Mom & Me Five Archive

As of May 1, 2010...

2010-04-29T22:45:00.000-07:00

...Blogger will no longer allow FTP publishing. Updates to this blog, which will probably be few to none, since this section of The Mom & Me Journals dot Net is, essentially, closed by time, can be found at http://momandmefivearchive.blogspot.com. This section of the journal will also remain at in it's domain directory, so accessing links should not present a problem.

Ah, yes. Christmas.

2007-12-30T12:51:00.001-07:00

    The holiday season began felicitiously. Sometime soon after Real Thanksgiving, which went well with just the two of us (we had Thanksgiving company the weekend previous, so we celebrated Thanksgiving twice), I surprised myself by not only being in the mood to put up our 32" fiber optic tree, I decided to find a new fiber optic tree, as Mom and I were picking apart the condition of the one we've had for about five years. The white plastic needles have yellowed and the branches are in enough disarray to disturb. Turns out, even though I found and purchased another 32-incher (which was a feat, fiber optic trees are no longer as popular as they were), our old yellowed one out shines the new silver-aluminum needled one...so we decided to display both; we certainly have enough miniature decorations for both. Thus, our house has had that Christmas look for most of the holiday season, this year. Our neighbors to the east, west and north, as well, have gone all out with outdoor Christmas lights this year, so we've been surrounded with glittery, celebratory color.
    I started playing Christmas music early...even found some new stuff for us to enjoy. I wasn't in the mood to plan for us to traipse down to the Valley on Christmas and discussed this frankly with Mom. Although she mentioned that she "always enjoys" seeing the relatives, she confessed that "the trip makes it a hard day" for her and was fine with us staying up here. As you know, early in the season I put together an unusual and festive menu for Christmas Dinner. Then, I settled down in front of the computer with our Christmas budget to my right and began to order gifts. That's when the Christmas wind went out of me.
    Can't really say why I found myself skidding through this holiday season without the tiniest scrap of The Spirit of Giving left in me. All I know is what I told my mother after I'd thought through, selected and ordered one family's gifts: "Seems like it's been a hard care giving year for me this year, Mom. I just don't have any desire to give left in me."
    As I reflected on the year, I couldn't come up with any concrete reasons for feeling this way...maybe it was all the energy I put into Daily Strength; maybe it was the recent surprise of Mom's need for a second transfusion; maybe it was Mom's 90th birthday celebration, over which I'm still boggled to the point of refusing to think about it; maybe it's that, this year, it's become necessary for Mom to be on continuous flow oxygen all the time, so I've had to push my nose further up her ass than before. All in all, I couldn't point to anything in particular and I had to admit that when I review the entire year, it seems like yet another blessedly easy year...and yet, before it ended I was bereft of Giving Resources.
    I thought about how our Christmases usually unfold: Careful, thoughtful gift ordering (I've missed a few Christmases with this but mostly I've been good about it in the last few years); maybe not always Christmas decorations here, but always lots of Christmas talk and music and usually some special baking; forays about town to see community decorations; we typically don't buy gifts for ourselves, neither of us is particularly materialistic and we're rather like an old married couple in this respect, since we tend to get what we want when we want it (assuming we can afford it) so gifts that we receive are left up to whomever we're visiting, a regular box received from one branch of the family, an irregular box from another branch and late, maybe-sometime-the-following-summer gifts from a third branch; a snuggling down with Christmas movies and holiday specials, especially between Christmas and New Years, then a special New Year's dinner here at home, no company, to polish off the season before putting it away.
    "Mom," I said, after shoving myself through the first wave of gift ordering, "just thinking about gift giving exhausts me this year. I feel like, this year, you and I need to get. We need to pluck presents for us from the tree of abundant human productivity this year. I think we should take the rest of our Christmas budget and spend it on us. Get things that we really want; delicious things that we've been putting off or don't get because we don't really need them." Much to my surprise, my mother agreed. Enthusiastically. So, I spent our money and my thought on us, this year. I was able to run all my ideas for Mom by her with the confidence that her dementia would obliterate the memory of the selections and she'd be delighted anew as she unwrapped her gifts on Christmas.
    I diligently wrapped gifts as they were purchased and set them around our trees as the season progressed. I reinstated "Mom's Stocking", which I hadn't done for several years, even though, up to about 2000, I ALWAYS, no matter where I was and where she was, bought her a startling new stocking and sent or gave it to her along with so many little things I'd collected through the year for her that the stockings have never held even a third of their stash. Each morning for the week and a half before Christmas Mom's face lit up like a third tree as she studied the gift tableau and noticed another package here or there. I also wrapped things I got for me so that Mom wouldn't feel as though she hadn't participated in the gift exchange.
    At one point a tug of guilt had me call the car rental place a little over two weeks before Christmas just to see how their inventory of holiday rentals stood. Much to my delight I discovered that it was already too late to reserve a car, taking care of any misplaced shame about not traveling.
    By Christmas morning Mom was stoked. She was up and bathed well before noon. I made her wait until after her ham and egg breakfast to attack the presents, the technique my parents practiced. It was like reining a child. With each gift I "passed" and she or I opened, she fairly squealed with delight! I was beside myself with joy that we were having such a wonderful Christmas.
    As the gift giving subsided, Mom came to and realized that she'd had nothing to do with collecting the gifts that were under the tree. She started talking about all the gifts that she'd bought and wrapped but hadn't yet put under the tree. I was a little surprised, but not fazed. My first tactic was to assure her that she'd already put her gifts out and we were almost done unwrapping everything. She was satisfied with this for a few minutes, then reverted back to her insistence that she had gifts to put under the tree "for everyone". My second tactic was to accompany her to her room, where she said she had stored the gifts. As you know if you're a regular reader, she is neither very spry nor flexible, so, while she sat on her bed, I perused the room for her, looking under the bed, opening drawers, moving this and that about so she could see that "everything had already been put under the tree." I even went so far as to tell her that I had sneaked into her room "last night", gathered her gifts and placed them under the tree.
    She reluctantly left the room. Once I'd gotten her back in her rocker, she began to recount memories of having gone out "a few days ago" or "a week ago" or "right after Thanksgiving" and shopping for "everyone". She even remembered things she'd bought, although when I asked her what these "things" were, she smiled wickedly and teased me that I'd have to wait to open them.
    Suddenly, she remembered all the boxes stored in her closet. She was sure she'd put "all the gifts" in the boxes and wanted to return to the room and go through the boxes to retrieve them.
    I was becoming exasperated. No, I said, the boxes haven't been touched for years, and, besides, she wasn't capable of pulling them out of the closet so she couldn't have stored gifts there. At any rate, I said, I wasn't going to "waste" several holiday hours box hunting on her behalf.
    She remained adamant. She stood determinedly out of her rocker without my assistance and made to shuffle for the bedroom. I placed my body in front of her and blocked her. I decided it was time to tell her the truth. That usually works, even though I expected it might be an unpleasant shock.
    I spilled all the beans. I told her that I had been the only one in the household (I put it this way in case there were holiday visitors from The Dead Zone Mom was entertaining during the holidays but of whom I was unaware) to purchase, wrap and place gifts. When she argued about her shopping trips I told her that the only way she would have been able to shop was if I'd taken her, and I hadn't. I reminded her of all the conversations we'd had about this or that item. I reviewed, in detail, the entire holiday season from the weekend before Thanksgiving on, trying to drop kick something familiar back into her brain. Nothing worked. Additionally, she spent our entire exchange trying to push her way past me to return to the bedroom to scavenge through the boxes in the closet.
    Fifteen minutes later, the effort of standing and trying to push her way around me exhausted her and she sank back into her chair. By this time her legs were wobbly and she was panting, so I knew the rest of the day was going to be a little touchy, but I was far from upset.
    Soon after collapsing into her rocker she decided she needed to take "a little nap". I agreed. I figured she'd digest all this "new" information while sleeping and that would be the end of the Christmas Gift Dilemma.
    Her naps usually last anywhere from an hour to three hours, depending on how long she's been awake, how much she's moved and how confusing her "morning" (most of which occurs in the early afternoon) has been. Thus, I was surprised when, at the half hour mark, I glanced down the hall and noticed that her light was still on. I entered the room. She was sitting on the floor wedged between her bed and her open bottom dresser drawer, her legs awkwardly sprawled, surrounded by stuff she'd taken out of the bottom drawer. She was struggling in vain to arise. I panicked. It's been awhile since I've had to pick her up off the floor and I wasn't sure I was still capable of doing this. I freaked while visions of having to pay paramedics to get her up off the floor whirled through my mind.
    "What were you thinking, Mom!?! You know better than to sit on the floor! You know you can't get up on your own!"
    "I can get up any time I want," she indignantly insisted, and twisted her legs into an even more impossible position, trying to prove her point.
    It took us twenty minutes to figure out how to get her to her knees so she could prop the upper half of her body onto her bed. I squatted from behind her and shoved until her flailing legs were able to achieve purchase with the sheets and we were able to move her full onto the mattress. The effort again exhausted her.
    Always one to take advantage of the opportunity to add insult to injury, especially when I'm perplexed and angry, I sternly instructed her that she was to relax, take a nap, and remain in bed. "No more sitting on the floor," I told her. I shut the doors to her closet (surprised me, actually that I was able to do this, her closet is so loaded) so she wouldn't get any ideas about her ability to haul large, heavy packing boxes down. "I have to start the Sauerbraten," I told her. "I'm going to be checking on you every couple of minutes until you've gone to sleep, to make sure you don't end up on the floor, again."
    This was when she asked why we couldn't just have ham sandwiches for dinner. That sounded fine by me...less work, more time to keep an eye on Mom and her gifting delusions.
    For the next two days, Mom complained about "not feeling quite right," and, you know, if she's complaining about how she feels, something is clearly wrong. She mentioned that she felt like she had a cold but she knew she didn't have one. She further articulated that she "ached all over." Although I made a mental note to be prepared for a trip to the emergency room, when I suggested this, she poo-pooed the idea and insisted we wait for a couple of days to see how she felt later. I decided to gamble on the probability that the indignities involved in raising her off the floor and onto her bed probably took a muscular toll on her eccentrically weak muscles and she'd feel fine after a couple of days and some judiciously administered ibuprofen. I was right. She collapsed once more the day after Christmas, as she was negotiating the two steps into the living room, but once I picked her onto her feet and pull-carried her to her chair, she recovered and was fine. I've made a mental note to look into the possibility of physical therapy for her, since our unevenly applied routine of sitter- and stander-cises don't seem to be doing her much good. She doesn't take them seriously and complains about my insistence on their necessity, puts no effort into doing them (since I'm not someone she feels she needs to please), so they do little to improve her strength or range of motion.
    Since then I've spent much time considering what seeing her through to the end of her life is going to take. She is, after all, ninety. The word "decline" would not be an unfair description of what she's going through, although from day to day she doesn't seem to change and I feel I can still count on revivals. So does she. "Improvement" of any aspects of her physical condition is unlikely. And, yet, I feel obliged to take into heavy consideration her strength of will and her spirit and honor her belief that she has many years to go and many more steps to take, aided, as they are, by her mechanical walker and me as her human walker.
    There are times when I scold her, during an exercise session, for her lack of application to the seriousness of the task and desperately confess that if she becomes any weaker I may not have the ability to care for her here at home...even though I'm also aware that home care to the end of her life will surely happen and I am determined to fight victoriously to keep her here. When I suffer one of these break-downs, she ramps up her exercising efforts and we usually have a good session. I am loathe, though, to constantly threaten her, especially when I know the threat is full of fevered, exasperated air.
    Still, I am tired. Very tired. Besides the Buddhist fable I mentioned in a previous post, I've been contemplating a couple of my own epistles: The Wouldn't it be funny if... post and the No one would blame me post: The former when I am hopefully urging myself back into compassion mode; the latter when I am drowning in the difficulty of resisting compassion fatigue.
    Last night we watched Grizzly Man, playing on the Animal Planet Channel. This is not the first time I've viewed this movie. I am attracted to it primarily because of the occasional sharpness of Herzog's commentary, specifically something he says in the middle of the film: After documenting that Treadwell, a.k.a. The Grizzly Man, had faith in the "harmony" of life, he says, "...I disagree." He feels that life, in fact, rotates around an axis of "chaos, hositility and murder." In an interview in the May, 2005, issue of Documentary Magazine in which he talks about the film, he continues: "I have the impression by simple observations that there is no harmony in Mother Nature, and I don't like this romanticized New Age approach. I cannot take it any longer...It doesn't matter how the universe is organized. Since we are here and we are part of the creation, as faulty as it can be, we have to give meaning to this planet."
    Last night, I took special note of this because I've been considering how, just as human society colludes in determining our births, it also colludes in the timing of our deaths. When we talk, innocently, about "it" being someone's "time", we imply that some sort of god is ticking off our life plan. In fact, I've been thinking, it is our society that does this. We can't help but do it. Life is, fundamentally, a matter of resource distribution. One way or another, although some of our cultures allow themselves less awareness of this, some more (see The Ballad of Narayama), we plot to determine the length and breadth of everyone's lives. I'm convinced that my intervention in my mother's life has extended it beyond what relatives and the medical providers have thought possible (although not what my mother has believed about how long she'll live). I've been wondering, lately, what my part in the timing of my mother's death will be: Whether increasingly frequent episodes of compassion fatigue, combined with my mother's reaction to my fatigue, will ultimately determine the timing of her final moments. It's not a depressing subject to contemplate. Neither is it easy. Hard questions, hard facts, hard truths, hard insights. This seems to be the overriding concern of my personal Holiday Season, this year. My mother's holiday season seems to have been about stoic endurance and sometimes dangerous delight...although I can't be sure about this.
    In the meantime, Mom is feeling "herself" again. She can't remember the few days during which she insisted that "something's wrong but I don't know what", so I must have been right about her body's need to recover from the trauma of being hoisted onto her mattress.
    Our New Year's dinner will most likely be ham, or perhaps ham and bean soup, as she was not satisfied with the ham sandwiches on Christmas, which depleted our supply of her favorite food. The trees continue to remind her of Christmas, although she's aware that "Christmas is over" and a new year is about to begin. I'm surprised that her sense of time and its markers is heightened...but, mine has been philosophically acute, as well, lately, and this may be rubbing off on her.
    Happy Holidays. I believe this is appropriate, in a skewed sort of way.
    Later.

I'm cooking Christmas dinner.

2007-12-27T19:13:00.001-07:00

    That's right. Two days after Christmas and we're finally having Christmas dinner. Just one of the circumstances that turned our Christmas curious.
    Not that we didn't have dinner on Christmas. I'd bought what was called a quarter HoneyBaked Ham® (no bone, sliced) so that I could serve Mom her very favorite breakfast (after pancakes, that is, which didn't seem like a good idea, considering all the refined carbohydrates I expected to slosh through her system that day, although I added the breakfast accompaniment of Wildflower Bread Company's cranberry scones, of which I am endlessly envious and haven't yet managed to duplicate), ham and eggs. As the day progressed, despite the mounting oddities, the one item that had been a resounding success from Mom's point of view was the ham at breakfast. About the time I needed to begin preparing what I'd planned for Christmas dinner, Sauerbraten, Mom announced that she'd "just as soon" have ham again for dinner.
    No problem. The roast could marinate for a few more days. How, I asked, would she like the rest of the ham prepared?
    "How about ham and cheese sandwiches with MCS's pickles (MCS had sent us some jars of her much appreciated home made Bread & Butter pickles for Christmas, yet another favorite of Mom's; when we opened the package right after breakfast Mom insisted on having some)?"
    That was doable. I assembled ham and cheese (Cheddar and Jalapeno Jack for Mom, aged, grated Parmesan for me) between slices of sourdough bread slathered with whiskey mustard and skillet toasted the sandwiches. With the pickles, it made a perfect Christmas dinner, especially considering what had gone before.
    Dinner was followed with a light dessert, also not on the original menu. I'd planned a See's Apricot Delight Cake. I'd noticed it while I was ordering some very special candy for Mom's stocking. The cake recipe sounded delicious, so I ordered the type of candy it required and made sure I had all the ingredients. I followed the recipe exactly, which is a miracle for me. Unfortunately, the recipe was a dud. The cream cheese/candy filling sunk to the bottom of the upside-down Bundt pan as it baked and fused to the pan. When I attempted to drop the cake out of the pan (after the requisite hour of cooling) the cake broke in half. The cake part baked up nicely, but the filling part had turned into a gooey glue that I had to scrape out of the pan. The entire production went down the garbage disposal. On Christmas Day, though, I got an idea to bake up a batch of Date Bars, a delicious family recipe from waaay back that put standard oat crust date bars to shame. My plan was to serve these (which I did bake on Christmas) with French Vanilla ice cream and home made rum-date sauce. After dinner, though, Mom wanted, "just a little something sweet", so I okayed her foray into her box of special candy. Amazingly, although she loved it, she ate only one piece. I was surprised. I even told her that it would be okay if she had more since I'd doubled her glipizide dose, but, "...no, that was enough." I never fail to be amazed at her sugar restraint since she developed Type 2 diabetes in 1999 and slowly but surely changed her sugar habits.
    So, we're having our originally planned Christmas Dinner tonight, Sauerbraten and Date Bars with ice cream and rum-date sauce, tonight. I just finished the dessert sauce...oh, my, it is the sauciest of sauces!
    In case you're curious, the Sauerbraten recipe is straight out of Joy of Cooking, the 1997 edition. I followed that recipe exactly, as well, right down to the marinade, except that I did something my mother used to do when cooking pot roast: I added the chunked companion vegetables I'd planned (not the vegetables that flavor the braising liquid) to the braising meat throughout the cooking cycle. They'll be removed just before I make the sauce. I followed the recipe on this one, too, because, although I may, at some time, have had Sauerbraten, I don't remember it so I figured I'd better not get too creative with the cooking. From all indications, the main dish will be delicious...as will the dessert. I'll publish the recipes for the Date Bars (you won't find this recipe anywhere else, I don't think; I suspect that the woman who passed it on to us created it) and the rum-date Sauce (not my recipe) later, over at the cooking section. I'll add links from here to there.
    I think the meat is just about ready to harvest, which means I need to get busy, awaken The Mom from her nap and make the gravy (yes, I'm going to use crushed gingersnaps, as the recipe recommends...even though the idea of cookies in a main dish gives me pause).
    Good idea to put my feet back in the journaling water by writing around what's been going on. I think I'll be dunking myself further...
    ...later.

I've been feeling a desperate need for snow, lately.

2007-12-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

    Although the northern and eastern part of our state has gotten a fair amount, Prescott has not. The sun has been annoyingly unabated and brilliant, here. Since early November snow has been promised, then the promise has disappeared. So, while web surfing, I found this engaging little snow script, captured the images and the script and have added both to this section of my journals. I'll be adding it to the others, as well, within the next few days. I've seen a lot of snow scripts on the internet. This one actually makes me feel as though it's snowing (with a little help from an open window here and a dimmer switch on our overhead light there). I read a suggestion on a now forgotten website that as the seasons change, an interesting trick is to change the image the snow script uses in order to distribute falling leaves, etc. I'm grinning about some of the possibilities for sprinkled images and might give that a try.
    Mostly, lately, I've had that familiar Buddhist fable in mind. You know it: The one about the two monks, belonging to a sect that prohibits the touching of women, about to cross a river, on the banks of which is a woman who needs help crossing. One of the monks carries her across the river. Once the monks complete their crossing and the woman is deposited, the monk who denied help to the woman grouses at the other as the two continue on their way. In response, the "guilty" monk says, "Ah, but I left the woman on the bank of the river. You're still carrying her."
    It seems I'm carrying a variety of "women", not the least of which is an actual woman, my mother, much further than is probably necessary and am experiencing some difficulty because I can't figure out how to put any of them down.
    Funny, because almost hourly when I'm awake, as my day progresses, I mentally write in this journal, keeping up a running commentary on what is happening and how I'm feeling about it. When I get to a point, though, where I can fire up the computer and record the commentary, the words evaporate in bewilderment.
    So, in case you're wondering, that's why I haven't actually been here much, although I've been here "spiritually" almost constantly. I even surprised myself by dreaming, about a week ago, about writing here! The dream was immensely satisfying...awakening from it was frustrating.
    How's The Mom doing? I'm not sure. That's another perplexing aspect of these last few months. On the surface she seems okay, but I'm suspicious. Perhaps she is simply reacting to my fairly apparent confusion. Christmas turned out to be an unsettling day...remind me to tell you about it.
    Hmmm...I notice that my fingers remain familiar with the keyboard, even anxious to skitter from letter to letter...maybe I'll be getting back here sooner than...
    ...later.

By way of explanation...

2007-12-16T14:45:00.000-07:00

...just want to mention that I'm going through a hard emotional period which makes it difficult to write about what's going on here, and, as well, what's going on inside me, although, be assured, it's not classically "bad"; just perplexing. We are, in fact, enjoying the holiday season more than usual. I decided to pull the holiday back to our house and our companionship, this year, rather than attempting to celebrate everyone else. That part of this period, at least, has been easy and delightful.
Later? Of course...eventually...

I'm thankful for my anger, this year.

2007-11-22T22:50:00.000-07:00

    It's becoming incendiary.
    No, no, no, not anger at myself. I've never been much for that little bit of keep-'em-down-on-the-farm propaganda.
    Outward facing anger. Feels right. Feels good. Even makes me smile...no, make that "grin".
    I've been lax at getting back here. So much catching up to do in so many areas. I'm turned this way, though. I'll be back more frequently as the days go by.
    Is it still Thanksgiving here? Ah, yes, it is.
    [Happy] I salute the gods [Thanks] who've been busily fanning [Giving] the flames of my anger.
    Later.

I just awoke from a dream...

