Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Surprise. Right?
The best laid plans...you know the rest. My intended reading hasn't happened quite as I expected. About the time I decided to devote myself to that, I also decided it was time to insist on some therapeutic moving for Mom so that her body will not fail the mental initiative with which she is approaching the impending Visit of the Relatives for her 90th birthday. This time I'm not taking no for an answer. She doesn't believe that this therapeutic movement is helping her...she doesn't believe she needs it; but we've gotten past her initial resistance and sour attitude (which lasted for more than a couple of days) and now it's a part of the routine.
Our monsoon weather has finally set in, which means muggy heat until afternoon, then muggy rain, then muggy nights despite the significant cooling, so it's been hard to get her outside. I haven't pushed this aspect, but we've got plenty of room in the house to move her around, and some of the therapy involves adding distance movement to the things she normally does, like going to the bathroom, throwing away her tissue collection, going back and forth between dinette and living room, pushing the limits of how long I can get her to stay up, etc. Thus, my days have slowed waaaay down...something to which all caregivers to the elderly can relate. I haven't, either, been sure it's been helping...until this evening. When she awoke from a late nap (after a late rising; I let her "sleep in" today as a reward and because I thought her body might snap to with a bit more panache if I acceded to her normal sleep preferences), after we'd handled her usual bathroom business, I headed into the kitchen to make coffee for her. Normally, within a couple of minutes, she's followed me out to where ever I've gone from there. Today, though, she lagged. I waited. And waited. Peeked down the hall to see if the bathroom light had been switched off. It hadn't. Did a few minor kitchen chores and waited some more. Peeked again. Light still on, door still open, no sign of Mom. She'd been complaining, yesterday, about her knee, I remembered. Hmmm...I wondered if she collapsed to the floor and was valiantly trying to get herself up. I dashed into the bathroom. There she was, standing before the mirror, carefully shaving the whiskers off her chin! She hasn't done this on her own in a couple of years! It's become routine, in fact, for me to shave her every couple of days during her daily sink bathing.
"Wow! Mom! You're shaving!"
She gave me her typical thin-lipped, sarcastic grin. "Good for you. Now what am I doing?" She patted the top of her head.
I laughed. "Touché, Mom. You haven't done that in awhile, though."
She looked at me as though I'd suddenly developed dementia. "I do this every couple of days."
Technically, I suppose, she's right, so I didn't argue. I couldn't help my surprise, though. She had been standing there, with minimal aid from the vanity, occasionally with no aid at all as she wielded the razor in one hand and felt for stubble with the other. She hadn't abraded or cut herself. When she emerged from the bathroom I stopped her halfway through the kitchen and felt her chin. "Smooth as a baby's bottom," I pronounced, which is exactly what she says to me after I shave her during bathing.
"Of course," she said. "I've done this once before, you know." This is her usual wry reply when I make a big deal of something she does that she thinks is small potatoes.
It hasn't seemed to me that we've been making much progress with my version of therapeutic movement, but her shaving seems to indicate that my pessimism has been negligent.
While it's true that she's a hard woman to move in these Ancient Years of hers, and she freely admits that her preference is for as little movement as possible, still, she's neither down nor out.
Now, of course, I'm wondering how much further her reserves can take her. Can I look forward to getting her interested in outings, again? To the store, to the park, maybe? We'll see. I have very high hopes for the coming visits, though. I don't want to get too excited. It's easy for me to disappoint myself with my plans for her. But, well, you never know...could dinner and dancing be far behind?
She just never fails to amaze me...both in what she insists on not doing, then in what she suddenly shows she can do.
Anyway, expect that for the next couple of weeks I'll continue fall behind in reporting, and reading. I've got a link for you, though, in case you're interested. It's to an article reprinted in the latest NFCA snail mail newsletter "Take Care!" The following link will take you to the article as it originally appeared: The Top 10 Things Caregivers Don't Want to Hear...And a Few Things They Do. Not that hundreds of online, journaling caregivers haven't written about each one of these "things"...certainly I have. It's handy to have them all together, though, and the writing is nicely distilled and succinctly thoughtful. Just to give you an idea, here's one of my favorites:
Well, damn, it's late and I've got early errands to run.
Although I'm not sure, when, definitely...
...later.
