet done and have some answers, I'll write about the book. I can say, without reservation: This book is accurately subtitled A Support Group in a Book. It not only completely fulfills this promise, it is, frankly, like a literary mentor for caregivers. I, once again, have trouble with the fact that everyone else's experiences seem so much darker and fraught with despair than mine. I've pretty much decided that The Literature isn't focusing, at the moment, on caregivers like me, who are not dealing with, specifically, progressive dementia, and, thus, our path is not as, I don't know, hard, I guess, or at least, does not have the potential for trauma and drama that many dementia scenarios do. I know they're out there, my type is practically the only type of caregiver I know face-to-face; but, you know, they're not online, they're not writing books, they are just doing their thing. I am having fertile and interesting conversations with these of my colleagues as we go about our days and cross paths [I spoke with the Fed-Ex lady, again...I mention that as a reminder to myself], so I know these people. We aren't yet in the literature, though. I guess it would be too risky, yet, to talk about our experiences. After all, we are the reason, the very quiet reason, I might add, that nursing homes have lost ground, per capita, in the last few decades. But, I gotta tell ya, other than this one quirk in the coverage of caregivers, if the person's been demented and cared for by family, chances are an accurate and enlightening version of that story is in this book.
    It is very pro-support group. It was generated out of a couple of specialized support groups, so this is to be expected. Frankly, if I had just such appropriate support groups available to me, I'd at least check them out.
    There is mention, somewhere in the book, about caregiver mentors. I'd never want to give care, again, like this, but I wouldn't mind being a caregiver mentor, after an appropriate time away from the experience.
    As well, apparently Family Alliance (which sounds like a dream of an organization) sponsors a caregivers' hotline featuring trained therapists, rather like my Buddha-phone suggestion, for caregivers who participate in any of their many programs. Compassion Specialist Intervention exists in the civilian community, folks!
    It is easy, as one reads through this book, to say, "Ah, that's us!" It is equally easy to say, "Ahhh..., that is not us,", or, "...that is not us, yet...", or, "I hope that never is us..." This is important. The book is trying hard to avoid squeezing the experiences of caregivers to the demented into generic sub-areas. The importance of the unplumbed variety of behaviors implicit in any population of the demented is stressed, in many ways, throughout the book. I'm not sure why, but it's easy for caregivers to think that something must be "wrong" with their experience if they don't see it reflected in The Literature. Believe me, there are lots of caregiver-to-the-demented circumstances that are not depicted in The Literature. This particular book even implies that it leaves out a whole subset of these experiences, the ones in which the care recipients, regardless of other physical concerns, did not experience anything that could be called "behavior changes" or "unexpected behaviors". There is only one briefly mentioned member of this subset. It could be that the support groups from which the participants were culled were self-selected for behavioral change demential caregiving.
    Anyway, more on the book later.

    I'm thinking I could use a nap, today. I stayed up until I finished the above second mentioned book; I was so close to the end. That may not happen, though. I'm jazzed about something else that happened today, I received a copy of Kinflicks by Lisa Alther. Thus, I will be able to attend to a formal reminder that appears to be advancing on three years old. According to this post, in which I discuss a tiny portion of my fascination with this novel, dated 8/11/03, the reminder may be older than that. In this post I was clearly thinking about this earlier.
    I've been able to read "The Bear Came Over the Mountain", the short story by Alice Munro from which Away from Her was adapted. From the preview I saw (no, I haven't been able to swing seeing it in a theater), I have a feeling the movie is very faithful to the story. It is about caring, and giving, and taking, but in a particular way within a marriage. Dementia and the nursing home are props in the story. What I wondered, here, about the movie satisfied me in the story. It was subtly addressed but it wasn't the primary theme of the story. I was smiling, broadly, as I finished it. The story is the last in the collection Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage Stories. I am really looking forward to the movie, now, even if I have to wait for the DVD release. I'll bet Olympia Dukakis is Marion. I hope she is, anyway.
    I'm loving this reading period, right now, even though I'm letting some other things slide as I read. Some of "my" reading involves "Mom's" reading, too. We're covering books, now, which are of particular and immediate interest to me but by which she is also intrigued. Through the Narrow Gate is being read aloud with a delicious sense of inappropriateness in looking intimately into the life of a nun; a real one, not an Audrey Hepburn or Debbie Reynolds nun. Karen Armstrong wrote this book raw, I'm telling you. It is so raw it is almost embarrassing to read...but the woman was already a powerful writer and thinker, which makes it more than bearable.
    An example of books I know will be out loud reading disasters is Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories. When I told Mom about it she exhibited a practiced interest but her eyes trailed off. Some books I just know she'll not find interesting: Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. Besides, I'm not sure I could pull off reading this book aloud.