2007-11-14T09:35:00.001-07:00

...in which Jessica Fletcher and I solved a murder mystery involving a red haired man, appearing as the culprit in my dream, who my subconscious stole from the movie An Unfinished Life, which Mom and I watched, in our "reel" life, a few days ago during a personal, mini Lasse Hallström festival. It was an exuberant enjoyable dream. During the investigation both Jessica and I donned disguises. Both of us failed to recognize the other in disguise. I laughed so hard in the dream I may have laughed out loud in real life.
    I'm mentioning the dream because, as it closed, Jessica mentioned that she would be returning to her "favorite place"; for her, in the dream, it was Wales. She urged me to do the same.
    The idea sounded perfect, I agreed, and told her, in answer to her query, that my favorite place was Seattle, Washington, any time but the summer, but that I would be deferring my return.
    "What's stopping you?" she asked.
    "My mother and I live together and she can't take Seattle weather. If she doesn't enjoy it, I won't." My voice and mood in the dream were matter of fact. No sorrow. No regrets.
    Jessica smiled, nodded approvingly and wished me well, "...until we meet again," [presumably in Dream Land to solve another murder mystery].
    I awoke as Jessica donned another disguise and headed toward Wales. I was surprised to realize that, even in my dream life, now, I am satisfied with where I am, my commitment to my mother and what I consider that it asks of my life. Partnering with Jessica Fletcher in a dream is one indication. My mother's been on a Murder, She Wrote binge, lately, and, this time, I'm not annoyed by it; not even by hearing the theme over and over (which may or may not have been atmosphere music in my dream).
    It's funny, too, because I have a recent info-blip with which to compare my staunch refusal to return to my favorite place at this time. Yesterday Mom and I were watching the weather segment of a "local" (from Phoenix) news program. The meteorologist mentioned that the Western United States is in a La Niña pattern: Cooler and wetter for the Pacific Northwest (he mentioned Seattle specifically); warmer and drier for us.
    I remember thinking, "Damn, I'm missing a La Niña winter in Seattle! Oh well, it won't be the last."
    Simultaneously, my mother was saying, "Oh, good, looks like it's going to be warmer, here, this year!" She added, "I'm sorry you're missing Seattle, though. Why don't you visit there for a week? I'll be fine."
    My mother, of course, was thinking that she'd be fine on her own...not in a nursing home, which she'd refuse and in which, frankly, after our skilled nursing facility adventure, I'd refuse to harbor her unless I could check on her care daily; and, you know, if I'm going to be here to check on her daily, why not just be with her here at home? Much better for both of us.
    I grinned, thanked her, and told her, "I think I'll do that."
    This satisfied both of us, even though I fear I'm suffering a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder because of this winter's uninhibited sun. Makes it easy, though, to get my mother in the car for a blood draw during the winter. Which I'll be doing shortly.
    Off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of blood.
    Later.

Damn, it's good to be back!...

2007-11-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

...and bittersweet. In order to get myself back here I decided it was necessary for me to disengage from my involvement at Daily Strength's caregiver support community. In order not to repeat myself all over the web, here's the post at Daily Strength in which I explain my change of direction. Ahhh...sad, but, it's good to be back.
As usual, I've got a load of items backlogged in my mind I want to post about, so, here's my partial reminder list, partial, that is, to my memory:

A few nights ago Mom called out to me from Dream Land. First time she's done this;
Comparison of Away from Her with the story from which it was adapted, The Bear Came Over the Mountain. The story link is to the 1999 publication of it in The New Yorker, by the way...if you enjoyed the movie, you might want to read the story; if you click into it and you get a mishmashed paged with an advertisement stationed and stationary over it, refresh your page and the story should come through;
Short factual review of my mother's 90th birthday celebration (the one that happened here during the week of her birthday and the one that happened far away on the day of her birthday);
Flu Shot Day (last Saturday);
How Mom's been doing since her second blood transfusion;
Early Thanksgiving, this year, including a visit from MCS & MCBIL this weekend;
Interesting article in the most recent edition of Take Care!, the NFCA's snail mail newsletter...think "healthcare nightmare" a thousand times worse than anything I've experienced while medically advocating on my mother's behalf;
My delighted reaction to Karma giving me a friendship award!

Got a blood draw to make tomorrow, and I need to "do" Mom's hair so that it'll look "halfway decent", as she puts it.
Sooner than later!

Blood Test Results are, again, up...

2007-10-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

...for 10/16/07 and 10/23/07. Mom's hemoglobin dropped a bit on the former, then headed back up on the latter, but stayed above 10 on both, which is good. The test for 10/23/07 includes a BMP.
    Much to my mother's relief, we'll be dropping back to going in for her draws every two weeks for the next two months...then, after that, back to her once a month regimen, which I will not, again, be persuaded to forgo, as I was throughout the last year.
    She remains on the high supplemental dose of iron. I found an OTC version at Costco that is relatively cheap and does not include folic acid or B12, so I'm using that for half her daily dose and the prescription iron (with folic acid and B12) for the other half. I've been a bit concerned about the extraordinarily high dosages of folic acid and B12 that she's been receiving, so this helps alleviate some of that.
    She's doing good, I'm doing fairly well. I'm feeling the pressure of my two favorite seasons (fall and winter) and wishing I could somehow manage some time completely alone. Not gonna happen, but, you know, a person can dream...or something.
    Later.

She's Movin' Up

2007-10-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

    Yesterday's blood draw is much like today's weather: Fair, sunny, warm, slightly breezy. In figurative terms, the transfusion and the added iron appear to be kicking ass and reminding Mom's body what it is to be less anemic. If you're interested in the numbers, here are her blood draw results for 10/8/07.
    She walkered into the lab yesterday without a problem. The tech who was assigned to her remembered her from a recently previous blood draw in which Mom arrived in a wheelchair and cheered the change in mobility. During the actual draw, Mom worked herself into her usual feisty annoyance about all medical procedures and asked, with high impertinence, "how many more of these" she was going to have to endure.
    I patiently reviewed the schedule with her and explained the reason for it.
   She replied, "Well, I don't think it's necessary after today!"
    The tech burst out laughing and said, "I'll bet you're right, Mrs. Hudson, but part of being alive is humoring everyone else's stupidity!"
    Mom considered this a reasonable reply and settled down.
    I could have kissed that tech...I'm not sure why I didn't! At any rate, her response has now been added to my "bag of caregiver tricks".
    Later.

Complete CBC results are up, now...

2007-10-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

for yesterday, 10/1/07. Everything appears to be in order.
Wanted to mention, within the past week or so, BOTH Mom and I have been retiring earlier. I've actually retired before midnight a couple of nights. This means I've been up much earlier than usual. It's beginning to look as though, with the help of the seasonal change, I'll soon be able to take my morning walk in the dark, which is my preference. Just smiling about this.
Later.

"Gail, Gail, can I sleep with you?"

2007-10-01T15:07:00.001-07:00

    That was my mother, at 0315 Saturday morning, standing in our narrow hall, supporting herself with either hand against the walls, silhouetted by the night light, calling to me in a voice I rarely hear, best described as plaintive.
    I immediately moved my bed (which is a futon, used on the floor, with "improvements") into her bedroom. We sat and talked, for awhile, in the eerie blue light cast by her bedroom night light; I "spooked" her until I was able to tease a few laughs out of her. Then, we talked about her discomfort. She couldn't say what she was feeling, or why. I asked her several questions: Had she had a nightmare? Was she frightened by something? Did she feel bad physically? Did she think she was close to death? She answered them all in the negative, but continued to insist that she "...just didn't feel quite right" and didn't want to "be alone". We continued to talk, for awhile, in the deep-night slumber party atmosphere until she settled down and we finally went to sleep. In the morning she was fine, although she remembered that she'd wanted me to sleep with her (even though I awoke and removed my bedding long before she awoke) and thanked me for assenting. The thanks wasn't necessary, I told her, that's why I'm here.
    Later that day I had an thought provoking conversation with an excellent friend. Upon learning what had happened the previous night, she told me that subsequent to blood transfusions she'd received before and after the birth of one of her children, she experienced vivid, unsettling dreams, although she didn't label them "nightmares".
    This rang a bell. On Thursday, between noon and 1700, my mother received her second transfusion in four and a half years. As recent readers will know, her hemoglobin, just prior to her most recent "routine" doctor's appointment in Mesa, had dropped to 8.4. A CBC drawn a week later, on 9/26/07 showed a further drop to 7.5. Her PCP called Thursday morning and ordered me to take her into "the nearest ER room" for a blood transfusion, which I did, at the Yavapai Regional Medical Center, the local hospital here. Mom's PCP, of course, is not on staff there, since he's in Mesa, but, after an initial CBC to confirm her low hemoglobin (it came in at 7.9, which seemed hopeful, to me), she was transfused, in the ER, with a unit of blood. Because her hemoglobin had climbed (at least according to the tests), I was only mildly surprised that the transfusion involved only one unit. Her last transfusion involved three units, but, at that time, her hemoglobin was at 5.6.
    She was not checked into the hospital. Once about 50ccs of saline had washed the last of the blood out of the unit packaging into Mom's body, she was released and we were home by 1730.
    I'm a little nervous about her condition, now, as I write. Post-transfusion, I reported to her PCP, faxing him all the paperwork I was able to glean from the hospital (not much) and the final instructions by the attending ER doctor. These included:

Have a follow-up CBC done "sometime next week";
Discontinue her 81 mg aspirin per day and her garlic and vitamin E supplements (both are natural anticoagulants);
Continue iron supplementation as per PCP's instructions (she is now on 6 capsules of Niferex-150 Forte per day)
Continue eating a diet high in iron rich foods.

    On Friday, Mom's PCP added the following prescription: A CBC every Monday (the first was drawn today) for a month, then a CBC every two weeks to follow for two months (assuming, of course, that her hemoglobin remains above transfusion level).
    There was a curious incident surrounding the prescription for regular, frequent CBCs. When Mom's PCP's nurse called me on Friday morning, she told me that the doctor was ordering a transfusion every Monday for a month, etc. This alarmed me. She and I discussed the difficulty I might have up here following this prescription. I told her that I'd call the hospital and see how I could arrange this, hoping that I wouldn't have to take my mother into the ER every Monday for a month.
    The call to the hospital was informative and frustrating. YRMC still refuses to recognize the prescriptions of doctors who are not on staff, the IV Therapy Unit informed me. However, if our PCP faxed her a prescription and called to gather information about the paperwork and tests they'd need and faxed this information as well, the woman to whom I spoke, who was very helpful, by the way, (my frustration is purely with policy, not with people, at least it's not often with people), she'd attempt to solicit the doctor who oversaw Mom's transfusion in the ER to underwrite the prescription.
    I relayed all this information by phone to our PCP's nurse. She assured me she would fax the initial prescription to the IV Therapy Unit, which she did. I followed up with a call to the Unit about fifteen minutes later. Turns out, the prescription mentioned nothing about weekly transfusions...only weekly CBCs for a month, then bi-weekly for two months. That was a HUGE surprise! I was certain I hadn't misunderstood, as, believe me, I was surprised enough, as it was, that weekly transfusions were being ordered.
    Back on the phone, with the PCP nurse: I decided to be diplomatic when I approached her about this disconnect and suggested, after telling her about my follow-up call to the IV Unit, that maybe I'd misunderstood. No, she admitted, I hadn't, she'd misspoken, through a couple of phone calls. That was a relief!
    I assured her that the CBC prescription could be covered by our standing order at Bradshaw labs, called the IV Therapy Unit back, explained the miscommunication and asked her to please forget that I'd ever talked to her (she laughed...she'd already faxed the ER physician with a request to underwrite the CBC prescription; luckily, she hadn't heard back from him).
    So, I am sitting here, today, reporting on all that's happened, reflectling on how good my mother looked this weekend, after having been infused with that peach undertone typical of her last transfusion, but beginning to look, today, more like pink crayon scribbled on white paper, which is how she looked just previous to this most current transfusion...and hoping, hoping, hoping, that I'm reading her physicality through eyes clouded by unwarranted concern. In a few minutes I'm going to call her doctor's office and see if they've been faxed the results of today's draw.
    In the meantime, during our Thursday ER visit and my Friday trying to set up transfusion appointments that weren't necessary, I had several conversations with the triage nurse and the IV Therapy Unit woman centered around my difficulty in finding adequate medical help for my mother up here. They were extremely sympathetic and suggested three different physicians (including the ER attending physician, who received high marks from both women). All three offices turned my mother down as a possible patient. In addition, the triage nurse informed me that, yes, it's true, there are only two hematologists in the area, and confided to me that neither is "very good". My intention remains to explore, this week, the possibility of securing the consulting services of one of them in order to expedite future transfusions, if needed. Although I'd prefer a "good" hematologist on consult who might be willing to explore my mother's anemia further without invasive testing and, perhaps, bring to bear the latest treatments and medications, my bottom line is someone who will sign off on transfusion orders so we can pursue them up here, rather than in Mesa. At this point, though, I'm not expecting success...nor am I expecting failure.
    I am, however, alert to the possibility that I may have to pack us up for travel to the Mesa hospital where she's been seen previously, Banner Baywood, for future transfusions and emergencies. This is where her last transfusion was administered and other emergencies handled. We have, now, an excellent working relationship with them. Her Mesa hematologist in on staff there, even though her PCP is not. In addition, despite Mom's PCP not being on staff, the hospital staff readily communicates with non-staff PCPs. Mom's crisis records are all there, as well...and this hospital covered YRMC's ass when my mother had a low-sodium crisis in August, 2004, which Dr. Seller's Market up here, the attending physician at the time, didn't bother to diagnose, but, rather, decided to lecture me on Medicare in rural communities. I ironically note, here, that Dr. Seller's Market was the ER physician who relieved the one who oversaw my mother's transfusion last Thursday.

Update at 1715:
    I notice I started this post just after 1500 today. I've been keeping it in draft, continuing it in spurts as I handle our life through the afternoon. Wanted to mention, though, that I am no longer nervous about her hemoglobin. Her PCP's office just called the results to me, bless their hearts, after I put in a call about an hour ago to find out if the office had yet been faxed the results (which are usually available to Doc Offices after 1400 on the day of the draw, if the draw happens before noon; available to patients and MPOAs the following morning): 9.6. That's comparable to Mom's blood draw five days after her first transfusion in June of 2004. I'm much relieved!
    Still, though, my optional plans, outlined above, remain in place. Although the ER service here was adequate, this time, it was well below adequate in two other visits. One out of three ain't good. As well, the reasons I consider service this time only adequate follow:

Twice the infuser malfunctioned. It took several minutes for ER personnel to respond, despite the fact that several were visiting at the nurses' station during the extremely loud beeping of the infuser;
The BP/RR/BOx monitoring machine took several tries and over a half hour of attention before it began to operate;
Two nurses ignored my warning that putting my mother flat on her back was not a good idea, she would have trouble breathing. One of them even lied to me and told me my mother wanted to lay on her back! Funny, too, because I was there through the whole extended episode and know my mother never expressed this preference, but did express an unsolicited preference for being on her side, which was ignored. As well no one ever asked my mother her preference. My mother did, finally, end up on her side, after the nurses both observed that I was indeed right, my mother has significant trouble breathing while laying on her back;
When my mother ate a meal delivered to her, the nurse attending her was completely insensitive to my mother's extreme discomfort in the hospital bed and only helped my mother into a more comfortable position after I'd asked for help twice and finally attempted to readjust the bed and my mother myself, which wasn't successful.
When we checked in, I was informed by the information desk that my mother's PCP would be contacted with lab results, etc., through the hospital's "Hospitization Program". Didn't happen.
My requests for copies of all paperwork (including tests) were continually ignored, until, finally, I had to drop pleasantries and demand copies, which were handed to me grudgingly.

    To be fair, getting copies of paperwork is ALWAYS a problem with medical providers. However, malfunctioning equipment isn't; nor have I ever before found RNs insensitive to their patients' physical comfort. Nor have I ever before been lied to, nor have promises been made, before, that were not kept. I know much of this had to do with the fact that my mother does not have a local PCP who is affiliated with YRMC. I don't consider this a reasonable excuse, though, since this has never been a problem at Banner Baywood. My mother has not always had a consulting hematologist who happened to be on staff there during her occasional visits for intense medical care.

    Saturday night Mom assured me, unsolicited and with a chuckle, that she would "allow" me to sleep in my own bedroom that night. I was surprised that she remembered the previous night. After I'd heard from my friend about the vivid dreams, though, later that day I'd run her experience by Mom to see if it rang any bells. She couldn't say, since most of the memory of her discomfort and her desire "not to be alone" had vanished. I'm thinking that the reason we didn't experience this reaction after the last transfusion is because the hospital kept her for a few days for observation to make sure that there was no residual reaction to the transfusion and to monitor her anemia to confirm that the transfusion was working...so, if she had a "vivid dream" reaction, it would have taken place at the hospital and it makes sense that I wouldn't have known about it.
    Funny, too, now that I've just typed that above, I remember that YRMC told me that they didn't need to keep her for observation because, "If there is going to be a reaction, it will happen within the first 15 minutes of the transfusion." That, by the way, is a direct quote from our first attending RN. I remember it word for word because of its direct contrast to what I was told when Mom was transfused in Mesa.
    One other curious thing. About a half hour into the transfusion, my mother began to sneeze almost continuously for several minutes. These spasms continued off and on through the transfusion and later into the night. During the third spasm (they happened about 15 minutes apart) I alerted the attending RN. She observed my mother, shook her head and said she was sure that it was not connected to the transfusion. Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was connected to hygienic conditions within the hospital or within the room my mother occupied...and whatever was causing it walked out the door with us and took some hours, that evening, for my mother to shed. Who knows. Whatever. I'll keep all this in mind as my mother and I continue our journey together...and always have a bag packed, just in case we have time to seek emergency care in Mesa instead of here.
    Oh, yeah, remind me to mention the coffee cup thing, next time.
    Later.

Transcripts of podcasts are being (slowly) made available.

2007-09-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

    As per a mention from a friend, that she prefers to read over listening, I decided to create and publish transcripts of my mother's and my podcasts. If it's easier for you to read (there are several advantages, including the ease of being able to stop and restart mid stream without missing a beat), as the transcripts become available, I'll include links to them in purple, underneath the specific podcast.
    I will be back dating the transcripts within the journal according to when they were recorded, which is the reason for the links. Two have been added at this time. For ease of reading, I'm also dividing each transcripted interview into unequal, titled sections.
    Please note the following, which I am copying verbatim from the introduction to the post that holds the publication of the first two transcripts:

Comments on Reading versus Listening
I'm surprised to find that Mom's and my conversations translate well into transcription. I can't help but note, though, that there is a lot about the way we interact with one another and our relationship that escapes the eye, and thus, the brain and the heart. The transcript definitely preserves the hard, cold facts but I believe, now, that if you avoid the audio versions, you will miss much that is pertinent, particular and pleasurable about our relationship and our lived-together life.

    Just wanted to mention that.
    I will, by the way, be writing about our most recent appointment day...
    ...later.

Blood Test Results are back for yesterday's blood draw...

2007-09-20T04:49:00.000-07:00

...and available at here. They don't look great. They are at about the same place as they were a couple of weeks previous to her colonoscopy. If you're curious, here is a comparison test.
    Over the last couple of weeks I've noticed increased paleness, weakness and lethargy, so I started her on increased iron therapy (an extra Niferex-150) last week when her feet began to swell a little. She actually looks better, now, than she did and the fluid retention is under great control. She's still fairly weak, but, as usual, her will and spirit remain incredibly strong.
    No, I won't be allowing her to be scoped, again. And, no, she's not in transfusion range, from my point of view. We have our regular, routine doctor's appointment today. My guess is that he'll draw blood for just about every test conceivable (which will annoy Mom, but she'll take it in her usual good, ironic humor). I'm also guessing that he'll recommend continued extra iron therapy for awhile, increased blood tests, and perhaps a few more doctors appointments within the next few weeks.
    Actually, in some ways, she looks better, on paper, than she did at the beginning of July, 2003. Her GFR looks a touch better than in March, as well. I have to admit, when I got the results of the blood tests yesterday morning, I freaked and started tearing up. But, after comparing yesterday's results with with past tests during bad periods, I'm feeling much better and much more optimistic. I know, for instance, that the colonoscopy she had because of similar anemic indicators recorded no internal bleeding. That was also the test that the internist who performed it pronounced "torture" for Mom and, obliquely, for herself, as well, said she would never scope "this woman" again and recommended that Mom never again be scoped, up or down. So, I will remain firm with this. I also recall that soon after the test Mom's anemia reversed itself. I felt that the accidental colonic performed the day before the test may have had something to do with this, although the doctors (her PCP, who is the same as now, and her hematologist) remained circumspect about that. I'm going to run the idea by her doctor, today of doing just this part of the procedure again, maybe next week. He'll probably consider the idea silly, but, based on how she does over the next week or so, I may go ahead and do it. I'm sure it won't hurt her, at any rate. Might be a little messy, considering her physical weakness, but that might already be reversing itself as I type.
    Mom feels good enough so that we had a few mild arguments, last night, about my insistence that we take and probably use the wheel chair to get her around. She usually feels better in Mesa than here, so I'm leaving my mind partially open on this, but I suspect I'll win this series of arguments.
    As usual, I'm running on little sleep. My intention was to get about six hours...we were both in bed, lights out, by 2300 last night. I went to sleep with incomplete visions of previous tests in my head, though, so at 0315 this morning I awoke with a start, having endured my brain trying to fill in what I couldn't remember. I finally crawled out of bed at 0345 and started researching. This, alone, made me feel MUCH better...so I'm glad I did this. I'll just stoke myself up on coffee, today, maybe, if possible, get in a short nap at the motel after the appointment and, if necessary, take a "cold" pill.
    Well, time for me to head into the shower. I will, I promise, report back within the next 48 hours about the appointment, and what may or may not be happening in connection with doctor's appointments and blood draws over the next weeks.
    Ai, yi, yi! Well, we've gone for a long time without a health "crisis" (I'm not really sure this is a crisis, which is why I'm using the quotes), and this isn't the worst we've experienced, in fact, we've been through very similar circumstances before, so, as of right now, my hopes are high, my resolve strengthened, and by the way, Mom is, as usual, excited about the trip. I think we'll be okay.
    Sooner than later.

A community member at Daily Strength...