Our monsoon weather has finally set in, which means muggy heat until afternoon, then muggy rain, then muggy nights despite the significant cooling, so it's been hard to get her outside. I haven't pushed this aspect, but we've got plenty of room in the house to move her around, and some of the therapy involves adding distance movement to the things she normally does, like going to the bathroom, throwing away her tissue collection, going back and forth between dinette and living room, pushing the limits of how long I can get her to stay up, etc. Thus, my days have slowed waaaay down...something to which all caregivers to the elderly can relate. I haven't, either, been sure it's been helping...until this evening. When she awoke from a late nap (after a late rising; I let her "sleep in" today as a reward and because I thought her body might snap to with a bit more panache if I acceded to her normal sleep preferences), after we'd handled her usual bathroom business, I headed into the kitchen to make coffee for her. Normally, within a couple of minutes, she's followed me out to where ever I've gone from there. Today, though, she lagged. I waited. And waited. Peeked down the hall to see if the bathroom light had been switched off. It hadn't. Did a few minor kitchen chores and waited some more. Peeked again. Light still on, door still open, no sign of Mom. She'd been complaining, yesterday, about her knee, I remembered. Hmmm...I wondered if she collapsed to the floor and was valiantly trying to get herself up. I dashed into the bathroom. There she was, standing before the mirror, carefully shaving the whiskers off her chin! She hasn't done this on her own in a couple of years! It's become routine, in fact, for me to shave her every couple of days during her daily sink bathing.
"Wow! Mom! You're shaving!"
She gave me her typical thin-lipped, sarcastic grin. "Good for you. Now what am I doing?" She patted the top of her head.
I laughed. "Touché, Mom. You haven't done that in awhile, though."
She looked at me as though I'd suddenly developed dementia. "I do this every couple of days."
Technically, I suppose, she's right, so I didn't argue. I couldn't help my surprise, though. She had been standing there, with minimal aid from the vanity, occasionally with no aid at all as she wielded the razor in one hand and felt for stubble with the other. She hadn't abraded or cut herself. When she emerged from the bathroom I stopped her halfway through the kitchen and felt her chin. "Smooth as a baby's bottom," I pronounced, which is exactly what she says to me after I shave her during bathing.
"Of course," she said. "I've done this once before, you know." This is her usual wry reply when I make a big deal of something she does that she thinks is small potatoes.
It hasn't seemed to me that we've been making much progress with my version of therapeutic movement, but her shaving seems to indicate that my pessimism has been negligent.
While it's true that she's a hard woman to move in these Ancient Years of hers, and she freely admits that her preference is for as little movement as possible, still, she's neither down nor out.
Now, of course, I'm wondering how much further her reserves can take her. Can I look forward to getting her interested in outings, again? To the store, to the park, maybe? We'll see. I have very high hopes for the coming visits, though. I don't want to get too excited. It's easy for me to disappoint myself with my plans for her. But, well, you never know...could dinner and dancing be far behind?
She just never fails to amaze me...both in what she insists on not doing, then in what she suddenly shows she can do.
Anyway, expect that for the next couple of weeks I'll continue fall behind in reporting, and reading. I've got a link for you, though, in case you're interested. It's to an article reprinted in the latest NFCA snail mail newsletter "Take Care!" The following link will take you to the article as it originally appeared: The Top 10 Things Caregivers Don't Want to Hear...And a Few Things They Do. Not that hundreds of online, journaling caregivers haven't written about each one of these "things"...certainly I have. It's handy to have them all together, though, and the writing is nicely distilled and succinctly thoughtful. Just to give you an idea, here's one of my favorites:
No. 2: I know just how you feel.See what I mean? No nonsense, no decoration, no holds barred. Check it out. I'm considering printing multiple copies and always carrying one with me so I can pass it out to offenders when I simply haven't got the energy to diplomatically deal with or ignore people who speak before they observe and think.
This is another attempt at solidarity that fails. The caregiver is probably thinking, "No, you don't because sometimes I don't even know myself how I feel." Caregiving involves a complex and dynamic array of emotions, which each person experiences and internalizes differently. This statement shifts the focus away from the caregiver to the speaker, who frequently follows it up by talking about his or her own caregiving experience.
Well, damn, it's late and I've got early errands to run.
Although I'm not sure, when, definitely...
...later.