    So, you know, I've been "tagged", by sheoflittlebrain over at The One Acre Wood. I've never been tagged, was not even aware of it until Karma got tagged sometime last year, I think. So, I've been tagged with the request, "Reveal 8 fascinating facts about yourself." You bet. Based on the evidence that I'm a blogger, I like to talk about myself. I feel a little quesey about tagging anyone else, and I apologize for this. It feels uncomfortably chain-letterish to me...although I don't suppose it is. So, anyway, anyone who likes the question, enjoys answering such questions in public and/or wants to keep the chain going, please feel free to pass this one on.
    As to my response (which was amusing to contemplate), I compiled a list with a touch of difficulty, then realized that all but three wouldn't be revelations, because I've written about them, here, before; as you know, I "self-refer" a lot. This following list, well, I'm not sure how many "revelations" I'll remember (that I'd want to print) but the three from the previous list are the first three [the very first may not be a revelation, either, but I take advantage of every opportunity to put this desire into "wish" format]:

1. If every single day of the rest of my life was a cloudy, gray, drizzly, short day/long night Seattle day, I would be eternally happy.
2. My most treasured compliment graced me several years ago when one of my sisters blurted, her voice choked with awe, "...you are an artist."
3. I consider myself fortunate in that Today, it seems, is always, for me, "a good day to die."
4. I love advertising and propaganda. I'm wary of it if I am an intended "victim", but I love it. I'm proud of my few but stellar accomplishments in that area.
5. When I was 15, I think, I became obsessed with the idea of being "a citizen of the world" and promptly turned in my Social Security card. A few years later, when I started pulling a pay check rather than money off-the-books, I had to write the Social Security Administration and ask for "another card", which I needed to draw my paycheck. They returned my old number, and card, promptly.
6. I often dream that I am walking on water. I haven't yet researched to see what these dreams typically "mean". I love this dream, though. It's my very favorite recurring dream. I always awaken from it feeling as though I did, and could, walk on water. Hmmm...Messiah complex at work, do you suppose?
7. A couple of weeks ago I noticed a state paper holding a quick sweepstakes, the prize of which was $20,000 for a new car. Upon seeing the ad, I became immediately and calmly convinced that we would win the money and be able to buy a Nissan Altima, the seats of which are Sitting Heaven for my mother, no matter how long she's in the car. I probably sent in a little over one hundred focused entries. We did not win the car. We didn't even win a year of free car washes, although I didn't want that. I can't tell you why, but I continue to feel betrayed. I was absolutely positive that we'd win. And, in case you're wondering, I didn't fall into this after having read The Secret or followed other hogwash of its ilk. It was just a weird blip. I've had them before, in regard to all sorts of things; not necessarily the winning of contests (although this is not the first time I've experienced that particular blip); and, yes, as far as I can remember, all these blips have been "wrong". It isn't even "positive thinking"; I just "knew" we "were meant" to win that car. But we weren't. I feel as I did when I had my first menstrual period: There has been a cosmic mistake. I continue to expect a call telling me that, well, they forgot to call us when we won.
8. I continue to remain adamantly opposed to experiencing old age. Period. Just not interested. Maybe I'll feel different after my mother dies, but, I don't know...it doesn't look like much fun to me.

    Hmmm...maybe I'll make another peach pie, tonight. I've got the peaches. The one for freezing, this time.

    I'm assuming, at least in the U.S. and territories, Wednesday is a holiday. I guess I'll figure it out when I hit the road on errands, in a few minutes. Meds to pick up. I don't think I need to do anything else, but I probably will.
    I'll tell you, one of the things I so like about this book I'm continuing to read, Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories is that it isn't in the business of shouting down caregivers. At all. Not even the least little bit. Believe me, I'm a good judge of this. I am always sensitive to the voice that betrays the least bit of hysterical prescription when it comes to caregiver "advice". In this book, advice flows out of stories and is frequently accompanied by the constant warning, "This situation may never occur for many caregivers." As I read this book, I cannot help but wonder how valuable it would be to have such a study done on homogeneous groups of caregivers in a variety of culture sub-settings; one in particular, caregivers who give care through to the death of the care recipient. Although I haven't done a strict count (but doing so is my intention before I officially write about this book), it sounds like one of the homogeneous traits of this group is that they are united in having sought final care for their relatives in nursing homes. My intention (although I am primed for the possibility that my intention may change due to circumstances beyond my control, and I'm okay with this) is to take care of my mother in our home through her death. Reading about O'Dell doing this in Mothering Mother was incredibly instructive for me...and gave me a reason to begin perusing all those books I bought about death over a year ago. I hadn't, previous to reading about this in her book, feared the possibilities but I'd been completely unaware of these possibilities. She mentions Nuland's book enough so that I remember her mentioning it. I have a copy of this book, but haven't read it. I'm especially encouraged because it seemed like a mainstay for her.
    I just finished the section on Holidays and Celebrations. Although my problems with these are completely self-made and have nothing to do with my mother's behavior during them, I realized that, in a sense, one, I, could say that I had my own decades long celebratory traditions and had to modify those in order to make way for my mother's enjoyment of the holidays, which is very traditional. This always causes me some stress, but over the years I've gotten over the stress and figured out how to handle both my and my mother's preferences. I love, love, love, by the way, the traditional family scenario Patty's family established. I wish this had been a tradition in our family. We were ripe for something like this. I think, at this stage of the game, it would only be confusing for my mother...but being the center of everyone's attention except mine will, I think, be delightful for her. I'm hoping she ends up between an in-law and a grandchild. Must make a note: No booths for the Mom. She disappears below the table ledge when she's in a booth.
    Well, I suppose this is a good enough time for me to pick up meds; before I remember anything else it might seem necessary for me to do.
    Later.