2007-08-31T12:43:00.000-07:00

...who is a caregiver and continuing her education online wrote an essay for a composition class that contains some interesting information about caregiving in the U.S. and other countries and cultures. She mentions that it's a rough draft, but this aspect is easily ignored in favor of the information and speculations it contains, and it cites references. The link to it is here. You do not need to be a community member to access it.
Later.

Some years ago, I decided to greet my mother's bowel movements merrily.

2007-08-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

    I felt that merriment would preserve her dignity, and mine. It is not easy, I reasoned, to be a long ago fully fledged adult who could no longer be trusted to wipe her own ass efficiently enough to keep from developing UTIs. As well, my part in the Evacuative Operation isn't pleasnat, either, requiring that I usually fish her shit out of the toilet. The consistency of iron laden shit is a sure fire recipe for constantly clogging pipes, if allowed to flush normally.
    My merriment has gotten us through years of performing this disgusting scenario at least once every other day; sometimes more often. When I realized what would be necessary to keep my mother and our plumbing clean and healthy, I faced it without a problem. Yes, the smell is nasty. Yes, the idea of it is disgusting. But a little loopy humor, usually droll, ushers the Operation into and area of manageability for both of us. I greet each bowel movement (which my mother never realizes is going to happen until she's on the toilet) with inappropriately funny celebration. I have a stock of phrases and terms I use to keep the mood light and easy. Lot's of spontaneous jokes are involved, as well, depending on how the Operation is going, and, occasionally, if neither of us is in a particularly accepting mood, I'll pilfer tunes from Mom's past and pull lyrics from the bowels of my imagination. These techniques always work.
    Well, almost always. Lately, I haven't been quite so merry. Over the last couple of weeks, each time I notice my mother's face gather into her bowel movement mask, each time I'm in the bathroom and get a whiff of what she's depositing in the toilet, each time I contemplate reaching in there and fishing out the contents, I've had to stifle an urge to gag or wretch.
    Last night, I guess you could say I hit my limit. For the last week or so I've been scrutinizing her bowel movements for potential flushability. Just looking into the toilet has been enough to make me have to work extra hard to keep the contents of my stomach where they're supposed to be. I have, however, figured that if that's all I have to do, I can quickly flush and forget. As it turns out, I've probably flushed more than I should have. Last night the toilet refused to completely swallow a small, normally easy to flush contribution. She'd evacuated just before dinner, during her usual pre-dinner bathroom visit. I was overwhelmed with the realization that, this time, boweling wasn't going to be business as usual; and would probably spoil my appetite for the lasagna I'd been baking and over which we'd both been salivating. I stood there, watching the bowl fill inches above the hard water line, knowing her shit was lodged in the pipes, caught in the detritus of the past days unwise flushings lining the pipes, beyond reach, knowing I'd have to clear out the bathroom and force it down, or up, with the plunger, and burst into tears. My mother, standing next to me, paper underwear around her ankles, ass waiting to be wiped, heard my uncontrollable sobbing, turned to face me and exclaimed, "My goodness, girl, have you hurt yourself?!?"
    I couldn't help it. I let loose with a barely intelligible litany that consisted of the following: "I just can't do this! I can't handle your shit anymore! I know I have to, but if I do I'm afraid I'm going to vomit!"
    My mother was astonished. She had no response, except to stand there, patiently, while I blubbered away and slammed the toilet lid down. During times past, in an effort to help preserve her own dignity, she has, while I'm wiping her ass and apologetically joking about the process, talked about how, that's okay, we'll both get through it; nothing more than mother's wiping babys' asses, after all. Although this isn't true, I always let it go in the interest of much needed civility. I was hoping that she wouldn't offer this, last night. I knew that, if she did, I'd launch into a tirade about the evils of senior shitting. I got lucky. She remained silent and stupified.
    Once I'd calmed down, wiped her, still fighting the urge to gag, and gotten her out of the bathroom and to the table, I decided to just let everything sit until I'd calmed down and a few hours had passed. We proceeded with dinner. My mother ate lustily. I took a few bites and could pass no more. Most of my dinner ended up in disposal.
    Finally, having set Mom up with a bible movie, I headed back into the bathroom, still sick to my stomach, and spent the next half hour forcing her shit down and cleaning the bathroom floor, crying the entire time. When I returned to the living room I was wiping tears off my face. My mother thought it was sweat and commented, "That was quite a problem, wasn't it?"
    "This isn't sweat, Mom."
    The light of recognition flooded her eyes. "Oh," she said, as she turned back to her program.
    I spent some time, last night, trying to figure out why, suddenly, after years of handling Evacuative Operations with aplomb, I was, now, having a problem. I admit I went overboard, considering all kinds of vaguely related psychological underpinnings that would explain my sudden inability to perform this task. Finally, sanity took hold of me and I realized, "Wait a minute, there doesn't have to be an ulterior reason for my reaction. The smell, the feel of slippery, rock-hard shit in a gloved hand, smear after smear of it on baby wipes inches from my nose, the idea of depositing turds in plastic receptacle liners and dropping them in the garbage, the peculiar fragrance our outdoor garbage can every time I open it, freshening the toilet day after day by wiping thick smears of black, sticky shit off the walls of the bowl...the truth is, this is a repulsive business. No amount of humor is going to camouflage that."
    I'm feeling better, now, I'm sure of it. This morning my mother awoke and discovered that she still had a little of last night's movement to deposit. Merriment again reigned. I didn't gag. Didn't have to attempt to stifle wretching.
    Sometimes, problems have deceptively simple solutions; most times, probably; but caregivers can get caught up in all that psychological relationship shit and fool themselves into thinking they've got a bigger problem than they really do. Every once in awhile, you have to face the truth, accept it and go on from there. Amazingly, when you do that, you find yourself back where you want to be.
    Later.

"Did I ever tell you about the time that..."

2007-08-27T00:23:00.003-07:00

    When my mother sits back in her rocker, or a dinette chair, as she did two nights ago, and asks me this, there's a 50/50 chance that I haven't heard the story she's about to tell. She finished the introduction with, "...[her sister] and I decided to buy a house for ourselves, so we could live together..."
    "Wait a minute," I interrupted. "You mean without Dad and [her sister's husband]?!?" I was incredulous. I hadn't heard this one.
    "This was after Dad died," she said. This pinpointed it for me as the period in which she and her sister made a concerted effort to really bond, which they'd never done, due to an eight year age difference (my mother being the elder) and careers, families, travel, all the things that wedge between siblings. "If the kids and other members of the family (sly way of putting it, I noticed) wanted to come live with us, of course, they were welcome, but we wanted a place where we could live together."
    This, in itself, revealed a piece of information to me that I'd suspected but of which I'd never had proof: That my mother and her sister took after most of the women in their ancestry who considered men handy and entertaining to have around but pretty much an afterthought and children, always, a highlight.
    "So, you and [her sister] decided, after Dad died and before she became ill, that the two of you were going to set up housekeeping alone."
    "Well, yes, I guess you could say that. We fully expected family to be visiting all the time. But, that's not the funny part."
    Oops. Okay.
    "We found a house we both liked..." she continued,
    "...Oh, wow, you guys were really serious..."
    "...Oh, yes! Of course!" She gave me a look that told me my surprise was out of order. "Anyway, it was a wonderful little house, perfect for us..."
    ...this was exquisite...I could just imagine my mother and her sister, sitting at their shared table, coffee cups at hand, feeling smart and oh, so right with one another, planning their adventures, "In Scottsdale?" My aunt lived there with her husband and both sisters loved Scottsdale.
    "Oh, no, this was in Mesa, Scottsdale was a little too close, if you know what I mean..."
    Ah, I thought, yes, too close to, well, to put it diplomatically, authoritative members of the family.
    "Anyway, one of us noticed a for sale sign, so we stopped, went up to the door, tried it..."
    "You mean you didn't knock or ring the bell???"
    "Well, no!" she said, surprised that I'd question their tactics. "Anyway, the door was open, so we went in, looked around, really liked the place. It was furnished, so we assumed it was being sold with the furniture. We were trying out the sofa when a man came out from one of the rooms and wanted to know what we were doing there. Apparently, he owned the house, and it wasn't the house for sale!"
    We both laughed. "So, I guess you guys were pretty embarrassed," I said.
    "Oh, no! We liked the house so much we tried to get him to sell it to us anyway! He was determined to keep the house, but he was so surprised at our insistence that he made coffee and invited us to stay for lunch!"
    Why am I not surprised, I thought. My mother and her sister have, and had, no fear.
    "It seems it was the house next to his that was for sale."
    "Did you look at it?"
    "Well, we tried to. The man went over with us and we tried all the doors..."
    I could imagine them talking him into doing this and he being so caught up in their determination that he agreed.
    "...but that house was locked up tight. We looked in the windows, though, and didn't like what we saw."
    "So, did you look at any others? And, what happened to your plan?"
    "Oh, we talked about it, you know, and when we were driving around here and there..."
    I knew they'd spent a lot of time together, but I had no idea they were regularly cruising the metroplex.
    "...we'd see a house we liked, but the ones we liked were never for sale."
    We laughed again. Funny how life turns out.
    "Then, I decided that you needed to come back home..."
    This was another surprise. Since she initially asked me to come and live with her, she's never, again, referred to her request. I was surprised to discover that I was enchanted by the way she put it.
    "...and [her sister], you know, was always busy with her family..."
    This was certainly true. Not too long ago I was complaining about how little attention our family pays to us, almost as though we exist only at their convenience, and she said, "Now you know how I felt about [her sister and her family]."
    "Are you sorry you never got to do that?"
    "Well, it would have been nice, but this," she waved her hand between the two of us and extended the gesture to include the entire house, "is much nicer, I think."
    Still, I love the idea that she and her sister made a plan like this and revved its engine, even though it never got off the ground.
    Apparently, Mom likes the idea, too, enough for it to still tickle her. It's funny, because the few days leading up to her telling me of this, although she'd been pretty active, she'd also been having a lot of difficulty remembering who was dead and who was alive. She'd asked me several times, "Where's Dad (meaning my dad, I always have to clarify this because sometimes she means her dad)", and "What do you hear from [her sister and her family]?" Strange, and interesting, that when remembering this incident, she was clear on who was and is dead.

    Which leads to a short conversation we had tonight. While we were preparing her for bed, she remembered that her brother is dead and has been "for some time." She asked me to elaborate on the time span and the details, but needed only a little reminding for the episode of his death to flood back into her memory.
    "Well," she said, "it's too bad, but I guess those things happen, don't they."
    "Well, yeah, one of these days they'll happen to you and me."
    She did a hard, long single take, only half comic. "It won't be happening to me," she said.
    "Oh, that's right," I said, "I forgot. You're Methuselah."
    "Mrs. Methuselah," she corrected.
    I left the bathroom for a moment to deposit her clothes in the washing machine. When I returned I said, "Okay, let me get this straight. If you're not going to be dying, what about me?"
    "Oh," she said, matter-of-fact, not even bothering to underline her assurance with a glance at me, "I need you. You'll stay here with me."
    So, folks, it's official. My mother and I won't be dying. Just wanted to clarify that.
    Later.

Thank you and shut up.

2007-08-21T11:54:00.002-07:00

    My mother has always, in my memory, been ticklish about compliments. It's not that her self concept is wanting...at least, not since I've known her. She's always been very well aware and accepting of herself, which, of course, has led her to be the same about others. She has a discerning mind, though, when it comes to understanding what other people say to her, thus, while she can be pleased with a compliment she believes is accurate, she dismisses lots of compliments if she determines them to have ulterior motives and/or to be thoughtless. Occasionally, this causes her to dismiss deserved, sincere and thoughtful compliments.
    As children do, I learned her Complimentary Behavior, thus, for many years I also critiqued compliments I received, sometimes to the complimenter's face, if I thought it was necessary. It took me many years, but, finally, some years ago, I realized that spouting my critiques wasn't necessary...it was enough to appreciate that someone was trying to connect with me, for whatever reason, ignore the reason if I found it annoying, and simply respond, "Thank you," to every compliment.
    A couple of days ago, while we were bathing Mom, I complimented her on her posture. It's been a little lagging, lately, as she's enduring a summer cold and what energy she can muster is quickly drained. It was a sincere, discerning compliment, but when my mother responded I detected a note of disbelief in her voice. Without thinking, I launched into a sermon about what I've noticed about her ability to accept compliments, which contained the observations I've written above. Then I assured her my compliment was sincere and reliable. I noticed that she was fidgeting and sensed that this was because my affrontery annoyed her. I ignored this, as I felt that she needed enlightenment (as though any 55 year old is capable of enlightening any 90 year old) and went on to instruct her in the "proper" way to receive all compliments. "Mom," I said, "this is the way to receive any compliment, suspect or not: Just say, 'Thank you,' and shut up." For practice, I followed this with a compliment (can't remember what I complimented, but I was careful to make sure it was a sincere, discerning compliment) and immediately prompted, "Now, what do you say?"
    She shot me a wry glance over her shoulder (I was washing her back) and replied, "Thank you and shut up."
    Well, what a time we've had with that since! Aside from provoking immediate, boisterous laughter, so hard that my mother peed standing up and I had to race to the other bathroom to keep from compounding her accident, we've been riffing off her reply ever since; recalling compliments where we'd wished we'd thought to respond like this...complimenting each other just to trigger the response...and we still haven't tired of the game!
    Such a woman...this mother of mine!

    Anyway, although I've been absent here, I want to mention something that's come as a surprise to me...I've been unusually and delightedly present at, you won't believe this, an online caregiver support community that I mentioned, here, some time ago: Daily Strength. If you're a regular reader, here, you know that I haven't had any luck to speak of with support groups, I tend to ignore them, and, while I recommended Daily Strength to others in a previous post, it was with reservations that I did so; and, as well, doubted that I'd become personally involved with the site.
    Well, things have changed. Over the last couple of weeks, I've become intimately involved, made some excellent friends, even had fun participating. I'm not doing much with the journal facility, over there, but I'm having a wonderful time being an active part of the community over there. I'm astonished that someone like me has not only found acceptance within a caregiver support community, but has found myself accepting and enjoying one. I think some of my delight in the community has to do with the fact that it's online and doesn't require me to change Mom's and my schedule, bring in outside help and leave home for me to "attend meetings". There are other reasons, though. The chief one is that I accidentally stumbled across some bright, blunt, droll, interesting and interested people over there. Secondarily, although I never thought it would happen this quickly, I seem to be able to practice mentoring over there, which is bringing me a great deal of pleasure. I remember mentioning, some posts ago, that caregiver mentoring might be something I'd be interested in, but assumed that would be in the sweet by and by when my caregiving duties were finished. What seems to have happened, though, is that I've become involved in a community of developing caregiver mentors, who are practicing both sides of mentoring behavior...and I like that! As well, there are no rules to get in our way, such as "passing the talking stick" methods or paying attention to people on whom you don't really want to waste your attention. This suits my nature just fine. I can shoot my attention here, and then there, and then toward someone else, without having to split it...which is a relief for me. One of the reasons I don't do well in groups is that I'm not a natural attention splitter. The humor factor is huge, over there, too, which one might except, since the frustration level is also high. I've been delighted, as well, to find that the trading of information is rampant, multi-leveled and freely indulged. Finally, although this domain journal is little known over there, a few people are aware of it and it was actually these members who have been encouraging me, lately, to come back and start posting again.
    So, I've learned, once again, never to say never, to anything, and I am filled with gratitude to my wonderful compatriots at Daily Strength for giving me the room and the encouragement to discover this. Just as no size really ever fits all, I'm sure this community is not for everyone...but it does fit me and I'm pleased that my curiosity and the welcoming atmosphere there kept me going back until I figured this out.
    I have other things to write about...chiefly some interesting links to which I was introduced over there and some musing to do about some of the issues they raise, but I'll have to do that later. I've got a few minutes before I need to jump into action again and I want to get this read and published before Mom and I continue our day.
    Later.

Mom's 90th birthday celebration...

2007-08-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

...was successful and is over by two days as of this evening. I had thought that once everything settled down I'd be chomping at the bit to get back over here and begin recording, again, especially about All Things Birthday, but I seem to have suddenly lost my motivation for just about everything. I'm sure I'm well rested by now. Mom is slowly reviving, digesting all that happened and everyone with whom she connected, as she remembers everything and everyone. She told me yesterday that it was her best birthday ever; which says quite a bit.
    I'm a little stymied about my own flatness-in-arrears, as the visiting and the partying was energizing for me, as well. But, maybe this is a good time for me to get back to reading and finish the stack of books I started some weeks ago.
    It may be awhile before I'm back in gear, here, again, but I will be, I'm sure...
    ...later.

Hard to say why I haven't been here in so long.

2007-07-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

    If I thought about it I could probably list legitimate reasons, but they all come under the heading of "Not Being on the Internet Much". Somehow, though, I've been managing to keep busy enough that I also haven't been able to catch up with all the reading I began. Three books will be headed back to the library, shortly, only lightly cracked. I'll check them out later when life settles down.
    The monsoon is here in earnest. I'm loving it; the thick air, the daily rain, the fragile light...my mother is not, but I'm keeping her bedroom and bathroom warm and dry, which helps. Mom, though, despite her distaste for this kind of weather, is so excited about the upcoming birthday visits that, although she has been steadily scoffing at my continued attempts to ramp up her moving (which remain only fitfully successful), she is, of her own accord, arising earlier (often before noon), remaining up until well past midnight, moving well (when she moves), looking good and in excellent humor. As The Days of Visiting approach she's also spending less and less time in The Dead Zone, which I find interesting.
    A few nights ago, I asked her if she considered, when she was much younger, that she would live to see 90.
    "I don't think I ever thought about it," she said, "I think I just took it for granted that I would, since most of my relatives lived to a ripe old age."
    "So," I teased, "how to do you feel about it, now?"
    "I'm ready for the next 90," she said!
    Later that evening, I couldn't help but reflect that my father believed he would not outlive the age his mother was when she died. A few months ago my oldest sister and I noticed that he did, in fact, die at exactly the age his mother was when she died. Maybe, I mused, barring unforseen disaster, we tend to live as long as we think we're going to live. Less than 24 hours later I chanced upon an article mentioning that Laura Nyro died at the same age as her mother (49) of the same cause (ovarian cancer).

    I'm here, though, to another purpose: Something I realized yesterday resulting from a visit to my barber for a trim. One of the reasons I so enjoy my visits with this woman is that she is a sibling whose father was cared for by one of her sisters-in-law. Although his life was tended in another state, she was extremely active in keeping up with her dad, spotting her sister-in-law and rallying other relatives to her dad's and his daughter-in-law's side. Her perspective is an unusual one and she regularly startles me with her insight as we talk about her and my experiences. The realization my visit provoked yesterday, though, was implicit rather than voiced and hit me a few hours after I left her chair.
    Can't really tell you how I came to understand what I am about to state, but here it is: I finally realized why being thanked by my siblings for "taking care of 'our' mother" makes me uneasy: I'm not actually taking care of "their" mother, I'm taking care of mine. Each child develops a unique relationship with each of her/his parents. That relationship dictates that the parent becomes a different person for each child. While, technically, the life I'm tending is the same as that which has generated the relationship that each of my sisters has with my mother, I am the companion of the person who is my mother; not my older sister's mother, not my next youngest sister's mother and not my youngest sister's mother. Those mothers, those relationships, can only be tended by the participants, none of whom are me. This isn't new information for me. Knowing that our relationships split each of us into a host of people is something I understood early on, particularly through knowing my father, whose difficulties with life made this easy for me to see. Early in adulthood I had to come to grips with the realization that I was incapable of, for instance, hating my father on behalf of some of my sisters, who surely had (and may still have) reason to hate him. It seems, though, that I forgot to apply this to my mother.
    I'm thinking, now, that, as my mother and I continue our journey, if I am doing anything at all for my sisters (and I consider that this remains debatable), it is this: I am keeping alive whatever possibilities each believes exist in the relationship between each of them and the woman each identifies as her mother. Nothing more, nothing less. I can live with this. I can even accept gratitude for this. I am relieved.

    Yet more barber shop banter: While I was having my hair cut, the man queued after me dropped in on my barber's and my conversation. He runs a series of therapy camps for men and women (separately), in which he facilitates group sessions (interspersed with nature experiences) which are designed to allow his clients to consider confusing aspects of their lives out of their every day context. He mentioned that the number one issue among the participants is how to manage relationships with aging parents; number two is how to come to terms with "unfinished" relationships left in the wake of a parents' death. I was startled by this bit of information. Somehow, it never occurred to me that, of all the issues with which middle-aged people have to grapple, relationships with parents would be at the top of the list. True, when one is a caregiver, one notices, everywhere one goes, that there is much casual talk about parents. Strange, though, the media typically doesn't focus on this. If it deigns to focus on aging parents, its thrust is usually, "What to do about mom or dad (or both) and still keep a confident hold on one's life."
    During the course of the conversation, my barber mentioned that during her father's evident last days, she literally forced her reluctant brother, who had been estranged from their father for seven years, to visit their father on his death bed. Although the brother fought the effort and dreaded the experience, he later admitted that he was grateful that his sister had insisted on this visit. He commented on what a surprising and welcome difference it made in his life. My barber's waiting client not only confirmed this but added that, usually, the resolution to even the most difficult and tenacious parent/child problems is incredibly simple: "What parents and children need to know, most, is that they are loved and the other person is proud of them."
    I know, I know, it isn't hard to think of situations in which these feelings are not experienced and cannot be communicated. My barber's waiting customer, though, made the point that bedrock hatred and disappointment, as well as bedrock love and pride, exist behind all the fierce defenses we erect and nurture that protect us from our confusion about our parent-child relationships. Across the board, he stressed, facing the frailty and approaching death of a parent seems to have the power to sweep these defenses aside for parent and child. This temporary defenselessness may not resolve all the niggling issues, but because the truth of the love or lack of it are no longer disguised, are spoken and confronted, any "adjustments" that remain to be made by and within the child and parent come much more easily and with much more acceptance. "I've seen it happen over and over," he insisted.
    So, I found myself thinking later in the day, maybe I was wrong about the ineffectuality of clamoring to see a long ignored relative "before [she or he] dies", which I asserted in this essay. While I still believe that overcoming the desire for extended ignorance of one's older relatives is preferable, it seems that the possibility of emotional redemption exists even in the most tenuous, undernourished, on-the-brink-of-death relationships.
    Just wanted to mention that before I forgot.
    Later.

Surprise. Right?

2007-07-17T03:03:00.000-07:00

    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:

No. 2: I know just how you feel.
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.

    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.
    Well, damn, it's late and I've got early errands to run.
    Although I'm not sure, when, definitely...
    ...later.

One down, two to go.

2007-07-11T14:04:00.001-07:00

    Of the three families that are considering coming here to celebrate Mom's 90th birthday, one has declined: Work obligations combined with distance. Oddly, I'm, well, unaffected. I've remained extremely mellow about this get together; what a welcome difference from years past! So, I can handle just about any change, including the extremely remote possibility that we won't have any celebratory company.
    And, I'm finding myself at loose ends, today; a state of mood, not a state of activities clamoring for my attention. I started attempting to rouse Mom at 1300. Although she retired relatively early, around 0030, she was up twice to go to the bathroom, the last time at 0230. At that point, I decided to retire, regardless. Her bedroom light remained on and I heard her rifling through the contents of her bedstand, trying to decide what book to read, probably. I was asleep when her light finally went out. I have no idea how long she was up. Anyway, tried again at 1330, when she said, "Just let me sleep. I'm letting her go until 1430, then I'll probably insist.
    She's already becoming reirritated with that stat-taking routine! I'm finding it funny, really. When it was a surprise to her, she was able to relax sufficiently to have her BP taken. Within a couple of days, though, it's become on irritant. Her irritated BP on the elevated dose of lisinopril, though, isn't worrisome. So, I'll probably schlep back to taking BP every other day, or when it seems likely I'll get a good one. Today, I think, would not be a good day to bother her with stats, at least when she arises.
    Oh, my I hear her reconnaissance cough! Hmmm...well, maybe she's ready.
    Later.

Stop the Presses!

2007-07-08T18:47:00.004-07:00

    I must report this bit of news.
    So, after breakfast and a round of Sorry, Mom decided she wanted to "watch something" while I did After Arising Chores, "but not a show," which means, not a serialized television show.
    "How about Mrs. Doubtfire?" I suggested.
    She was enthusiastic. "That's always a good one!" Note that she's indicating, here, that she remembers something about it, the assumption being that she remembers seeing it before.
    So, I set up the movie, she settled into her rocker, I peeked in on my favorite parts of Mrs. Doubtfire as I proceeded through necessary chores.
    About forty-five minutes later, while I was finishing the last chore, I stopped on the dinette landing leading into living room to watch the "Dude Looks Like a Lady" sequence. Just as I was beginning to bounce to the music, Mom turned to me, her face sour around the edge. "Haven't we seen this before?" she pointedly asked.
    It's not uncommon, anymore, for her to ask this about a movie, although with no edge to the question. I always confirm that, yes, she's seen it before, sometimes make a stab at guessing how many times she's seen it, tell her it's one of my favorites (which is almost always true; if it's not, I don't say it), tell her how she's felt about it (in detail, if I can, not in general)...and we agreeably watch the rest of it, usually with Mom delightedly exclaiming, here and there, "Oh, I forgot about that!"
    Today's edgy question was a surprise to me. I went through the same spiel, but she didn't respond in the same way. After explaining to her that I suggested the movie earlier and she had indicated agreement, I asked her how she felt about it, now. "Remind me, next time, that I don't want to watch this movie again."
    Oh. Okay. That's a complicated snare of remembering: When I insist on one thing, remember that I really don't like that thing any longer and spare me from rediscovering this by distracting me toward something I will like, but I think I can handle it. "So, does that mean you don't want to watch repeats anymore?"
    She flashed me an abbreviated glare. "No, that's not what I'm saying."
    Okay.
    "Well, now that I'm done with chores, I'm getting into watching this again. I'd forgotten how good Robin Williams is in this. Do you mind continuing to watch it?"
    A begrudged, "No, I guess not."
    Within a half hour she was ready for a nap.
    So, I don't know, maybe she's ready for ramped up activity and her present desire for novelty (of which she is aware) is connected. I hope so. She's doing fine, but, well, I'd like to see her more active and would like to use little to no force to achieve this, since she usually doesn't enjoy herself if force is used.
    I have noticed lately, though, that even though she has been sleeping somewhat more, she's also been more aware. I think it may be connected to having readjusted her lisinopril for her BP. I know it's making her physically tired, now, more than usual, but her BP is right where it should be. Her BG seems to be running well, too. Yes, I'm heading over the The Dailies to start recording. Not sure what I'll include, this time, but I think we could use some new history. I'm hoping that her cholesterol and triglycerides are settling down, too. We are cruising, in regard to her health, and I am so grateful to all involved gods. Anyway, look for me over there, later.

    Something I wanted to remember to record: The Fed Ex lady's mother "isn't doing well". Her descriptions of what's happening now sound very similar to my maternal grandfather's decline within the six months before his death. "I think she's getting ready to go," Fed Ex lady said. She maintained a philosophical, sad only around the edges, attitude. Several times while she was telling me about the latest developments, she nodded and said, "She's ready to go."
    Her father, on the other hand, a couple years older than her mom and into his very lightly demented and disabled 90's, remains robust, active, with little patience for his wife's prominent slowing and fading.
    "All her family are gone," the Fed Ex lady continued, adding the last of her mother's sisters dying this winter, "all her friends, if they're not gone, they're out of touch, I think she's," she paused, shrugged, it seemed like she would have liked to have used another description but was too rushed to think of one, "given up."
    I confirmed for her how this happened to my grandfather. It was a lot less sad than it sounds.
    She nodded her head vigorously. "Sometimes you just have to realize what's happening and accept it."
    "Is your Mom in good spirits?"
    She grinned. "The best."
    "How about her will?"
    To my surprise she shrugged again as if to say, "She's fallen a lot. She hasn't broken anything but she's afraid to move, now."
    "I wish my mother was afraid to move," I remarked.
    We both smiled.
    "I think she's lost her will."
    "Well, I guess that's to be expected," I realized out loud.
    We both nodded, soberly, then, oddly, laughed.
    "Well, I hope it's easy for her, from here on out."
    The Fed Ex lady nodded. "It already is. She's not worrying like she used to."
    I nodded, although I don't know what this is like. My grandfather was never a worrier. My mother has almost never been a worrier.
    So, ahhh, another Ancient One moves into the passive dying phase. I don't know if such a thing has yet been professionally designated, as has "active dying phase", but it seems to accurately imply exactly what happened to my grandfather. First he broke his knee. Then the rest of his relatives and friends (not many, he was in his mid-90's) dropped away, including his next door neighbor, with whom he shared a birth year, a last name and daily walks to the old antique store on Cortez. His knee took a long time to heal. First he became impatient. Then he became enured. He talked to his wife (I'm sure she found this charming, she said archly) about how everyone who was important to him, "is gone." He was no longer interested in telling the stories of his life. I mentioned this to my cousin, once, saying, "It's like he's ready to be done with creating and telling stories."
    She nodded.

    I wonder if my mother will go through something like this, or if she'll keel over unexpectedly. I'd prefer the latter, for both of us. I know I've asked her and my recollection is not reliable but I think she told me that she has no preference. I remember her telling me once, "I don't want to die in a hospital"," unless it's by accident and unavoidable. Literally and figuratively, I imagine.
    It's hard to say what happened to my maternal grandmother. Alzheimer's had twisted her into an incoherent fetal position in a nursing home before she died. My mother's sister keeled over. Neat and quick. She'd been on the brink of death at least one other time in her life, though, possibly two, so she was an old hand at it. She keeled over walking down the hall of her living facility with her husband. He later spoke, with catching voice, about how he thought it was "sweet", that she went like that. I tend to think he misunderstood and that this was my aunt's final wry act of humor.
    My mother's brother went quickly, but it would be fair to say that he had been disenchanted with life ever since he was an older teen, so, you know, it's hard to say whether disinterest is responsible for killing him at the age of 62 in the form of (yet another) heart attack.
    It looks, though, as though Mom will be around for some time to come. I'm especially encouraged by her BP. I'll know, "even at her age", she'll work into the sense of slowness that's requiring so much sleep of her. If her cholesterol isn't in order, I'm going to quiz her PCP, in September (I'll set him up ahead of time with at least two Health Reviews) about possible light cholesterol meds that don't run roughshod over the kidneys and liver; although, actually, her liver seems to be fine.
    I'm rambling.

    Oh, I wanted to mention, I made a, hmmm...sounds funny but I would class it as a "professional" decision this weekend. I decided to join the American Society on Aging. I know, it's like, "So?"
    ASA defines itself as an organization of professionals working in the field of aging. Many of these professionals inherit membership through those for whom they work. Now, I've always had a problem with the word "professional". I have always insisted that it means one is paid for what one does, room and board notwithstanding. But, when I ran across this organization, suddenly I realized I am ready to consider and identify myself as a "professional" in what I do with and for my mother, as well as a "specialist"; skillful, too, knowledgeable, currently plying my trade and in my prime in that trade. Why shouldn't I join?!? As a caregiver. Maybe not a "professional", but "specialist caregiver".
    I don't intend to continue doing this in any capacity after my mother dies but:

You never know, and;
Maybe in some capacities that don't require as much, hmmm, well, compassion, I guess; as a mentor, maybe. To care givers. Not care recipients. Just want to make that clear.

    Since I'm doing this now, though, I should make professional connections.
    Then I decided to look up the word "professional" and, apparently, it has fallen into favorable use with the "I don't get paid to do this but I'm a specialist and I deserve recognition, respect and networking privileges" crowd. Although caregivers are not yet generally acknowledged as such, avocational geeks are the spine upon which the internet was developed (and continues to develop) and are fully recognized as avocational professionals.
    I haven't received any membership feedback. I joined an Aging & Spirituality focus group, since this seems closest to my interests. Although I don't remember what I called my job, I know I didn't flinch from identifying myself as an unpaid caregiver. It would be nice, actually, if ASA were to establish a membership fee below "Individual" (which is the highest) for avocational professional caregivers and actively solicit their membership and participation in the community. Aside from the fact that many elder caregivers are aged, caregivers to the elderly do, literally, walk the life of their care recipient...sometimes ambivalently and through a glass darkly, but we have much to say about and on behalf of aging.
    I'm not sure how much participation I'll be able to manage in the community. I'm waaaaay behind with Revolution so, you know, I don't want to make any promises. But I do want to publicly declare myself not only a professional (avocational) but a specialist in my field, which is intimately connected with aging. There is, by the way, a "Caregiver" category somewhere, as you sign up, for something. I think I chose it, but I don't remember in response to what. So, it seems appropriate that I join a professional organization as part of that declaration.
    Let me think...next, Lucy would recommend thought to a shingle...and a rate structure for appointments...

    Grinning. Later.

No blackberries. The apricots looked like...

2007-07-08T13:23:00.002-07:00

...shit. There were only a few flats (24 each) left. The bottom couple contained green apricots. The top couple contained bruised apricots. Most of the flats were missing fruit, probably to taste testers. So, I didn't bake a pie, yesterday.
    Just as well. I used the oven enough, yesterday. If it were hot and dry I don't think the house air would be much affected. Our dew point, though, is, today, officially 45%. It's probably been at least that since a couple days ago. The evap is still cooling...some; but not the sharp cool that's usual on very dry days.
    I've decided, if I make an apricot pie, it will be an apricot ginger pie. The filling will be sweetened (partially, if I use fresh fruit; fully, if I use Turkish apricots) with candied ginger. Not sure whether I'm going to add nuts. The almonds in the peach pie are adding only crunch. The almond flavor seems to have enhanced the peaches at its own expense. No wonder this peach pie filling recipe called for 1/4 tsp almond extract.
    I don't think nuts are necessarily an enhancement to pie; unless it's pumpkin, pecan (guess that had better have nuts, huh), mincemeat, or I'm thinking of that Granny Smith apple pie I made last year around this time: Apple slices (peelings on); dried cherries; walnuts. Even I liked that one, and I'm not an apple pie fan. I consider most apple pie akin to white food and, thus, inedible unless heavily disguised.
    So. Not sure what we're going to be doing, today. Mom's light went out at 0130, after a brief reading-silently-in-bed session. Oh, last night, before dinner, I remembered to take stats. I'm hoping to do the same when I awaken her today, probably about 1330. Guess I'd better return to The Dailies. It's been nice, though, not to be following my mother around with my nose up her ass, a contraption on her arm, stabbing her with a needle and quoting specific stats. I figure I'd better get her in for a blood draw one of these days, though.
    As I think about past-intended posts (about which I am always thinking when I'm writing here and have fallen behind), for some reason an old one comes to mind which I think I'll mention here.
    Cutting to the chase, my mother was not a virgin when she married. This may come as a surprise and shock to my sisters. It didn't to me when I learned it in January of this year, but it would have had I learned it earlier in my life. In my teens I may not have believed it.
    Here's how this was revealed: Although I would not have guessed this in the first few years of my mother's and my companionship, she finds programs and movies about sex as fascinating as do I. I've become very comfortable with this. Witness, our shared love for Sex & the City. The History and Discovery channels each also have interesting and lightly titillating series in their archives dubbed things like "The History of Sex". They have a variety of editions of these shows and broadcast at least one of the editions a couple times a year. We always manage to catch whatever edition they're broadcasting. This January one of the two was showing an abbreviated version of their 5 episode (90 minutes per episode...it was fascinating) series. It ran so quickly through the highlights of its parent that it was hard to glimpse a shot of genitalia or the details of a suggestive pose. But, it was a provocative reminder, nonetheless, and provoked conversation, as these programs usually do.
    I can't remember how the conversation got started...I think it was as a result of a short video treatise on Victorian married sexuality. For some reason, I got it into my head that my mother may not have been a virgin (although she wasn't Victorian, she has a very private streak about her that suggests an internal propriety) when she married. I remember (probably almost exactly), the words I used to pose the question: "Mom, I'm wondering; you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, were you a virgin when you married Dad?"
    I remember her turning deliberately toward me (I was sitting on the floor next to her rocker) her face impassive but soft. I think she was deciding whether to joke her way through this one. She decided otherwise, looked back at the TV, which I'd muted, asking the question during a commercial break. She was smiling and almost-not-smile. "No," she said. "May I ask, [long pause] why do you ask?"
    I did not express surprise. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, but, you know, this will come as a surprise to your daughters. I considered it possible, but I'm still surprised."
    She didn't say anything. Continued staring at the TV, smiling.
    "So," I asked, becoming brave, "was it Donald Stonehink?"
    Again, a steady look at me. "Stone-king. Which one?"
    She was not teasing. "Oh," I said. "Um, how many?"
    I didn't give her a chance to answer. "Were you and dad, uh, intimate, before you married."
    Mom glanced at me and grinned. "Heavens no," she said, "we never saw each other!"
    "Oh!" That surprised me. "So, what about Donald..."
    "No."
    "Did it come up?"
    "Yes."
    "Is that why you didn't marry him?"
    "I don't think it was him I was going to marry."
    "Oh. Okay. So, tell me. Did you expect your daughters to be virgins when they married?"
    She studied the pattern of pyracantha branches shading the window to her left. "I don't think I ever worried about it."
    "Really! I can think of at least one daughter who thought you did!"
    "Well, maybe I did. Not much, though."
    Suddenly, I was flooded with questions:  Considering, for instance, my unfortunate familiarity with my father's very drunk assessment of my mother's sexuality and how that, despite my distaste for it, influences my opinion of my mother's sexuality:

What is her view of their sex life?
Was she ever angry with Dad for being so completely unavailable to her?
Does she think he ever recognized her innate sexuality?
Did he ever acknowledge it?
Is my intuition that there was a magnetic physical bond between them, even up to the day my father died, accurate?
Did she ever have an affair in her marriage? - the possibility has been discussed among us sisters.
What, anyway, does she think of blow jobs?

    I asked only #5. She smiled a broad confirmation that this was true.
    "I know Dad was head-over heels for you from the day he met you till the day he died," I ventured.
    She continued grinning. "Yes he was," she said.
    Silence while the commercials ran down. Just before the program returned, I said, "I think you picked the right man. I know you know I think this."
    Her face registered only mild surprise, probably for the compliment, not for the opinion. "Well, thank you! I do, too."
    I am reminded of a junior high school friend of mine when I was in high school, "Jimmy"; he would refer to his parents as "the virgins". We'd all laugh. We never got tired of hearing this.
    Funny thing, though, I was already beyond not being able to imagine my parents having sex. By that time I'd seen them 69-ing on the living room couch, where they were sleeping in our hotel in Hawaii, during a late night stroll from our girls' bedroom to their bathroom, so I was beyond virginizing my parents. By that time, too, I was no longer prone to considering the graphic peculiarities of the actual sex act hilarious.
    I considered telling Mom this (not the part about me seeing them), but didn't. The subject seemed to be covered and closed.
    So, what does this have to do with caregiving? Well, nothing. And everything. I am aware, at least a couple of times a week, how grateful I am that I am in a position to keep my relationship with my mother as a person from becoming stagnant. Neither she nor I are stuck in our fond (or furious, depending on the deed) imaginings of one another. It doesn't necessarily happen that when adult children care for their elders their relationship is enriched. Sometimes the very act of elder care, especially demential elder care, shrivels the relationship, and the questions, as well.
    I have no prescriptions for how or why my relationship with my mother emphasizes our companionship over her and my care status to one another. I'm not sure, in fact, which came first, the chicken or the egg, although I heavily expect the egg. All I can tell you is that when I compare my mundane, intimate relationship with my mother with the relationships between other children and parents I see exhibited, I am even more grateful that we were and are persons, first, to one another, when our odyssey began and have come to fill several roles for one another through the years of our companionship. I believe this has made my dedication to her life worth it, and the added worth to the expansion of my character is a bonus. I can also see, though, how this sort of relationship with one's elder is random, in regards most families, and how the shriveling of a relationship might also be worth it, for all parties involved. Or, perhaps, a better word would be "stagnating"...as in a photograph...to which, and I say this without sarcasm or judgment of any kind, many people are addicted in lieu of the relationships behind the images.

    Hmmm...so, looks like I'd better consider awakening the Mom. Not sure what we'll do, today. Although I know it's gotten progressively warmer outside, our house has gotten progressively cooler, which means the dew point is falling. Hallelujah.

    So. One backed-up post down, several more to go, but I can delete that one.
    Later.

By the way...

2007-07-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

...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 fell asleep on the couch, last night.

2007-07-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

    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.

I noticed I was so heavily amending the last post...

2007-07-06T19:15:00.001-07:00

...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.

Each peach pie...

2007-07-06T13:01:00.001-07:00

...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.

I have permission...

2007-07-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

...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.

Plans for today:

2007-07-04T11:01:00.001-07:00

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.

Well, whadaya know!

2007-07-03T12:32:00.003-07:00

    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]:

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.
My most treasured compliment graced me several years ago when one of my sisters blurted, her voice choked with awe, "...you are an artist."
I consider myself fortunate in that Today, it seems, is always, for me, "a good day to die."
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.

Is today an official holiday?

2007-07-02T10:33:00.001-07:00

    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.

Oh, dear! Today, I just realized, is Rabbit, Rabbit day...

2007-07-01T11:32:00.000-07:00

...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.

I'm embarrassed to admit this...

2007-07-01T01:09:00.001-07:00

...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.

Let's not be afraid to say this...

2007-06-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

...companionating and caregiving for Ancient Ones is a transcendent activity. Even a part time measure of caregiving activity, especially for a relative, causes you, often in the face of personal opposition, to:

Lose yourself, and;
Hear and consider the questions your soul asks.

    You'd think, wouldn't you, that being a parent, an ordinary parent, would automatically confer the experience of transcendence, but from simple observation I can tell you (and, I'm sure, you can tell me), for some reason it doesn't; it offers the experience but, judging from how many adult children have trouble conceiving of taking care of their aged parents, it allows easy right of refusal. It's easy to be a perfectly capable, untranscendent parent, maybe because the path of childhood is to differentiate oneself, while the path of The Ancient Ones seems to occur when a pinnacle of differentiation has been reached and, hmmm...., what would be the word..."something else" will do, I guess, happens; the conflict is no longer over differentiation, the caregiver is no longer pushing the cared for away, but pulling the cared for in...or, actually, being pulled in by the care recipient, which is another type of conflict...a conflict with what constitutes identity and how solid is it. Some of us fight it, or, anyway, as in my case, parts of it. But, when you can no longer fight it, when you are thoroughly mesmerized by caring for your Ancient One, you are forced to transcend yourself. You may not like the experience, at first...you may scream to your god that you did not ask for this, you never wanted to learn to be this good...you may even flee the responsibilities but, once confronted with the choice of caring or not caring for an Ancient One, if you spend any amount of time giving companionship and care to that Ancient One you will not ever be the same in a particular way.
    As caregivers, though, despite all the sappy stuff out there, we are embarrassed to admit that even we can see a difference in how we relate to others once we've transcended, hmmm...whatever it is we transcend. I'm not actually THERE, yet, but I know where I'm headed, now. We may modestly confess to an ability to see further into others, and the world in general, but we would never confirm that we came to be this way because the challenge of Ancient Care and Companionship took us, sometimes kicking and screaming, into its transformative den.
    The issue of the transcendent and transformative nature of this kind of caregiving comes under scrutiny when individual caregivers get to the point of feeling they've been blessed by this duty, in ways that only this type of duty confers. From what I'm hearing in this book Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories, this continues once caregiving has ended. It changes you. Period. It never changes you definitively for better or worse; it just changes you and you usually become grateful for the change, even if it was an arduous journey. Most others are grateful for the change in you, too, if they think about it.
    Although some of you may disagree with me, I'm beginning to consider that, if we can do nothing else, we can acknowledge the mystical within The Path of Those Who Care for Ancient Ones. When someone within our intimate community shows the inclination to set down this path, at the very least we can hold an initiation and express awe and wonder at the possibilities of insight this person will automatically receive. We can celebrate without knowing. When the person emerges from that path to rejoin ours, we can celebrate their return and encourage them to tell us what they know...allowing us to consider that, maybe, we, too, might have the stamina for what amounts to Advanced Loving.
    Ancient Caregiving is, after all, a visionary experience like no other. The caregiver is constantly confronting visions, unbidden, of what exists for one's loved one and what one wishes to exist...and for oneself, as well. For some reason, although parenting seems to draw parents away from sub-conscious visions, caregiving to Ancient Ones does the opposite. We are forced to observe, and tend to, life at its end. All ignored metaphors appear, our care recipients', ours. We begin to see the stage we're in (and on) more clearly...others' stages, as well. Whether or not we want to, we exit caregiving wiser. We caregivers need to be willing to acknowledge this, perhaps even put a bit of PR polish on the benefits of caregiving...and we, as a society, need to surround caregiving for Ancient Ones with all the awe, respect and deference we believe we will deserve when we are Ancient. If we do only this, offer only this rite-ful, rightful respect, when one of our relatives decides to take The Journey of the Ancient Caregiver, we will go a long way toward ensuring that someone we love and trust will be readily available to accompany us on our final journey.