...and I've already spoilt it. I've said many, many things to my cats, including, "Well, hi, is it time to get up?" to Mr. Man, who rubbed his face against mine, this morning, unusual for him. He usually just sits within inches of my face in the meatloaf position and stares at me until this awakens me. So I blew it. I'll have to remember to cue Mom to say it before she says anything else this morning. I've spoken to her, once, but she didn't respond with speech, only with a nod.
    I'm itching to get started on the eggs. I've always loved painting, I studied it for a short while, once, was never very good at it but always inventive. I know enough about my abilities to stay away from representational art. But, I have a good eye. So does Mom. I'm also going to, later, when we're both comfortable working within one another's vicinity, introduce application of beads, etc. The idea daunted Mom over Easter, but what I'm hoping will happen is that if she doesn't feel facile enough to work with applying beads and things (I was also thinking lace, satin ribbon, buttons, etc., and, no, we wouldn't be using super glue), she'll be interested in watching without becoming intimidated. She is, by the way, totally excited about the possibility of creating what she, yesterday, referred to as "a cottage industry," to which I replied, "...this home is cozy and inviting enough to be considered a cottage, I think..."
    I'm also going to do some baking today, Blueberry Lime muffins, at least. I'm going to thin the half and half with lime juice, as well as adding lime zest, this time. This is my reminder. I was surprised to discover just how well limes enhance blueberries. Maybe another peach pie...oh, which reminds me, I need to go to the grocery to get a lemon and a paper bag. This is my reminder. I've already begun cooling down the house. It will be fairly hard for Mom to hear, today, what with all the fans blowing and sucking, distorting sound as well as producing it, but it'll be worth it. Chances are we'll be spending most of the day in close quarters, anyway. She likes to be present when I'm cooking. She always says, "You like to cook, don't you?" Which always leads into a discussion of how she doesn't like to cook, "has never seen the sense in it". Usually this conversation winds down with her saying, "Well, I guess you got it from Mother. It certainly wasn't from me."
    I agree with her, fundamentally, that it is an awful lot of work on something that's going to disappear in 20 minutes and leave a mess behind. I'm often not thrilled with the separate types of preparation necessary and often wish I could just program an idea into a duplicator, a la Star Trek, and, voila, I'm a chef. But, I'm attracted to the chemistry aspect of cooking as it applies to taste.
    My mother and I are so unlike one another when it comes to food. I don't think it was until she and I began this last-phase companionship of ours that she even paid much attention to taste or presentation. She loved the social aspect of family meals, which were promoted with gusto in our house. But the cooking...let's just say she was thrilled to be blessed with four girls who all inherited an interest in food preparation. She continued to prepare a fair number of weekday and Sunday dinners, but never minded passing the glory around. Her pan fried chicken is the most succulent I've ever eaten. Her homespun Chicken Mexicali is wonderful; sort of like Swiss Steak with chicken. Her Swiss Steak was great, too. Her stew left a lot to be desired, unless she accidentally burned it. Her Mac & Cheese is the basis for mine, without the ketchup, although I used to eat it and like it with ketchup. I use chopped sun-dried tomatoes, now, instead. She was a good bread maker at one time. We used to have home made bread fairly often on Guam. I'm not sure she liked doing it, but she loved, loved, loved slicing off big hunks of it, slathering it with butter and eating it. That's why I continue to make breadmaker bread in the winter. I've modified her tastes, though. When a loaf of Basil Bread emerges, she enjoys it with very lightly salted, garlic infused with the slices of sauteed garlic still in it) warm-from-the-skillet olive oil. That was my idea. I remember telling Mom, when I introduced it, which we both recall because I made her wait for a piece of bread until I concocted the spread on the spot, that I just had "this idea" that these things would taste good on the freshly baked, warm bread.
    After taking the first bite she said, "You sure have some good ideas, girl."
    Since, we've also used my home mixed garlic butter on the bread. That's delicious, too.
    I think, too, since forgetting that she smokes, her sense of taste has revived, some. It is her habit, now, to informally grade meals, especially dinner, but often breakfast and lunch, especially if I've fiddled with those menus, which are often the same for stretches of time.
    As to her enjoying watching me cook, I think part of the pleasure is that it reminds her of when us girls used to cook at home, especially big family dinners in which everyone, including Mom (she usually prepared and cooked the main entrée) participated.
    Which reminds me...soon after I mentioned, some months ago, maybe around Christmas, that I continue to let her chop things, I stopped doing that. She almost sliced off her finger while hacking through celery. She laughed. That wouldn't be the first time. When she was a girl she almost severed one of her middle fingers. I forget how; I'll have to ask her. This is my reminder. Anyway, she is still conscious of that finger. When I go to test her blood glucose, if we're "on" that finger, she always reminds me of the scar, as if this is a problem when it comes to getting an accurate glucose reading; sort of a reversal of the thought process that leads to women stripping before they get on a weight scale. As I'm recalling, when that finger 'comes up', she also says, "Did I ever tell you about the time...", and she has, so I interrupt her and say, "Yes," but, apparently, I haven't heard about it often enough to remember it. I need to ask her about that today. This is my second reminder.
    Later.