The "something else" to which I refer in the immediately previous post...

2007-06-29T00:22:00.000-07:00

...is this: I told MPS that I'd decided that, at the event of the 90th Birthday Dinner for Mom, I was going to insist that Mom sit between two people, neither of whom will be me. "I'll tell you why I'm insisting on this," I continued. "Here's what usually happens during family dinners at restaurants:" Mom and Gail get shunted to a sullen corner of the table. Everyone feels good about Mom being there, but no one interacts with Mom because interacting necessarily and often involves doing this or that discreet action like making sure Mom gets a fair chance to look over the menu; making sure that she knows where her food is when it's delivered; making sure she eats some of it in the midst of distraction; taking conversation a little more slowly, a little more loudly and a little more whimsically. Gail the Caregiver is there to notice and tend to all the little things, thus, in a sense, becomes a barrier between Mom and everyone else at the table...and Gail the Caregiver is so busy being The Caregiver with Mom that she doesn't get a chance to interact successfully with anyone else.
    This time, I told MPS, everyone else is going to be forced to interact with Mom. It is, after all, her birthday. Everyone should be interacting with her.
    MPS said, "Good."
    Later in the evening I told Mom about this. I explained everything to her, including how we get shunted into a corner and everyone seems to forget that they're neglecting an excellent opportunity to visit with Mom and get a sense of her. "You know," I said, rounding off the explanation, "Actually, you and I should sit at opposite corners of the restaurant table AND, every time we go out to eat with family while they're here, we should do this. But, anyway, I want you to know, at the very least, it will be done for your birthday."
    By the time I finished, to my surprise, my mother was grinning and tears were welling at the corners of her eyes. She exclaimed a heartfelt "Why, Gail, thank you!"
    I was astonished. I, frankly, thought that while I was sensitive to this constant family-dinner-out scenario, she hadn't been. Not only had she, it was with great relief that she greeted the news that, earlier today, I had seen to it that this scenario would be stopped.
    Funny what you find out when you just talk.

Today is one of those days when I'm smelling...

2007-06-28T15:41:00.000-07:00

...my mother's urine on me, even though I know I have none one me. It started before she awoke this morning, while I was running errands. After her bath I took yet another shower and changed clothes. She's been down for a couple of hours; I've looked in on her but haven't approached further than a few feet, and yet, just a minute ago, I got a whiff of her as I turned.
I wonder if it is related, somehow, either as an effect or a cause, to the following conversation I had with one of my sisters today about Mom's upcoming party period. She confirmed her intention to be there, with MPNC, MPNP also intending to come, on Saturday. She talked about everyone's care at making sure they don't get in my hair. I thanked her and went on to clarify for her that I don't mind all the company we can fit into the days...Mom's will be thrilled with it. I just have four rules:

Motels for everyone at night;
Don't use my household appliances (I've had problems with resettings after company leaves);
Don't attempt to manage my (yes, I said "my") home;
You adapt, we don't.

MPS seemed relieved to hear my very distinct, very succinct requests. I swear, I should have voiced them quickly and with authority years ago, but, years ago I honestly hadn't given it enough thought to know what I need from company. Anyway, it's clear and easy, now. I hear Mom's reconnaissance cough. I also mentioned something else, on which I'll report...
...later.

Maybe the party's on after all!

2007-06-28T09:00:00.001-07:00

    So far, two of my three sisters-and-partial-families (one brother-in-law; one nephew) are slated to be here to celebrate Mom's 90th birthday, which will be August 2nd. The up-and-coming birthday girl is very excited, even though festivities are more than a month away. Mom will, as well, at least "see" the other brother-in-law, who will be delivering the daughter-with-nephew up here on Mom's birthday, a fitting birthday present, so an impromptu dinner out might be in order on her actual birthday. I haven't heard about the daughter who "belongs" to that brother-in-law, but it seems that plans are loosely coalescing around the possibility of a birthday dinner on the Saturday, August 4th, following Mom's birthday. I know we won't see the local daughter and her kids during the week days; school and work will be in full swing for them (one's a teacher, one's a student). I'm figuring that some or all of them, though, will show up for the Mom's 90th birthday dinner on Saturday. I'm letting plans hang loose and allowing everyone else to make them, cooperate with one another and carry them out. I didn't even galvanize the plans, on purpose, so it's wonderful to see that everyone else is taking notice and acting to serve up a proper 90th birthday fiesta. From the Thursday of her birthday through the following Sunday, various and sundry daughter-relatives will be coming and going, so every day, including her birthday, will probably be a birthday celebration. Excellent! My mother believes that a person should celebrate a birth month...not just a birth day! Why take just one when there's 31 on the plate?!?
    I remember mentioning this to someone, although I can't remember who; I don't think it was here: Earlier this week, I accidentally referred to Mom's birthday as her hundredth when we were whipping up her excitement over the coming celebrations. Her reaction was funny: First she backed off, as if to say, "Honey, if this is 90, I'm not sure I want to see 100!" Then, I saw the glint of an idea in her eyes and she said, "Do you suppose we could get away with that?"
    After all, Hundredth birthday celebrations are surely 10 times better than 90th birthday celebrations. Everyone lives to be 90, now-a-days.
    A reading development that has surprised me...from insisting on reading Mothering Mother, I've jump started myself into the kind of reading I like best, having at least three books going at the same time. Let me take an informal count:

Taking notes out of To a Dancing God on expectation and noticing that I want to reread the entire book, so I am, sort of;
Reading (not in order) contents of the book Dementia Caregivers Share Their Stories. Mona wrote about the author and some of her impressions at her journal (the link will take you to the specific post) after having read the book. I am not accustomed to reading more than informal (make that, vaguely avocational) caregiver literature, so this is an interesting side path for me. Lots of highlighting and lots of notes in this one, folks. I expect I'll write about it at least as extensively as I wrote about Mothering Mother. Might even write the authors for permission to publish quotes. No telling where that will lead!
Mom and I have put aside two other unfinished books and started "Through a Narrow Gate" by Karen Armstrong. We have both been so impressed with her writing and scholarship in regard to religion and spirituality that I looked her books up at random and we chose two autobiographical books, of which this is one, that promise to be fascinating. This first one is about Karen's journey as a nun (she left the convent after 7 years). Both Mom and I have a fascination with nunnery and religious vocations in general. She's seen all the nun movies I've seen. We thought this would be a revealing read. So far, so good.
Today I will be picking up a copy of the short story collection containing the story upon which Away from Her was based; Alice Munro's The Bear Came Over the Mountain in the collection Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Love Marriage. Knowing how I am about short stories, I'll probably spend a couple hours reading selected short stories in the book. Besides, I feel in need of some good fiction, lately.

    Today, though, is, again, primarily an errand day. I'll be leaving soon to perform a few before Mom stirs. Then, we've got some stuff to do around the house and yard. Plus, we've got Pan's Labyrinth waiting in queue on the TV table. I know almost nothing about the film, so it'll be interesting for both of us. Oh, which reminds me, in case Karma is "watching" in on this post, we finally watched Volver a couple of months ago. Mom and I both loved the movie. I was astonished when I realized, at the end, that the movie had been about quite horrible events and repercussions, and yet there was such a startling feeling of resolution and peace. Mom became very involved in discussing whether the mother was a ghost or alive. It didn't talk about survival, it actually showed how survival and grace is possible in impossible circumstances. I loved, too, that it was produced to resemble an adult fairy tale. I think this is what hooked my Mom into it. It's production style reminded me of Chocolat.
    Off to see The Wizard...
    ...later.

One down, one to go.

2007-06-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

    The Convair Millenia Advantage evaporative cooler is working again. The fan belt probably didn't need replacing. When I compared the new with the old, well, you could'a fooled me if there was any stretch between the two. I lubed where it said to lube. Finally, I figured, it's got to be a clog in one of the hoses. I looked up the company on the web and found both the schematic and yet another owner's manual, the manual online being the same as the one I have except it's in four more languages than mine. Turns out, though, the schematic shows three hoses, none of which are replaceable parts, nor with a description of which hose leads where. So, I recalled the distributors, Seeley International in Glendale, Arizona. Phone message saying to leave a message. I did. I have never been so glad that I left a message! The tech support was one of two co-owners of the company. She talked me through unclogging the hoses, waiting with me while I dropped one behind the fan casing, which is officially not removable, but I can see that it is, I just wouldn't want to have to do it. I didn't. When we were done, the cooler worked great and she gave me some tips on additional seasonal maintenance, like running a vinegar bath through it before drying and storing it.
    I awoke Mom earlier, today, much earlier, than she's lately been arising. I wanted to make sure, when the return call came, it wasn't interrupted by her arising because, believe me, when she's up, it's time and that's that. She was with me, looking at the cooler through the "irremovable" casing when the call came through. She moved to take her walker into the kitchen and wait for me, but when she understood that Seeley was going to walk me through fixing it, she decided to watch what I was about to do. She sat to my back right and leaned as far forward as possible to get the cleanest view of my machinations without getting my elbow in her nose or glasses. I noticed, a couple of times, her hands subconsciously working as I fiddled through the casing, trying to catch up the wayward hose. She exclaimed when the clogs came through, then examined them. At one point she handed me a large flat head screw driver without me asking when it was obvious I was going to need two implements to get the hose out from behind the casing. It was exactly what I needed.
    Truth is, it shouldn't surprise me that she should take such a keen interest in watching me do things. Aside from the fact that she always has, in a quiet way, seemed to know how to fix things (although she usually takes the sloppy route, since that is the fastest, thus, my father did most of the fixing in our born-into family), she continues to like the mental "feel" of confronting a problem and thinking about it. As well, watching me today is, for her, I imagine, as good or better than any one of her educational channels, the difference being that at the end of watching and helping me, she feels some satisfaction in a task well plied.
    As well, I think I've mentioned this before: When my mother really works her brain, you can tell it in how her body reacts. She breathes more deeply. If she becomes mentally frustrated her breathing becomes faster and shallower. When the task is completed, she sighs as though she's run a marathon training session. Within a half hour after fixing the evaporative cooler, she decided she needed to take a nap.
    Ah. I hear her reconnaissance coughing, now. Time to get her up and think about lunch.
    One more errand, today, involving a short trip and yet another repair job, this time outside. Maybe I can get her interested in that job, too.
    Later.

Ah! Well, I didn't get back to the library book...

2007-06-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

...before I needed to turn it in. I replaced my name on the hold list. I am now 13th. Popular book. I got it right after the library received it...the first borrower. I like that almost as much as getting an autographed first edition...particularly with reader notes and highlighting.
    So, I may buy the book, but I'm not sure. More likely that I'll buy the other library books which are in service as read-out-loud books, mostly. I tend to read ahead in them.
    I'm catching up on some old business, this morning. Mom was up, again, until 0200 this morning. You could say she had two naps. She "went to bed", outfitted and everything, at 2300, then was back up at 2330, ready for company. We watched something on TV...we thought it was interesting, at the time, and were glad we watched it, but I can't remember, now, what it was!
    I noticed that she was particularly ruddy yesterday. This week would be a good week to do a blood draw, see what's going on. I think she'll end up right in the middle of everything. I hope her hemoglobin is at least holding steady above 10.0 I know it dips...I know the signs, and it's a good idea to have a history for comparison, but I like to have "good" blood draws, now, too, and getting stuck really irritates my mother, anymore. So, as long as nothing seems emergent, I don't push.
    She's having a few more problems with her back than previously, but she isn't moving much, right now, either, so it's no wonder. We treat it as easily and lightly as possible. At least once a week, now, in the morning, I substitute a 350 mg aspirin for her usual 81 mg tablet. It seems to help. A couple of times I've substituted 200 mg ibuprofen, too, for the day's dose of aspirin. Although Mom hates to admit it, that helps even more. When she assents to taking ibuprofen, I know what level of discomfort and pain that translates to.
    I continue to think about issues addressed in Mothering Mother; in particular, speculating about what it might feel like, to my mother and to me, if she's gets caught up in an "active dying phase". I'd much rather she'd just check out. I get sense she feels the same. From what I've read, though, most people die slowly. I swear, I already see death sign posts and I'm figuring we may be as much as a few years away from approaching serious death issues. But, you never know.
    Mom really seems to be enjoying this particular year of her life. Sometimes she's not interested in admitting she will turn 90. But, sometimes, she's interested in sneaking in a few more years. For some reason, I now recall expecting, in the past, that she would be gaunt and frail. She's frail, yes, although she doesn't necessarily look it, but she's also round and hearty looking and mostly peachy. She's just sleeping a lot. Insisting on it, now. I'm not fighting her. I think she'll rev up the closer we get to seeing extended family. She's stoked for that.
    Which reminds me, I should check in with MCS. It's been awhile.
    Later.

Today I suddenly remembered...

2007-06-24T13:34:00.001-07:00

...that it's been at least over a month since I have checked in over at Revolution. Their rules say that to retain this free one year membership, members must log into the site and do something, anything, at least once a month. Turns out it's been a few days over three months for me! Yeow! I am, thus, pleased and gratified to report that both mine and my mother's accounts remain available. Although I've come to discover that me having an account doesn't help my mother, much, as I could not "do things" in her name, I have high hopes for accessing some of the services on my mother's behalf through her profile before the end of the year.
    I suppose I could have, occasionally, surveyed support groups and other healthcare blogs over there, but I have trouble considering online support groups a priority. I'm struggling, right now, with getting back to Daily Strength, and that community definitely thrives on through-site contact.
    Last night was another late night for Mom. I enjoy these periods. We are more "up" for serendipity and more likely to produce it. Last night Mom and I admired our half-finished Easter Eggs and speculated about the possibility that we could paint a supply of these things and see if we could sell them.
    She demured that her art work wasn't "good enough" to sell. It actually is interesting, bright and intriguing to look at. She just can't see it because she can't get out of her mind that she didn't have good enough control of the brushes.
    I, on the other hand, think we could sell these as folk art, which they obviously are. We talked about storage, promotion, the specifics (that we know about) regarding setting up a fair booth, etc. Mom's eyes shone. I think she would have loved to have owned and managed a store...any store. She's in her element at garage sales. One of her favorite past times, in years gone by, was going to the border towns along the Mexico-Arizona and Mexico-Texas borders to shop. She is especially attracted to bartering; both sides of the equation. I swear she was a bazaar merchant in a previous life; which is possible. She feels strong ties to ancient Egypt.
    We talked about whether stands would easy to find and provide. The ones I bought my parents came with appropriately efficient little stands. We talked about the likelihood that we will switch to gloss rather than matte paint and learning how to control the appearance of brush strokes.
    It always amazes me how involved Mom can get when a subject narrows and specifies itself. Granted, this is all talk, at the moment. And, as well, I'm dealing with a woman who is in low energy mode. But wouldn't that be cool: A new career for Mom in her 90's despite her dementia and the physical toll of aging!
    Hmmm...well, I think I'll sneak in on Mom and see if she's ready to rouse...it's been just about 11.5 hours since her light went off, last night.
    Later.

Mothering Mother - Part 2

2007-06-23T13:14:00.002-07:00

Carol D. O'Dell
Author, Mothering Mother
Kunati Publishing
April 2007 release
ISBN-13: 978-1-60164-003-1
Carol O'Dell dot com

    Everything remains copacetic. Mom remained undisturbed as I activated the evaporative cooler from the back and brought in a fan to throw cooler air into her bedroom, which must be maintained at a particular warm temperature and level of humidity or I get complaints and bloody noses. She was snoring. I don't know whether she was dreaming.
    She had an ice cream bar last night [Carol O'Dell's mother, by the way, was an ice cream bar addict, too, with a sweet tooth comparable to my mother's], so I imagine she's a bit sugary this morning, although we haven't yet reached the 12 hour sleep mark. I'll check in on her again at 1400.

"The wife, the mother, the son, whoever they were, were probably not writers; that was not their calling. They were not asked to do this task." --3rd para, pg 62
    There are many, most, probably, caregivers who are also not called to the task of recording their lives. Thus, I am always grateful for someone who is compelled to do so, as, believe me, it takes compulsion to continue to think and write about intense needs caregiving. My reluctance to read caregiving books has nothing to do with any innate unworthiness with which I view them. It's practical, see: If I have time and the "space" to read, I don't usually want to be reading about caregiving (although sometimes I want to read about aging and medicine).

"Caregivers" --pg 62
    It is always a treat to read a thoughtful, articulate writer's take on caregiving. O'Dell's is not to be missed. If you're not inclined to read the entire book, look up the passage while browsing at the bookstore or library.

Throughout --the entire book
    I marked the passage of time, possible actual years, actual ages, etc. So far, without review, I think I've deduced:

That O'Dell's mother was with them for about two years.
The mother ranged in age from late 80's to early 90's.
O'Dell traversed her late 30's through her early 40's.
The years are the early 21st century.
Her mother had been vaguely incapacitated living on her own and had needed much attention in all areas of her life prior to the O'Dell's embracing her as immediate family.
Her mother seemed to be in fairly late stage everything when they combined lives. She also seemed to share anemia (probably iron deficiency) with my mother; possibly CRF; doesn't sound like she's diabetic, though.
The daughter reluctantly becomes medical advocate on mother's behalf...with an ornery attitude similar to mine. I was especially keen on, and surprised by her descriptions of and rumination on hospice care: Detailed in Part IV.

"Her eyes are fixed on Mother's rolling vein..." --2nd para, pg 77
    My mother's veins also roll with age. I prostrate myself before techs who are experienced with experienced veins.

"...but there are so many things no one can do but me." --last para, pg 80
    Thank you, Ms. O'Dell, for confirming this, underlining it with convictive illustrations. Sorry, well-meaning caregiver counselors, but there is a time for related hands on care, and when that time arrives, it is necessary and to be respected.

"Shirley" --pg 81-83
    Especially the following: I enjoy her company, which is quite a compliment since lately most people irritate me.. --pg 83
    I find the same thing. I am always pleasantly surprised when I find myself appreciating someone's company. I also had an experienced geriatric FNP toward whom I had such feelings. Her manner continues to exert influence over my approach to my mother.

"...but some days I need her to be in it." --3rd para, pg 93
    The utility of equipment assist is often judged on the caregiver's, not the care recipient's needs. In the end, my decisions about this can be trusted to be for the greater good.

"She keeps trying to find the other me." --last para, pg 96
    My mother isn't doing this. Yet. She is completely comfortable and flexible with whomever she considers me on any particular day. I've even found that I don't necessarily have to be consciously aware of who I am to her in order to "play along", if it seems provocative to do so.

"Fantasies" --pg 98
    Every writer-caregiver I know has rich fantasy lives, both awake and asleep. I sometimes wonder if this is an unconscious attempt to make up for social deprivation, except that I have a very high tolerance, some would even call it a preference, for social deprivation.

"Mother needs containing." --4th para, pg 99
    Astute observation. Perhaps this is part of the problem with the nursing home industry. It can barely offer unobtrusive, familiar containment.
    In any case, O'Dell's experience highlights the need for advanced, compassionate, comfortable containment.

"I'll tell them Mother's failing to thrive." --1st para, pg 100
    Blatant reminder that I still need to finish a post on "failing to thrive".

"Well Enough" --pg 102
    A wise vignette about quality caregiving.

"First Fears" --pg 108
    This vignette reminded me that I once considered that the display of Alzheimer's-like symptoms might be related to character and personality, and real, though confused, perceptions of past treatment. My maternal grandmother and my Aunt Jean were worry worts. My mother never has been. Perhaps her lack of worry somehow prevents her dementia from accomplishing certain depths.
    As well, my mother never had aggressive, defensive feelings toward any of us that she didn't immediately expel. My maternal aunt had a past of resentment toward, well, who knows what but definitely discharged toward her husband, the only person with whom she became dementedly violent. My maternal grandmother would become super charged, especially in her own homes, but never escalated to violence, even though she ended up in a fetal position before she died, so she was pretty far gone. My mother has never exhibited violence, or much agitation, for that matter, in her demented state.

"I've been ignoring Mother though my care has not decreased." --3rd para, pg 109
    This is the first sentence of a vignette entitled "Happiness". How appropriate.

"I won't. You won't let me go home. Mother's expecting me!" --5th para, pg 113
    My maternal grandmother and aunt experienced this "go" and "mother" syndrome. My mother has a much less stubborn version of it wherein I am sometimes "mother" (although I'm never sure whose mother I am), and we are always expecting "them".

"I understand why people recoil from the elderly...but for now, I allow this world of my mother to define me." --pg 115-116
    Says it all.

"Empty Beds" --pg 120
    My mother sometimes insists that I slept with her "last night". I always assure her I would never sleep with her, although I have slept in her room, which is hard enough. Her temperature preference is in direct contrast to mine and, usually, when I am sleeping in her room, it's because she's having temporary trouble getting around and I want to be alerted when she moves. I've found, though, that I become so exhausted during these periods that I often sleep through her stepping over me, which is dangerous, in itself.
    At any rate, my inability to actually sleep with my mother in the same bed feels more like an intrusion of my privacy than hers. She is not, thank the gods, adamant about it.

After Carol bathes her mother: "I can never thank you enough," she says, nodding off to sleep before I pull the cover all the way up." --7th para, pg 130
    The one time my mother has been moved to thank me, in what seemed like an eerily all-encompassing way, for what I do for her, was, also, right after a bath. The intimacy, I think. I think it expands one's outlook and makes us, even the demented among us, aware of the web of relationships within which, and by which, we exist.

"I'm not mad at him. Yes I am. I'm mad at everyone." --2nd para, pg 133
    So am I.

"I go back to the kitchen and lift the chicken pieces out of the boiler..." --3rd para, pg 142
    I note in the margin: "Recipe for Chicken Stew"; it's surprisingly complete, and sounds delicious. My mother likes "stewy things".

"I hope when her eyes are closed she sees herself young, long-legged, and just beginning to live." --5th para, pg 143
    I noted, "movie: After Life". And, I sobbed. This is what I wish for my mother. This is what I wish for me.

"Duped" --last para, pg 145
    Noted in margin: "laughed". And I did. Out loud. Even at the end.

"I wonder what she or he will be like and why you never run into a funeral home cosmetologist." --3rd para, pg 147
    I knew one. He came by the trade through family, although his father was a funeral director. I asked him, among many other questions, why he decided to study this aspect of mortuary science. He said because he's always believed that the quality of final touch is important to the individual dignity of each of the dead and he wanted to make sure as many people as possible were dignified in those final touchings.
    I thought of him when, later to meeting him, a lover of mine died and I heard, first hand, about what needed to be done to his body in preparation for Visitation. I was fascinated, and grateful, for men like my acquaintance.

Noted in upper margin --pg 150
    "My own experience of my mother's death may be affected by having read this; how???"

While redecorating her mother's now vacant add-on apartment: "I wish I had done that before but it wouldn't have been her room, it would have been mine." --7th para, pg 150
    Mom and I have both been lucky in that this home was allowed to become both our homes, filled with familiar stuff belonging to both of us. She often "remembers" that we've had this house much longer than we have: Since before my father died in 1985. Mom insisted on buying it in 1997. I used to cringe when she'd say, "Do you remember why it was your dad bought this house?" Usually, a question like that means she's looking for an opportunity to express her dislike of something. One time, before answering (which answer, that she chose and bought it, always seems to stop her from trashing the house; I used to think this was because I distracted her from it), I asked her why she wanted to know.
    To my astonishment, she said, in complete innocence, "I just wonder who I need to thank for finding this house."
    Now that I know, I let the conversation play out all the way, especially since it traditionally ends with me saying, "See, you have yourself to thank for this little slice of heaven!"
    She always beams. She loves knowing she's responsible for felicity.

"It must feel good to her. It feels good to me." --2nd para, pg 159
    Good salute to the mutual pleasure of bathing, massaging, etc.

"I don't want her to feel alone." --10th para, pg 162
    Funny, somehow I expect my mother, in her final moments, to pull inward, telling me she wants to "be left alone". I wonder if I will perceive something different when this woman, the beloved one here with me, dies.

"Although Daddy has been gone for nearly seventeen years, I've kept him alive. Talking about him is as easy as getting dressed each day." --2nd para, pg 173
    I feel the same toward my father. I am learning to feel this way toward "our family", as well.

"I feel like I'm supposed to do something now, or be something that she was somehow keeping me from." --2nd para, pg 176
    I don't think I'll suffer this. I've come through that gauntlet swinging.

"I hear Mother all the time and quote her daily." --5th para, pg 180
    I do this now and didn't realize it until the woman who has become our shared barber told my mother, a month or so ago, "Your daughter really loves you! You're all she talks about! She's proud of you!"
    Suddenly, I realized, Hey, that's true! And I was pleased that it's visible in polite, and impolite, society.

"Part V" --pg 165
    I am especially grateful for this section. I often wonder what the part of the journey will be like when I will be getting used to journeying on alone. I'm not dreading it. I have an open curiosity about it. I sense mine will be different than Ms. O'Dell's, simply because of the heightened level of one-on-one involvement between my mother and me in which distractions are to a minimum, in contrast to Ms. O'Dell's life.
    I am not afraid to look forward to that period, but I'm not looking forward to it, yet.

    The book, by the way, has a bibliography, an appendix and a very helpful index. Maybe it's because I'm a fellow caregiver, but I didn't, as one cover blurb mentions, identify any "martyrdom", not even "a touch of..." it in the book.
    I think this is being published at a critical time. I think it will have an impact, but what impact, I'm not sure. As I told Ms. O'Dell when I thanked her for permission to use direct quotes, "At the moment, since most of us [caregiving journalists] don't know much about others of us, our writing is surprisingly pure. For awhile, most of us think we're one of only a few. Then, the view widens and our view of our task becomes perplexingly complex. I am grateful for the narratives that float to the surface. I am grateful to you, Carol."
    I stand by this.
    Would I not have read the book but for the serendipitous circumstances surrounding it's entrance into my life? I probably would not have become aware of it. I'm glad I have. It's a good one, drenched in reality. I am pleased I own an autographed first edition. It honors me.

Added at 1813:  I forgot to mention whether I'd recommend it. Yes, I would, especially to caregivers whose care recipients are in the waiting part of the "active dying phase" (because you'll have more time to read) and those who have relatives who are embracing the extended family's Ancient Ones into an already extended care household. I would also recommend it to those who have "enjoyed" (as, it is debatable how enjoyable these kinds of relationships are) contentious relationships with parents and are curious about what the future holds in regard to their already challenged feelings toward their parents becoming befuddled by intense needs caregiving for the parent. Ms. O'Dell is very forthcoming in what the challenges were to her relationship with her mother, how she thinks her mother achieved peace in regard to her own life and how Ms. O'Dell achieved peace in regard to her relationship with her mother.
    As well, the light but firm touch regarding how the rest of the family adapted is intriguing, especially the parts in which family members begin to form unique, two-way relationships with a seemingly oblivious old woman. It's a good lesson for anyone who is concerned about how the introduction of an Ancient One is going to impact family.
    There is a running issue throughout the book as well, rotating around O'Dell's mother exacting a childhood promise from her (only, adopted) daughter that O'Dell would take care of her in old age. I've often speculated that my mother looked to me when shopping for a family companion because I am single and, in addition "the single daughter". This is a position which is proudly hailed in my mother's ancestry, but of ambivalent distinction. Now, when I think about it, it is obvious that Mom thought that we'd be taking care of each other. She's right...but there's so much more. I can't remembering bristling when I first had this thought. But, by that time, I was long past any consideration of where her life ends and mine begins. The thing is, me being her (only) single daughter probably also has an effect on the closeness my mother and I have enjoyed throughout our lives, and, as well, the continually evolving dynamics of or relationship. I'm happy with this effect.
    I have mixed-givings about the "My Daughter/Son's Wife, Whomever, Will Take Care of Me in My Old Age" school. I'm not sure I see this as an intractable problem. I think this would be less an issue if society recognized that this is a point of common law. I recently read that 80% of all elderly needing care are taken care of by family members. 80%! Yes, we need to be excited about the plight of elder care live-in facilities. We need to be even more excited about, and support in tangible ways, the 45 million caregivers already engaged. I hope this book raises awareness of what the rank-and-file are choosing over and above what society is planning to do with our elderly, with us, eventually.

For several reasons, I feel sisterly toward the author of...

2007-06-23T11:23:00.002-07:00

...Mothering Mother. Her signature handwriting (I used to "do" handwriting analysis) on the cover page of her book is startlingly like that of MFS who sent me the book (she mentioned to me she hadn't read it). Carol O'Dell is also a Gemini. As a skeptical but enchanted astrological observer, Gemini blesses my life in the following ways:

All three of my sisters are Gemini;
My maternal grandmother is a Gemini;
and shares her birthday with the-niece-who-I-know-the-best, MPNC.
My Tropical Campanus midheaven is at 0° Gemini, which "means" that my sisters are intimately involved with the way I involve myself in "the outside world" and with my "reputation" in that world.
My watery moodiness is a startling compliment to Gemini's airy moodiness;

Thus, I have a feeling one of the reasons MFS and O'Dell managed informal table time is because they experienced an affinity for one another. I certainly feel a sisterly affinity with her book.

Carol D. O'Dell
Author, Mothering Mother
Kunati Publishing
April 2007 release
ISBN-13: 978-1-60164-003-1
http://www.caroldodell.com

I wrote Ms. O'Dell seeking permission to reproduce small quotes from her book as I write about it. She enthusiastically assented. When I responded to her, I was a little over half my way through her book. I thanked her and said, "...the extremely thoughtful organization and vignette style, with which I remain impressed, and the tight writing: Sort of a Spicy Chicken Soup, no, Stew for the Ironic [Caregiving] Soul. Ah! I like that! I'll probably use that when I do a final write on your book." Good description. Even better, though, is to compare it to a very specific, skeptical, hopeful prayer book, filled with meditations on the experience of caring for an aging parent. The specificity of her experience (and, thus, meditations) are:

Caregiver female; Late 30's/early 40's crossover during caregiving time period;
Mother in late 80's when their living-together-again adventure commences...dies in early 90's;
Caregiver also full time family caregiver with husband and three (I believe) teenage daughters;
Mother has Parkinson's;
Mother has always been a mover and pusher, sometimes thoughtless and hurtful;
Relationship complicated by daughter being adopted at age of four;
Moving Mother In requires, as well, a move from one state to another and one house to another;
Caregiving stint lasts about two years;
Full time, ever escalating intense needs caregiving is required and applied;
Mother has a dynamic dementia which worsens previous to death;
No extended family available to help with caregiving tasks except those in the home, who depend upon caregiver's caregiving to them, as well as to her mother.

    I wasn't sure, on beginning the book, how much I would have to say...at that point I wasn't even sure I'd mention the book in my journal. The coincidences in its arrival, though, were too uncanny to be ignored and I always make an effort to immediately read any books MFS sends me. An important part of our life-long relationship is based upon our book taste affinities. I, however, feel no pressure to like any books with which she gifts me. So, I hadn't made up my mind about this book.
    Then, I began highlighting here and there as I read. When I finished the book I had written notes in a couple of places. This, I decided, is how I'll organize what I write about the book, since I like it well enough, very well, in fact, to talk about it.
    I will denote quotes by Ms. O'Dell in this typeface.
    It should be understood that the copyright to all Carol O'Dell's material published here remains in her possession.
    Titles for subject blocks will be presented in this typeface and may or may not be direct quotes from Ms. O'Dell. If they are, such will be so noted with "quotation marks".
    I will probably publish, then bring back to draft, this post a couple of times before it's done...and I may divide it into more than one post. I have no accurate memory of what, how much or why I highlighted certain passages, nor of the skimpy notes I made. So, this will be a serendipitous journey. I publish, right now, in order to check the positioning of the book's logo and see if the tabling flowed to the left.

    Okay. All that above looks the way I want it to look.
    If any of you casually (or seriously) collect business cards, Carol O'Dell's is a treasure. It features a reproduction of the book cover, which is eye catchingly bold.

"They can just wait." --2nd to last para, page 25
    Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't highlight until this late in the book.
    This appears in a passage in which Ms. O'Dell is describing how physically slow her mother has become, especially in regard to parking lot traffic. She doesn't take it well. I imagine most don't, but, funny, I've become an avocational observer of others tending to Ancient Ones in public and haven't noticed any overt embarrassment, but, then, I'm not embarrassed; I actually relish stopping traffic for my mother. This is a quirk of past fate, though. I became enamored, at an early age, of the British and Australian sailors who frequented downtown (then) Agana, now Hagatna, Guam when they docked. They were bold with the indigenous, wild traffic on Marine Drive. Without hesitation, they'd nudge themselves between moving vehicles, hold up their hands and pass themselves or pass others. I can't imagine why I idolized this behavior, but I remember cataloguing it as a personal future accomplishment. Thus, caring for my mother helped me achieve this goal. I make a big splash out of the process...often directing my mother as though I'm holding long-lensed flashlights and directing planes down runways. She always stops and giggles when I do this, primarily because our family shares a private airport joke in which Mom is the pivot. I boldly go where caregivers swarm ahead of me, into the safety zone, catching the eye of every sitting driver, playing The Knightess in Shining Armor. I developed the outlandish behavior in order to communicate with Phoenix metroplex traffic, which is particularly aggressive, especially in the summer and even more especially in parking lots.
    Further, I revel in her slowing down. In supermarkets (which she rarely frequents, anymore, but I have hopes) she continues to stubbornly adventure into unremembered aisles and have a great time. She continues to exhibit a lack of concern when she and I get separated. "I don't worry about it," she says. "I just sit down and know you'll find me."
    I probably exhibit more anxiety than she does. It's important to note, here, that she carries no purse, no personal belongings of any sort except basic identification, obviously so, thus she is not a target, except for passers-by with whom she invariably strikes up lucid conversations.
    She and I, both, retain pleasant memories of "going to the store", although we've had 'our visits', believe me, often involving shit, sometimes involving sudden loss of muscular strength and will. My mother, though, continues to believe that she has been "to the store" "only last week". I like this aspect of her dementia.

"I have this theory:"
    Ms. O'Dell expounds, here, on her theory on what happens when people age; and why. I remember highlighting this because it struck me that her theories and mine are different. I wonder if all elder caregivers create whimsical explanations for aging and dying. My feeling is that the professionals who care for care recipients should pay more attention to caregiver reverie about aging and their own parent's aging.
    I now understand something: we are what we are; the only way we can add to ourselves is by experiencing something powerful enough to alter our belief system. If Mother were naturally trusting, she would continue to trust. But since fear has become so entwined, it's now a part of her concentrated self and must play itself out to the end. --last paragraph, page 27
    In regard to this, I affirm what she says. My mother is naturally trusting, and does, indeed, continue to trust. She is also proactive and this has, happily, played in service of "her end". She realized, long before she needed caregiving, that she needed companionship of a stable variety on which she could count through the rest of her life. This is not uncommon for people to realize. What is uncommon is for someone to reverse her previous positions on elder care and solicit companionship from a family member. This is what my mother did. Her proactivity ensured that her aging would not divorce her world from that of her family. Of course, I could have refused. I considered it. At the time my mother asked me, I had no personal druthers about nursing homes, assisted living facilities, etc., was unconcerned that my mother might utilize these facilities, had vague, gauzy day-dreamettes about what it would be like visiting my mother at her "facility". At the time our journey commenced, my mother was still bounded to the gills with financial protection, should facility care become necessary and desired. I think both of us assumed that at least part of our journey would be distanced by some sort of live-in facility. All that reversed itself later, as our bond developed. My mother has a stoic streak (not martyrdom) and would, in fact, be a good candidate for facility care from this perspective. She can, and will, handle anything thrown her way. She clearly voiced her preferences, though, as time went on. Keeping her at home, her home, as it turns out, which is always, fundamentally, my home, didn't sort itself out as an exacted promise, it developed as a commitment to my mother, my acceptance of my ultimate vulnerability and our shared journey. I approach her final days with anticipation, and wonder what new theories they will provoke.
    My father played out his fears in his death; right up to the end, as I understand. I'm sorry I missed his last days, although I have a unique and thorough understanding of his life which has allowed the question of cross-forgiveness to be moot between us.

"I realize that maybe it's Mother--she's losing her social skills." --2nd paragraph, pg 32
    I'd noticed my mother's world becoming much cozier over the last several years, but I hadn't thought of it, until now, as "losing...social skills", although this is certainly what happens, rather like muscular atrophy. My mother was superficially social, though, and deeply family oriented. As well, her dementia keeps her occupied with frequent visitors. I don't use this as an excuse, but it comes in handy for someone (me) who isn't company oriented.

"Too bad I can't get her a tiara out of the glove compartment." --5th paragraph, pg 33
    I was astonished that someone else had these thoughts about their mother, noticing the queenishness to the point of considering tiaras. I actually bought my mother one and used it for awhile. Her hair won't take it, now, but her attitude remains tiara-ed.

"Mother presses a dollar a whole dollar, into the woman's hand."
    My mother, too, has a tipping quirk. She continues to remember her stint waitressing through school, when "a nickel was a good tip". I took over the tipping, along with all cash handling, pretty early on. I also decided to make this into a lesson for her, so I always discuss the issue of tipping. She has, since, become somewhat more generous in her tipping considerations. She was scandalized, in fact, when we received intransigently horrible service at one restaurant so I refused to tip; then had a rather large problem corrected at another restaurant, including "free" dessert, and left a profuse tip. She still has her standards.
    To catch them all up here, one of the hilarious frequent interludes is her mother's propensity for handing service people "$25". Toward the end of the book these repetitions had me "laughing", which I noted in the margin.

"As hard as this is, I'm not in a hurry to get to the dying part." --2nd para, pg 38
    Neither am I. I seem to, in fact, look for excuses for my mother to have to live a little longer; and I inform her of them, exact pacts from her.

"I'm not sure why I feel embarrassment for what my mother says or does, but I do. Control issues, no doubt." --last sentence, pg 41 - 1st sentence, pg 42
    This is one of the highlighted passages that led me to write, earlier, about Ms. O'Dell's control issues in contrast with mine.

"For years she could out-work me, out-walk me and out-talk me. Now she can't even out-eat me." --9th para, pg 42
    I highlighted this because I remember being intrigued by the idea of competition with one's mother being a factor in caring for one's mother. I don't remember ever comparing myself to my mother (I'm sure I did sub and unconsciously) or feeling as though I was in competition with her.

"I have to treat her like a two-year-old, not giving in to her fickle emotions, her present-day likes and dislikes, or moods that change on a whim. When I revert back to letting her be the mother, we both regret it." --3rd para, pg 48
    This is one of the primary reasons why I am glad I was not a mother before caring for my mother. When my mother appears to exhibit what Ms. O'Dell labels two-year-old behavior, I don't think of it as such. I think of it as my mother's behavior at whatever age she happens to be at that time. I think this allows for flexibility of outlook, although it is also true that, because of lack of experience, I am not inclined to look at my mother's behavior through a mother's eyes.

"She sounds like a scolded little kid. I feel bad about the reprimand, but when she's wrong and she wants to get out of it, she does her little girl thing. I hate to admit it, but this one's in my own bag of manipulative tricks, and Philip hates it." --last sentence, pg 48, through 1st para, pg 49
    My mother is particularly non-manipulative. So are her daughters. We have our tricks, but they are more pleasant for everyone involved and we don't flinch or fight back when we're caught. We're smooth. We learned this from my mother. When I read about such interactions, above, I thank all the gods having anything to do with motherhood for my mother.

"Lessons" --pgs 51-52
    Interesting muse about how slow is the process of taking out (no pun intended; probably not appropriate) an Ancient One; and what is the value of making the effort to making sure Ancients mix with society.

"High Heels" --pgs 52-54
    Contains a consideration of elderly beauty, while constrasting this with elderly physical reality.

"She has the strongest will of anyone I know, and I'm of the belief that will has a substantial say-so when it comes to longevity." --5th para, pg 56
    How many times have I heralded my mother's will in these journals? I wonder if will becomes stronger as we age, whether we want it to or not...a "natural" adaptation to extend a life-span, in nature's inimitable "Just for fun, let's see how far we can take this one," way. Ms. O'Dell mentioning this caused me to reflect on all the caregivers for parents who have extolled the sturdiness of an Ancient One's will.

"What would you do if I were your Mother?" --7th para, pg 57
    A physician actually told me, unsolicited, what he would do if it were his mother, in the case of an elective bone marrow biopsy; then, later, denied what I had noted.

    I have some "software ready for installation", which includes a rebooting. I'm going to check on Mom and see if she has intentions of "sleeping in" today. She was up until almost 0200 this morning, so she may. I may be back in a Part 2 shortly...then again...

I just finished...

2007-06-23T00:16:00.001-07:00

...Mothering Mother. As I was finishing the book, I recalled a poem I first read when I was in junior high:

    This Is Just to Say
    by William Carlos Williams

      I have eaten
      the plums
      that were in
      the icebox

      and which
      you were probably
      saving
      for breakfast

      Forgive me
      they were delicious
      so sweet
      and so cold

William Carlos Williams, "This is Just to Say" from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume I, 1909-1939, edited by Christopher MacGowan. Copyright © 1938, 1944, 1945 by New Directions Publishing Corporation.

    I found the poem in an anthology in our school library. I was so thrilled with it I looked my best friend up in the library and insisted that she read it.
    As we sat silently side by side at a formica table contemplating the poem, she whispered the following joke to me: "What do you get when you run a bird over with a lawn mower? Shredded Tweet."
    We both exploded into laughter and were excused from the library for the rest of the period. Her reaction to the poem, her in-exchange offer and being kicked out of the library for laughing strengthened our frienship beyond measure. Somehow, as I close this book, I feel as though I've just spent yet another intimate session in the library with Cynthia, sharing thought provoking poems, silence, horribly funny jokes, laughter and a touch of scandal.
    More...
    ...later.

I usually, with a bit of thought, know the day of the week.

2007-06-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

    I sometimes know the day of the month, although often, when I think I know it, I'm a day or two behind. I always know the month, and the year. I also have a sense of connection throughout my days so that I know if I'm awakening from a nap into "today" or if I've slipped past the date line and "today" is "tomorrow". I mention this because Mom's been especially tired, today, probably winding down from the visit, about which she continues to talk. She's taking her second nap as I type. It's been a long one and I haven't interfered. I know she's rousing because The Little Girl has exited her bedroom, which she does when Mom becomes restless in bed just before arising. The Little Girl isn't in the hall, though, just outside of Mom's bedroom. She's in the meatloaf position in the foyer, half way between Mom and me. So she's expected Mom to take awhile to rouse. When Mom arises, I'm expecting her to think it's tomorrow morning, even though the digital clock clearly says "8:12", it's dark out and I think Mom is aware of the season, now. We'll have a light hearted argument about what day of the week it is and what hour of the day, thus, what we should be doing. She won't believe me. We may end up having breakfast tonight for dinner, although I'm hoping we'll have chicken quesedillas.
    I managed to take care of most errands, the important ones, anyway, that require business office access, today. I've got a few early things to do tomorrow morning, but I think it will be a laid back weekend.
    Costco is no longer selling the Convair Millenia Advantage, or any other truly portable evaporative cooler. That's okay. Despite a hot weekend in the valley, it's been nice here, inside and out. Haven't gotten Mom out, yet. We've had a spate of very windy days. She looks out the living room psuedo cathedral windows, watches the top of our bird shit tree flail for a minute or so, shivers and says, "No thanks. You can go out. I'll watch from in here."
    Life has been good, busy, yes, but easy, syrupy. We aren't getting in each other's way, either. It's nice.
    Later.