...especially considering "Sue's" very kind and very much appreciated comment on a post about which I was feeling unsettled because it whipped out of me, already written. I'd been reading Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories. I am not reading the sections in order (a lovely thing about this book, by the way, somewhere in the preface the authors invite you to not read it in the order in which it is published) and I think I was about half way through my second section. Suddenly, I felt that post well up and I stopped and wrote it, then continued reading.
    Much to my red faced surprise, sometime today (I've read a great deal of the book, today...it's a page turner, now, it's surprised and delighted me so much) I ran across a section that is a different version of exactly what I said! This, I think, can be taken as initial proof that the book does it's job.
    Of the 13 sections, I have read eight. My intention is to definitely write about my reading of this book. I expect I will do it, once again, through the device of an abridged tour through my highlightings and notes, although I'll probably organize by section, this time, and probably quote only a third of the stuff I highlighted. Although the book is only 237 pages long, it is dense with portraits and information. The subtitle of the book is: "A Support Group in a Book". It is this, primarily, but it's character has several other facets.
    This book is compiled from the experiences of the participants of the cream of what is available to caregivers in any particular area in the U.S. It is thoroughly familiar with the variety of caregiver experiences, as most people did not make it to Family Alliance (which is specific to an area), the administrator of the support group from which the participants for the vignettes in this book were chosen, on the first try. Much of its value is in its report character. By the end of the book, you know quite a lot about quite a few families involved in caring for a loved one with dementia. This reportage, alone, is responsible for over half of its support value. The book covertly apologizes for itself as being based on a strongly homogeneous social and cultural group and it is true that sometimes this homogeneity is troublesome. But mostly, it provides personal narrative themes for each caregiver-and-family that run throughout the book. Another of its strengths is that it recognizes, out of the gate, that there are a variety of demential states, some progressive, some not, most not understood well enough to allow for accurate prognosis or diagnosis. It stresses that while you can learn from almost any caregiver's experiences, you cannot project from anyone's experiences. Caregivers learn this very quickly. I'm pleased that professionals are passing this information among themselves, now.
    Before I write any more about the book, I intend to finish it and reread Mona's interview with Lynda A. Markut, one of the book's authors. Then, I'll be back...
    ...later.
    One more thing about the book: I am surprised at how caregivers, once exposed to other caregivers through a support group or other means, across the board believe that most other caregivers have it worse than they do. Even the men come to this conclusion. I find this startling. I'm wondering what it says about the state of elder caregiver-hood; that we tend to see it as much worse than it is. Funny thing, we tend to see parenthood as much better than it is. It's all about attitude, I guess, and it looks like, as a society, we've got a lot of attitude work to do in regard to the idea of caregiving, let alone the reality of caregiving.

    Oh...otherwise things are going well. We are headed into our hottest week this week. Temperatures in the low 100's are predicted for downtown over a two day period, one of those days being July 4th. That will mean low 90's in our area, but we're prepared. I picked up some enamel paints and talked up Mom's and my business scheme to her, even elaborated on it, so I think we'll be painting eggs over the next few days.
    I felt peculiarly adept, today, in regard to negotiating traffic around here. Prescott is a landlocked city/town. There are only two established ways into and out of it. I had some errands to run today and I knew the Rodeo celebrations had begun. On the spur of the moment I maneuvered through the lesser traveled areas of town and completely avoided the parking lot that downtown Prescott had become.