Errands, today...

2007-06-22T09:28:00.001-07:00

...as many as I can get in. That's why I'm up so early, despite going to bed early this morning. I can't remember how much these evaporative coolers cost. I'm hoping they will still carry them at Costco, which is where we purchased the original. They are designed to cool "300 sq ft". When aimed down a hall and pulling air from a shady back yard, coupled with a window a/c in the living room, they are incredibly efficient. However, this recent repair, which can be done at home and requires a cheap part, shows me that having two would not be out of the way. When both are working, we might be more comfortable, on dry hot days, using evaporative cooling from both ends of the house, and it would cut our energy bill. In the meantime, before getting the part, the pump is lagging, but the house is remaining comfortable.
    Reading Mothering Mother has evoked an awareness of (shared) history regarding my life with my mother. I wince, now, at certain vignettes when I realize that Carol spent only a fraction of her mother's last years with her. I think this length of time, alone, accounts for a difference in our perspectives. As well, I haven't yet noted more than one comment about menopause, and that was reference to a specific hot foot symptom. In retrospect, I believe my own journey through menopause had a huge effect on how my journey with my mother has gone. Once that was fairly well under control, lots of stuff evened out. Had my journey with my mother, though, ended while I was peri-menopausal but unaware of it, I might not have this retro-perspective. It is ironic to me that my mother's and maternal grandmother's menopause-s [Hmmm...is that correct?] were barely notable and less mentioned. My mother, now, believes she has not yet gone through menopause and finds it astonishing that I am on the (much relieved) other end. Before menopause began I somehow had the notion that my experience would follow in my mother's footsteps. It did not. My father's genetics came through, to which I owe more than half a share. Family history on that side tells tales of extremely trying symptom-filled years, including at least one stay for one relative in the state looney bin. Further, mania during this period is common. Although it took me awhile to realize it, it was imperative to the quality of our shared journey that I control my menopause. So, I did. Almost successfully. The St. John's Wort, I think is the final brush up while I'm weaning myself off Black Cohosh. Those little herbs have been a godsend for me. I further believe that many caregivers, caught up awares or unawares in a peri-menopausal stage, think that caregiving to an elderly relative is causing stresses that are actually caused by hormonal fluctuations.
    I love being on the other side of menopause and knowing my mother as intimately as I do. This is one of the peculiarities and blessings of our situation: That she called me into it early in her elder years, so I was there through everything. I'm getting the sense from other writing caregivers that it's much easier to live with it all when you get it as a part of an already balanced, mutually kind, resourceful, long actively nurturing relationship. However, I understand, absolutely, how that could be hard to do with someone with whom one has been locked in an early domineering, abusive relationship. I am occasionally popping in on a fascinating story at Daily Strength of a woman who is caring for her mother-in-law who is sociopathic, always has been, probably always will be, and hates her daughter-in-law. Her's is a perplexing story. She's found the necessity for developing a highly evolved detachment to the situation, with the help of therapy sessions. I highly suspect this situation will be resolved through moving the MIL into a facility. It's a volatile one, all right! In the meantime, every time I read a new journal entry about her situation, I am reminded of "Caine" in the Kung Fu series and am prompted to think, "You, SunshineShady, no longah grasshoppah..."
    Relationships. It seems to boil down to relationships. I mentioned this to a very good, very long term friend of mine here in Prescott. She has six (I think) children. She and I were talking, one afternoon, about caregiving, in general. She and her husband moved her mother into their home for the last years of her life. The conversational turn began when I mentioned something about making sure to get my mother's tabloids.
    Nervous laughter from my friend. "My mother always wanted me to get her some of those. I never did. I used to tell her they were silly and she was above them."
    I laughed. "Boy, I'd never get in the house with that attitude!"
    Her voice softened. "That's the one thing I regret," she said, "not letting her have her magazines. It was so petty of me."
    That's when we started talking about the influence of relationships on child-parent caregiving. I mused to her that, although my survey is by no means scientific, I'm noticing that the quality of the fundamental relationship between the two (or more) people involved and its level of perceived intransigence probably accounts a lot for the quality of the caregiving. "I've noticed," I said, "that the more contentious and distant is one's relationship with one's parent, the more unresolved issues between the two, the more likely the parent is going to spend some time, always at the end of life, in a facility."
    My friend expressed interest. "Maybe I ought to address the subject of relationships with my children, see if there are any unresolved issues or feelings and see if we can't resolve them."
    I've since thought this is one of the most open-minded approaches to the possible need for "Ancient One" care and the desire to receive it "within the bosom of family". Good idea to see if your family is interested and, if ambivalent, why so. I'm not sure I would have the courage to do such a thing.
    I've since asked her about her progress. Although she is not forthcoming with details, she tells me, "...it's been interesting..." and "...nothing that's surprised me, so far..."
    This seems optimistic.
    My mother and I never did this. Never thought of it. We did, however, remain in unusually close touch throughout my adult life, shared interests and reveled in each other's adventures. We even had some adventures of our own. I'm sure we had "issues", but, because we kept up communication, they ironed themselves out, mostly. There were a few that needed work after we took up housekeeping together: One in particular, involved her mild tendency to belittle people socially, primarily those to whom she is closest. I confronted her on it, but she was less demented, then, and we are used to correcting one other's relationship foibles, usually immediately. This is a relationship that is built up over time...as is a destructive sociopathic relationship, or a vaguely abusive (relative to the time), tyrannical parent-child relationship history. So, I've discovered, are smaller relationship sins, like an inability to drop manipulative behavior; the inability to believe in the dynamics of relationship.
    It's hard. I guess I should hit the trail. I'd better make a list.
    Later.

The fan and the pump share one motor...

2007-06-21T18:18:00.000-07:00

...in our portable room evaporative cooler. The fan belt is loose, thus the pump is doing a poor job of pumping water up to the top of the pad. I think I've cleaned out the line. The belt is just loose so power has dropped. I should get a replacement with instructions sometime next week. For some reason, though, while the Phoenix metroplex is experiencing some near record heat, it's not been too bad here. Better than tolerable, with the front room a/c during the day and half cooling power from the evaporative cooler. It's been very dry, lately, so is cools significantly from sundown on. It's during this time that our increased elevation just from downtown Prescott drops the temperature. I guess the thing is, we don't have an urban heat island effect up here, thank the gods.
    Everyone comments on how "nice" this house is, how nice its lay on its land is. The electrician fell in love with the property immediately. Everyone does. There is something peculiarly beta about this place, right here.
    I've been tardy in visiting...forgive me. It's been busy here. I'm surprised I've found time to write here, but I've sought time to write here to the exclusion of other things, lately.
    The second to the last part of Carol O'Dell's book is a description of her mother's death. I'm looking forward to this. I have imagined my mother's death and its effect on me, my mother and everyone I know. Mom has only vaguely imagined her death. Although I possess books, about which I've intro-written here, about death, aging and death, etc., I haven't read them. I've scanned them all, though. It's a matter of time clashing with timelessness...
    Maybe I can get a short nap in before Mom awakens from her's...
    ...maybe not, though, considering how much caffeine is sloshing through me...
    ...later...

An electrician is due today...

2007-06-21T09:23:00.001-07:00

...to install a new ceiling fan + lights fixture and rewire our utility closet so I have access to the light through a switch. I expect the latter to take longer than the former, although you never know.
    I can't seem to get going this morning. I have a little chest congestion. Things are blooming out there, and I continue to bend over dirt and flowering plants in our yard, although I'm getting discouraged by the pack rats. So, the congestion could be from almost anything.
    I expect I'll be assembling the last of the peach pies today. Mom has decided we should bake it, not freeze it, which is fine. If she wants another piece or two, we can always freeze the bulk of the baked pie in individual slices. I'll be using 3.5 lbs of peaches this time, so I'll be increasing the sugar and the quick cooking tapioca, and probably the nutmeg and almond extract. The crust baked perfectly on the first; firm but so flaky it practically melted in your mouth. I think the second crust may be a little on the wet side, so it might be a bit tough, but we'll see. I must remember to check the pie at about 15 minutes intervals to catch the advance browning of the fluting and stop it with aluminum foil. I'd like to scatter walnuts in the filling. Mom isn't so sure about that. I'm sure she'll be up when I assemble and bake the pie. I wonder whether it will have walnuts.
    I should be taking the evaporative cooler apart and testing the motor and pump belt. I don't have it in me, though, this morning, and probably won't if at least half the pad is cooling the air. This is the unit's third summer. I imagine the pump motor and/or the belt could use replacement. Today's Friday, so it would behoove me to do this today. But, I probably won't. I should probably get Mom up about 11:00. It'll be easy. That way, just before the electrician comes, she'll have a legitimate choice about whether to supervise or nap. Today I have no druthers. My only concern is having time to empty the utility closet shelves onto the table after breakfast.
    I've been slowly increasing her lisinopril dosage to four 10 mg tablets a day. This was suggested by the doctor. It took me awhile to figure out that, instead of giving her two pills at once, which zonks her, I can give her 1.5 in the morning, one at dinner, and 1.5 just before she retires. We accomplished the full schedule about a week ago. She's a little hazy but it's hard to tell whether that's because of the lisinopril or the advancing heat. Anyway, this reminds me, I need to update the med schedule. That gives me a reason to wander over to The Dailies.
    Maybe I can get in a cat nap before she awakens. Or a second cup of coffee. Probably the latter.
    Later.

The peach pie, Gail...

2007-06-21T02:10:00.000-07:00

...don't forget to talk about the peach pie!
Even...
...later.

I have a vague desire to write...

2007-06-21T01:55:00.001-07:00

...and no vague desire to do anything else, including reading. It's not easy for me to read caregiver books, the genre of which Mothering Mother is a prime, and good, example. Perhaps it was simply a bad introduction to The Literature, perhaps it's me, but I hate being told how to do what I'm doing if I haven't been observed doing it. I continue to contend, as well, that I am much better off having not been motherized previous to joining my mother.
    However poorly read I am in the genre of caregiving books, I have to admit it's a burgeoning industry. At latest count, Amazon delivers 557 listings alone for the "books" category when you search "caregiving"+"elderly". I arranged the list in order of best reviewed. I then searched out item number 278 as the beginning of the second half...just to see how many of the listings were more than pamphlets, readily available, etc. Item number 278, at the time of this posting, is Engaging Theories in Family Communication: Multiple Perspectives, an erudite, well reviewed book about family communication dynamics. Looks very interesting and scholarly.
    Over the last three months I've stumbled across two online journalizing caregivers who are actively seeking publication of their caregiving material and continuing to actively give care to the recipients about which they have written. One is an excellent writer. Another is technically rough but has some very interesting perspectives to offer. Both expect to be published soon; describe their intended books in much the same way, although they are offering strikingly different experiences and voices; feel they have something to offer to the genre (and, they may be right, I'm not that familiar with the genre); each considers that she has a noteworthy bead on the truth and a polished but no-holds-barred way of telling it.
    Over the last couple of years I've known several online caregiver journalists who have mentioned the possibility of their caregiver material being published. Because I'm picky about the journals I regularly visit, they are all excellent writers with well developed senses of style and, in many cases, previous publishing experience; they often, as well, say interesting things in unique ways.
    I've lightly considered the possibilities of publishing, always when someone suggests it to me, although I did not begin thinking I wasn't being published. Online, free publication was, for a long time, enough for me. Truth is, though, I see the market is already well covered, more are elbowing into it every day and, although I like to think I have something unique to say, I'm not sure I have enough, anymore, considering the material that's out there.
    That having been said, I'm very much enjoying Carol D. O'Dell's book. I'm on page 74. The vignettes are well organized, thoughtful, provocative, sometimes inspired, always easy to read...and I couldn't help but come to the conclusion, after beginning this particular caregiver book, each and every journey is so incredibly different. Do you remember the lesson I enclosed in a previous post discussing that the older we become, the more diverse our peer group becomes, thus the aged live in the most diverse peer group of all? There are commonalities of experience, some of which are being addressed in books in which caregivers talk about caring for someone afflicted with Alzheimer's and/or Parkinson's and or one of many other neurological illnesses. There is also a lot of frank writing about care recipients who are either sociopathic or socially neurotic, at least. Not much frank writing about caring for the easy going, like my mother, probably because the easy going experiences are directly the result, I think, of two things: An easy going environment with low conflict and an easy going relationship between caregiver and care recipient...well, there's frank talk out there, but it's not as dramatic.
    I can't say, at this point, and may not ever be able to say whether this book extends the genre, helps redefine it, or anything about it's possible place in the genre, since I don't read much of the genre. What I can say is that I'm highlighting a word here, a phrase here, a heading here, that have turned my head and often evoked recollections of something I've written in my journals. I am, as usual, astonished at the volatility of the relationship between the mother and daughter and, as well, the volatility of the mother's command of the household. I can say immediately, too, that the control issue O'Dell dealt with in regard to caring for her mother is exactly the opposite of the control issue I dealt with; although our solutions were not opposing solutions. She went in assuming full control and found herself having to inch backward. I went in refusing to want to control anything and found myself having to inch forward to almost full control. I have to agree with her that the way I approached it was much less stressful than the way she approached it, even though my strategy was a thoughtless accident (as was O'Dell's). It has certainly been easy on my mother's and my relationship. It's easy to see that the same is not true of O'Dell's strategy.
    Anyway, I'll be writing more about the book as I go. I'm in a bit of a panic to read it and go on to finishing another library book due on the 25th. I may end up renewing that one, and I've got three others in the wings, all of which are reading-out-loud books...and another making its way to the wings, for research purposes only, though...just a section of that one will be accessed...
    ...I'm finally settling down.
    Later.

"ear lavage" "how often"

2007-06-20T19:01:00.001-07:00

    These were the search words that brought someone to my site earlier today. I have an answer: My mother's doctor told me, for my mother, whose ears have a tendency to dirty relatively easily and, being as how her hearing has been challenged since childhood with two ear lancings, are sensitive, as well, once a month, if I remember it. I probably do it about once every six weeks. She finds the procedure uncomfortable but not painful. I usually do it just before she goes down for a nap or night sleep. It's preferable to administer it before night sleep, since she tends to roll both ways when sleeping at night and both ears are encouraged to drain. Now, this is purely chemical lavage: The use of Debrox, which, so far, continues to successfully drain out on its own for my mother. I have not yet had to perform water-bulb lavage. She has had this done (on the page to which the visitor was directed) about a year and a half ago, the second of two, the first having been done maybe two years before the second, but not since, although the doctor checks her ears every time we go.
    A visitor clicked in, yesterday, after having searched "dismemberment dream". Here's where they were directed. That was two and a half years ago. I can't remember when I last experienced a problem with my compassion cricked thumb. That happened looong before the St. John's Wort, though. I'm not sure what happened: Either I became more compassionate (doubtful) or I became less concerned with my compassion status and just did myself through what was necessary, raw. Much more likely the latter. But, at least, I'm not putting my thumb in the way inappropriately, anymore, which is probably a step toward compassion.
    The Mom's up.
    Later.

I'm feeling a flurry of posts coming on.

2007-06-20T10:48:00.000-07:00

    I hope I find some time to work on them while I'm feeling writing and publishing friendly. I hope this flurry of energy involves finishing drafts. They cover so many months that I'm afraid I'll temporarily miss some.
    Mom so enjoyed yesterday that she talked about it all evening, interspersed with silent reveries and pleasurable grins. I'm not sure which experience was more enjoyable for me; the actual experience or watching and listening to her digest it. She had no confusion with who was there, and who wasn't. At points, as I was rubbing her legs down (always a period of free-form thought, for her, which could be considered sharper because of her dementia but it's exactly the same state you and I experience while being massaged and is always a little touched by light-headedness), she'd confirm with me that, "...now, Linda wasn't here, was she..." and (bless her queenish little heart), "...now, this wasn't my birthday celebration, was it..." (although I hope her birthday celebration and any visits that take place during that time are at least as felicitous as yesterday's get together).
    When reminded that she will shortly turn 90, she thought about this and announced that she was actually turning 89, her birthday was in 1918. I'm not sure where she got that, but I think it was just a minor blip. I hope so. Spouting her birthday is crucial to many business interactions. I think, too, she's a little daunted by "90", even though her parents saw themselves well into that decade.
    Mom and O[ur]P[rescott]F[riend] had an involved conversation about how her short, casually curled, shagged hair made her look younger. I quickly adjusted my vision and had to agree...it makes her look as though her energy is available to her. It is, usually, but in a slightly different, hmmm...way, I guess, than with Those of Us Who are Younger. Funny, I have a memory of trying to explain that we had to change hair styles because the spray and heavy duty setting and styling lotions had begun to irritate her scalp something fierce. OPF waved away my explanation...wasn't necessary. The results speak for themselves.
    Mr. Man was, once again, as usual, a hit. He loved his way into everyone's hearts. This pleased Mom. She like to be master of inviting pets and children. When she learned further, though, that The Little Girl was repeating her typical sociopathic interactions, she was surprisingly astonished and regretful. She even said at one point, "Maybe we should consider getting rid of that cat." I won't allow this, though, and she knows it. The Little Girl is a reflection of my own somewhat sociopathic personality. She guards my (and our) sense of privacy. But, she is, sadly, treacherous, with company. Even I find myself shocked and her behavior into scolding her "in public", which she hates. She's a touchy cat, but lovable within her pack, and expresses something of Mom's and my ticklishness and clubbishness, here.
    We're going to try to engineer a weekend get together in either late June or July (the details are still hazy), the overweening project to be going through the contents of the shed, the supervisory position to be occupied by Mom. She and I are both excited about this and so, to, are our friends. So, by the time Mom's birthday rolls around, we will have experienced at least two weekends of heightened social activity. Social exercise works as well as (or, sometimes better than) physical activity. But, not too much. Mom can get easily confused, now, if visits are packed in tightly, and she'll take out her worries in her dreams, which means almost constantly occupying The Dead Zone for a number of days.
    Just prior to the visit, tantalized by the smell of a 6 lb crate of peaches, I decided to make from-scratch peach pies. I'll record the experience, because it yielded an amazing peach pie and will be yielding one more today, over at the food section of this site. When it's written, I'll link back to here. It won't be one of those "quick 'n easy" recipes. This is serious pie making, folks, but pies are easy to make. To give you a quick taste, much to my surprise and delight, the filling tasted like European tarts, which I love (typically glazed fruit that hasn't been cooked, or cooked too long, in additional sugar). I left the peelings on the peaches. The flavor was deep and pure peach. The crust was almost perfect. I'm going to adjust a few things, bake it with ripe peaches, this time (although the crate was fragrant, it was full of premature peaches, although this seemed to make no difference to the sweetness of the pie). At that point, I'll report back in the final recipe, prepared to delineate all it's stages and surprises.
    At the moment, since I have some quiet time, I have some reading to do. Mothering Mother is intriguing enough to hold my oft divided and snagged interest. That's a point (perhaps a crucial point) in its favor. Don't have much of an opinion yet, though.
    I'll probably be back...
    ...later.

The verdict is in.

2007-06-20T01:17:00.001-07:00

    I am more pleasantly social and enjoy my socializing more on St. John's Wort. The difference was noticeable. The friends who visited had mentioned a few weeks ago that I sound "great", which I clearly hadn't the last time we'd been with them in December; although I certainly enjoyed myself last year at Christmas. It was a rather abrupt holiday, though and I was self-satisfactorily abrupt with it.
    Everyone was in good spirits, including Mom. Perhaps that's part of the social trick of St. John's Wort: It drapes everything in gauze. Seemed to work for everyone today, though.
    Mom didn't arise as early as she thought she would, although I called her every half hour from her "break point", which she chose as 0900. She was, though, was up well before noon. Short bath...she was excited to get to company. Eccentric eating, her favorite type, all day, including for supper. Last night she requested that I boil an egg for this morning, but not to bother with the bacon, as she would just have "peach pie [home made, by me, it was delicious and beautiful] and an egg," for breakfast. Her final decision was that the egg "wasn't necessary". I went with it. For lunch she had some baked corn chips and a hearty, garlicky salsa. For dinner she had a roasted chicken croissant sandwich, some more chips and salsa and we finished up the peach pie.
    I suppose I should start taking stats again. Just for the record.

    Although my friends and I spent most of our time while Mom slept wandering around the yard, front and back, once Mom was up we were all stationed in the dinette and living room for most of the visit. The younger of the friends discovered both the stamping kit and card making kit and set about to spend some time designing a couple of cards. My mother looked on with interest and enthusiasm at what could be done with "her" kits; but didnt deign to join, even when encouraged. The episode was like all those evenings when my born in to family was together and my mother would experiment, using us kids and our friends, with new art and creative media she was considering using in the classroom. I would guess that there were at least two projects every three weeks. Somehow the neighborhood would be alerted and friends would stop by for the evening. Truth be told, an assortment of neighborhood kids were usually at our house every night of the week. Our home, although, as most homes, treacherous, to some extent, to it's children, as much more kid friendly than most homes in any area in which we lived, probably because my mother and, ambivalently, my father, loved hosting a kid friendly home and loved kids.
    Mom would explain as much as she knew about that night's medium, provide all the materials and tools necessary/available and we'd have at it. Sometimes she'd join in but mostly she'd observe and supervise, as she would be, directing these activities in the classroom. The similarity between today and these long ago evenings was so strong I even mentioned and described them while company was here. Everyone beamed.

    Mom does do well for an audience...although she was clearly exhausted and tired this evening. I think she took a two hour nap after they left. I admit to having taken a nap, too. The house is ready to close up, though. I am ready for bed.

    I'm reading a book sent to me by one of my sisters, one that was mentioned to me by a reader a couple of weeks prior to my sister sending the book, out of the blue. It took me a day to get into it, but I am, now. My curiosity was piqued because of the title: Mothering Mother. If you're a fairly regular reader, you know how I feel about what the title implies. I will be writing about the book, probably soon...it's not very long or dense and is designed in a series of short vignettes arranged what I imagine may have been intuitively, almost like flash fiction; designed for caregivers: Easy to pick up and put down. I think I've read a little over 60 pages of this short book. I timed myself reading the vignettes: About 1 to 1.5 minutes apiece. Very thoughtfully produced.
    The reader admitted to mentioning the book to me because of the title, my "known" leanings in this area, thus is interested to see what I think of the book. I was waiting for it to arrive at our library when one of my sisters sent it to me, autographed by the author, with whom she talked on her lunch hour during Carol O'Dell's book tour, which happened to alight at the bookstore wherein MFS is employed. I don't know how widely it will sell or how well it will eventually be reviewed by "the critics". From the way I'm reacting to the book and the impressions I'm having, I can't say I'll review the book, although I will write about it when I'm done. It's a first edition, hard cover, autographed copy. My sister and others know how I covet such books. So far so, hmmm...well, it's interesting, and well written.
    Despite today's nap, I'm ready for bed.
    Later.

In Our Infinite Wisdom

2007-06-11T19:26:00.001-07:00

    Mom and I went news surfing again tonight. One of the news programs at which we landed was ABC World News with Charles Gibson. One of the stories was about the 63 million dollar boondoggle of an airplane still being supported by us through congress, despite the fact that the Pentagon long ago pronounced the project a failure. It was immediately followed by a very short mention of today's Supreme Court ruling in the case of Long Island Care at Home vs. Coke (this link is to a search for articles on a website which discuss the merits of the case) that home health care workers are not entitled to overtime pay or minimum wage.
    Isn't that interesting? We, as a country, are willing to throw away millions of dollars on an airplane in which even the military has no confidence, all because Anthony DuPont, president of DuPont Aerospace (El Cajon, CA), who designed and continues to work on the craft, is a campaign contributor to at least a couple of congressmen. But, you know, grant minimum wage and overtime pay to a 73 year old retired home health care worker who worked in the field for 20 years and consistently went the extra mile for her charges, let alone do so for all home health care workers? Nah...this woman, and home health care workers in general, are not major campaign contributors. A ruling like this would bankrupt our businessmen! Hell...do these employees even exist?
    Interesting: Although I was unable to locate an online bio indicating Mr. Anthony DuPont's age, from the video of him in the news story he looks to be in his 60's. He's not too far away from the eventuality of needing to hire home health care workers to take care of him (unless he's very lucky and dies before old age or a devastating illness grabs hold of him). I wonder what he's planning on doing at that time: Hop into the animated version of his Aircraft DP2 and expatriate to a country that is kinder to and more aware of its home health care workforce?
    Just wondering.
    My audience might be interested to know that I am not officially classified as a "Home Health Care Worker". I'm not even officially classified as "unemployed", which actually delights me, since I am not unemployed, but I am employed unofficially, off the charts, as are millions like me. Thus, the Supreme Court's highly questionable and infuriating ruling, today, would not have affected me from an employment perspective. It probably will never affect me from an employment perspective because I'm not about to ever hire myself out as a "Home Health Care Worker"...for reasons which should be obvious to you if you've read even a little of my journals. However, it certainly will affect all of us, deleteriously, in the future, when we need Home Health Care. Want to know why it's so hard to find compassionate, reliable, worry free home health care? Want to know why it will become even harder in the future? Ask our Supreme Court. Then, remember that in this country we have a little considered but oft touted belief that "we" are the government...and ask yourself.
    Later.

I'm thinking with a stutter, tonight...

2007-06-07T01:37:00.000-07:00

...but it seems important to me to update, so, here I am, stutter and all.
    Quite a bit of my absence here has been due to the unusual success of our yard work and the necessity for continuing maintenance that it's produced. I'm loving it. We now have a nicely brick-delineated dirt walkway through the west side of our front yard for my mother. The walkway will, in short order, be surrounded by a profuse mini-field of perennial wildflowers which should mature in a year or so as they die back and reseed over the winter months. I've harvested and transplanted, from various easement properties around town, two more bird-shirt trees, which should begin to look like trees next year and should really be trees the following year. We are successfully keeping the javelina and deer away from our roses, glads, fruit trees and our lone tomato plant by scattering garlic oil concentrate granules which work so well I think I may simply plant garlic around everything...and basil, spearmint and wild onions. Seems critters of all types avoid the last three, as well. Our yard work this year is so successful and I'm getting such a kick out of the required daily maintenance that a couple of days ago I exacted a promise from Mom that she must live for at least two more years in order to see this season's work mature.
    Her response was twofold: "Don't worry, I'm not planning on going anywhere," and, "Can I live longer than two years if I want?!?"
    Recently, I learned, through a friend, of a medication, Provigil, that I thought might be valuable in shaving back my mother's prodigious sleep habits. After research I realized that, because of her renal failure and possible interactions with the sulfonylurea she takes for her diabetes, it's not appropriate. Never phased, I decided to do further research and it seems there aren't any stay-awake medications which aren't contraindicated for her either by dint of her CRF, her anemia, her diabetes or her personal brands of CHF and COPD.
    After a couple of days of unusual lack of energy, Mom bounced out of bed yesterday before noon and hit me with, "It seems I'm the only one of the Smith tribe left." She was referring to her born into family. I confirmed this and we discussed what it's like to be "the only remaining..." She confirmed my long held suspicions that it's "like living in a completely different world." I remember once describing to someone that losing one of my siblings to death would seem to me as though awakening one morning to discover the sky was red instead of blue. She agreed that's rather what it's like. This evening, though, she's back where she was, wondering if I'd heard anything from "Dad" (I didn't bother asking, as I usually do, which "Dad") and trying to get me to confirm what she remembers that he "said last week", that he'd be "back sometime this week". I just told her that I wasn't in on the conversation. "I thought you were," she said, but was satisfied. So, I guess we're waiting for "Dad" to appear.
    Her mental backslide into The Dead Zone could have something to do with the day I engineered today. I awoke with the desire to do nothing but eat, eliminate and sleep. That's it. I pretty much achieved my goal and am a little discombobulated as a result, but I guess I needed the sleep. I didn't eat as much as I wanted, probably because I slept as much as I needed, but I did eliminate sufficiently, I guess, since I didn't pee in bed! That's a relief! Mom, of course, was thrilled that I slept so much, as this meant that she was also allowed to sleep as much as she wanted...well, almost. I disallowed her heading for bed at 2130, as she wished, and managed to keep her up until 2330. I'm not sure what time she, or I, will arise tomorrow. I feel as though I could use another day of sleep...in fact, I'm surprised I'm still up. I'm certainly tired enough to fall back into bed. The weather was perfect, today, for a day of sleep: A good 15 degrees cooler than it has been, so windy we could hear it in the trees even with the windows closed (although, of course, I slept with the Arcadia door leading out of the back bedroom wide open)...and, tomorrow is supposed to host the same weather. Maybe it's all the yard work, which has been fairly heavy duty...maybe it's that sleep is functioning as a type of vacation for me, maybe, oh, who knows. Sleep just sounds and feels good, lately. Hmmm...think I'll do that now.
    Later.

Words Matter

2007-05-31T23:49:00.002-07:00

    Yes, I watched the CBS Evening News segment on "caregivers" (which is the word either Couric or Dozier or both used, the day before the segment aired, in the teaser) to the healing injured, permanently disabled and terminally injured from the Iraq war. I haven't a lot of time, here, to cover it, but not much needs to be said. Although I "nudged" Mom, as she requested, before it aired, she napped through it. The upshot of our bet was that it was pretty much a draw.
    Because they're buzzing my brain incessantly, I want to mention two aspects of the program that impressed me. The entire segment was different than I expected in this post. The "caregivers" are military Corpsmen, somewhat akin to Physicians' Assistants but more full service and, my guess is, more highly skilled and experienced. These are the people who function as medics on "killing fields" and handle most of the business, diagnosis and treatment taking place in military hospitals and clinics. I remember, when we were young and treated through military medicine, we almost always saw Corpsmen, for everything. The doctors were mobilized when Corpsmen were out of their league, which didn't happen often.
    According to the segment, what Couric and Dozier termed "burnout" is the result of long hours and the constant need for compassion. It seems that these people often show up to work on their time off. Remember that, although they are paid professionals, they are subject to standard military pay schedules which are typically based on rank, not specialty or excellence, and they are salaried, not paid by the hour. As well, although not epidemic, it is not uncommon for Corpsmen working the Iraq injured units to become so "burned out" as to request duty in other areas (I notice, although this was mentioned in the aired segment, it isn't mentioned in the hard copy write-up).
    One of the military physicians, a mental health professional, I believe, who was interviewed about this problem mentioned the two items that I found most intriguing about this segment:

What we civilian caregivers call "burnout", they call "compassion fatigue";
One of their methods of dealing with this is to schedule frequent five minute breaks throughout a shift (the shifts are long, by the way, often over 12 hours at a stretch) in which the Corpsmen talk it out with a mental health professional.

First, a word about words: I know it is common practice to scoff at new labels that add syllables and seem to unduly sanitize the old terms. In this case, though, I think the opposite is true. Caregivers are, after all, Compassion Specialists. Among all the types of care we give, compassion is the most important and the most rendered type of care. It is also the hardest, because it requires soul and character as well as skill. I'd much prefer to be known as a Compassion Specialist than a Caregiver. More important, I'd much prefer to refer to myself as suffering from "compassion fatigue" rather than burnout. Burnout implies a whole mess of circumstances that often aren't true:

That the burnout is due to a malfunction, rather than incessant functioning;
That it could possibly be due to caregiver failure, commonly known as "failure to 'Take Care...'", of yourself and might involve things like not getting one's oil changed on time, not getting a proper tune-up, not driving oneself wisely, etc.;
Thus, it refers to people in an almost machine-like fashion, which may be somewhat accurate but only somewhat;
It implies, as well, that it's possible to completely burn oneself out to the point of having to be junked out of caregiving, which, I admit, can happen, but there's also a sneaky whiff of, "if only she'd taken proper care of herself" involved in this junked caregiver assumption;
Compassion Fatigue, alternately, places the blame where it belongs, on the work, not the worker;
It implies a solution: Rest and emotional refreshment;
Although it doesn't deny the possibility of a caregiver moving beyond the ability to perform the job, it also doesn't necessarily imply that this will happen;
It gives proper respect to the work, to the most important skill involved in this work and accurately identifies the person who is providing compassion, professionally or avocationally, as a specialist.

"Caregiver burnout" sounds hopeless and final. "Compassion Fatigue" sounds inevitable and addressable.
I am especially impressed with the five minute mental health breaks the Corpsmen are given. Wouldn't it be wonderful if something like this, perhaps over the phone, were available to all Compassion Specialists, avocational or professional? A hotline for caregivers, in other words, staffed not by other caregivers, but by mental health professionals who were trained to respond to, for instance, a caregiver who is so beleaguered and disillusioned she is considering walking out on her care recipient, or, perhaps, walking out on life. Occasionally it helps to talk to another caregiver, but, often, other caregivers are just as befuddled as, well, the befuddled. At my worst, I'd love a calming, reasoned, detached presence on the other end of the line, saying to me, when I was at my wits' end, "Tell me why you feel this way," rather than, "Yes, I know, I've felt that way, too." Sometimes I want to know that other caregivers, make that Compassion Specialists, have experienced what I'm experiencing and have lived through it to be compassionate yet another day, but, often, I want Buddha, saying, "Step back; 'breathe deep the gathering gloom'; expel it, all of it from the seat of your soul, up and out; know that compassion is the highest behavior we can exhibit; now, go forth with eyes cleared to see the beauty around you and care, compassionately, once more."

All right, now I'm mad.

2007-05-30T11:21:00.000-07:00

    I've just made the acquaintance of a man who "made the choice" (as though people who become avocational caregivers wake up one morning and say, "Hmmm...I think I'll take care of my ailing/old/terminal relatives...sounds stimulating and fun!") to become a full-time caregiver to two "family members" (he hasn't yet revealed the relationships or circumstances of those needing care). He is noticing that his former professional colleagues are completely undone by his decision; so much so that, rather than sympathize with his very hard "choice", they are castigating him for "taking the easy way out" [Out of what, I can't help but ask.] and treading a dangerously "co-dependent" path. He is, needless to say, finding it very difficult to even want to remain connected to what are fast becoming his former friends and supporters.
    Jesus Fucking Christ! Give us caregivers a break, people!
    Let me tell you this: Every caregiver, including me, has to continually come to terms with negotiating these criticisms, and, believe me, there's no help to speak of when we find negotiations necessary. How many times do I have to say this??? We are members of a species that is so ubiquitously social that it's a toss up whether our affinity for tool making or clan making tipped us into species success. And, yet, here we are, in our burgeoning prime, forming societies that extol the virtues of independence from members of our species, shivering at the thought that caregiving for others is anything other than incidental and worth little recognition or heightened survival status, condemning those of us who go against the thoughtless grain and find it necessary, for ourselves and our loved ones, to opt to give care to those who need it, usually for no pay, no support and no respect. Those of us who "choose" to give care, part time or full time, doesn't matter, do this in a society that pushes teamwork in its businesses and political parties yet refuses to recognize that adequate teamwork is virtually unavailable to its caregivers; celebrates the "public service" of politicians who are typically in league with private, corporate interests yet provides little more than "Take Care of Yourself, Have a Good Day" sentiment to those of us, the caregivers, who are truly involved in public service every minute of every day; lionizes those who "break out of the mold" unless those breaking out are breaking into caregiving, which is clearly a mold for which our society has no respect. How stupidly confused can we get???
    You think it's "easy" to be a caregiver? You think those of us who become companions and caregivers to those who need it are sneakily taking the "easy way out", wallowing in "co-dependence", "finding excuses to avoid responsibility"? Let me tell you how "easy", "dangerously co-dependent" and "irresponsible" caregiving is:

When my mother was in a skilled nursing facility for two weeks (exactly 14 days) of intensive therapy after a low-sodium incident, I asked one of my sisters and her family, who lived a mere few miles from the facility, if they could spot me on alternate days so that I could spend every other day handling Mom's and my life 120 miles north, returning to the facility every other day to be Mom's companion and monitor her care. "You bet," was the response. Out of the seven days assigned to their family, they made three visits of a few hours each. Considering their work and school schedules, it was too hard for them to put in any more time. I was sympathetic. Of course it was. I could see this. I thanked them for the time they were able to donate. Then, a little over a year later, when I wrote about my every other day schedule in a post, I was castigated by a nurse, a professional caregiver, I might add, who took offense at the post because I had "chosen" to, somehow, keep our established life going on alternate days, instead of constantly monitoring my mother's facility stay.
Once some years ago, for a five day stretch, two of my sisters volunteered to take care of Mom here at home while I boned up for a class I was planning on taking (a class which out of which I "chose" to drop, after attending twice, because of an unexpected Mom health crisis). The two of them found it so difficult just to get her out of bed in the morning that I regularly intervened in the help they were providing. Granted, the help they provided was invaluable and allowed me to prepare adequately for the class. It also turned out that they needed a lot more help helping me than any of us realized. I failed to realize this because much of what was incredibly hard for them was, by this time, routine for me.
Many years ago, when I had just begun full time companionship and care for my mother, an attempt was launched by one of my sisters to get the extended family on the same page and help out. I compiled a list of jobs with which I could use help, all of which, at the time, would have been easy for others to handle long distance, although they would have also required a learning curve, one which applied to me, as well. Turns out, no one wanted to do the jobs with which I needed help. Everyone wanted to do jobs with which I not only needed no help, but which would have made my situation more difficult if I'd allowed those jobs to be farmed out.
Lately I've chanced upon a lot of caregivers who are confronting the problem of Urinary Tract Infections in the elderly women for whom they care. UTI's, as explained to me by The Wondrous FNP, are just one of those things that appear with increasing frequency in the elderly, especially women, for a variety of reasons, all of which have to do with the effects of the normal aging process on the organs and muscles "down there". The medical establishment knows this, and also knows there isn't much that can be done surgically or exploratorily, at the moment. As the frequency of my mother's UTI's increased dramatically, I began to hound medical personnel about a solution. Turns out, the best solution is a daily maintenance dose of Macrodantin. It took a lot of assertive, and, finally, aggressive advocation to finally get those of the medical establishment involved in my mother's care to arrive at this solution, though. Everyone wanted to scope her. Everyone wanted to do surgery, a surgery, I might add, which is questionable at best and can be dangerous and lead to further intractable urinary difficulties, at worst. Finally, The Wondrous FNP told me, well, yes, doctors make more money from treating each UTI as a separate event, insisting on exploring the possible cause of each one and trying to get the patient (or caregiver) to accept surgery. Doctors make a one time, office visit fee from prescribing Macrodantin. I've recently also learned that, if I hadn't been here to be an assertive medical advocate for my mother, she would have been treated to possibly years of inconvenient and treacherous "exploratory" hospital stays and procedures; she might very well have experienced frightening episodes, involving intolerable pain, spasms and mouth foaming, while waiting for someone to notice her UTI episodes and addressing each separately with occasional antibiotics; her life might have been shortened by inattention and inappropriate treatment leading to other more virulent opportunistic infections; at any rate her life certainly would have become a very unpleasant day to day trial, considering the frequency of her infections (which is normal) and the inappropriate and occasional treatment she would have been receiving at the hands of nursing home staff.

    Is it any wonder why I have become so critical about the "Take Care of Yourself" and "Avoid Co-Dependence" movements, hailed by most of society and completely irrational for caregivers of any stripe, at any time? We don't need any more independence in this society, believe me. We're ripping apart our families and abandoning our elders to substandard, often dangerous care by refusing to question our presence on this holier than thou platform of personal "independence" and "responsibility".
    You think I'm wrong about the lack of support for caregivers to the elderly and infirm? Consider this: The big movement in elder care, right now, is to help adult relatives ensure that their elderly are encouraged to live as independently as possible as long as possible. How wise and advantageous do you think this is to members of a species that is so socially attuned that, according to this recent story culled from an author who writes primarily for the home buyers market, large homes undermine our species' felicitous humanity? In order to belabor the point, consider this as well: How "wise" is it to leave people who are beginning to dement to their own resources most of the time? Once more, with feeling, how "wise" is it to take pride in managing an elderly person's life so that you feel good about not being there for them?
    Easy? You think this is easy? You think I'm avoiding the "real world"? You think I've opted for throwing my mother and myself into a cycle of deleterious co-dependence? You think I'm somehow leading myself and my mother down an inhuman path?
    You need to think again. Hard. Being a companion and caregiver to someone who is Ancient or Infirm is so difficult in a society that ignores and scolds its caregivers, that, believe me, most people "choose" not to do this. These are the people who manage to get the most support for any guilt they might feel at refusing the "choice"; they are, after all, "taking care of themselves" appropriately; "wisely" eschewing the possibility of ominous "co-dependence"; valorously supporting this society's love of independence to the exclusion of our equally natural need for association with members of our species; not to mention supporting a professional care industry that hugely appreciates their dollars to the exclusion of appropriately appreciating their relatives.
    Easy, my ass. If you think it's so easy, so carefree, why the hell aren't you doing it???

Bet Me

2007-05-29T19:11:00.001-07:00

    Mom's and my TV news feed tonight included CBS Evening News. It usually doesn't, because at that time we're usually watching Jim Lehrer on PBS. But, for some reason, tonight, we started channel news surfing between 1800 - 1830 and stopped on this CBS Evening News story about the types of traumatic injury characterizing the Iraq war. We landed on it as Dozier was explaining that this war is featuring a higher rate of survival from traumatic injury than previous wars. I already knew this and my finger was poised to surf on, but Mom said, "Hold it. I want to see this." So we watched. At the end of the segment, Couric and Dozier "teased" that tomorrow (I think) would feature an episode on the caregivers to the injured of the Iraq war and the extraordinary conditions these "pros" (apparently they're only going to talk about the caregivers who are paid, not the family caregivers who probably do hard core caregiving) are experiencing...ominously mentioning "Burnout".
    I burst out laughing. "Well, what do you know," I said, "caregiver burnout is finally making the news! Bless the Iraq war for that!"
    My Mom was smiling obliquely. "I think I know why you're laughing," she said.
    Polishing off another chuckle, I challenged her, "Okay, Mom, you tell me, why am I laughing?"
    "Because you burned out a long time ago but you're still doing the job well."
    That surprised me. I didn't think she was aware of caregiver burnout, let alone my own periods of burnout. Maybe I've spoken the word aloud in her presence, but I can't remember when. I was also surprised that she had an opinion about my own burnout episodes and the effect they have on our shared lives.
    We muted the TV and talked about caregiver burnout, from her view as a parent and caregiver to both Dad and her mother and from my view as her caregiver. Nothing was said that I haven't written about here before, really, except when she asked me, "What would you suggest [as a remedy for caregiver burnout]?" This wasn't a facetious question. She was really curious.
    "Well," I said, "truth is, I don't know what to suggest, other than changing society and our attitude toward caring for others."
    She nodded as I said this.
    "But, just for fun, I'll bet I can predict what tomorrow's segment is going to suggest."
    "I'll bet you a million," Mom said.
    "How about making it two, since I've got two predictions?"
    "Okay, two million. You can take it out of my hide if you win."
    "Deal. I'm not sure which will come first, but I'll bet the first two prescriptions, not necessarily in order, will be, 'Take care of yourself,' and 'Take more time off.' I'll further refine this and say that a third prescription will have to do with taking drugs, either for depression, anxiety, sleepnesses or all three."
    "Any more predictions?" she asked.
    "Yeah. I'll bet I know what at least some of the problems will be: Low pay, long hours, high turnover and not enough qualified staff available to allow for saner scheduling."
    "Write all that down," she said, keen to ensure that we'd both remember the details of our bet.
    So, here it is, I'm writing it down. I hope we remember to watch CBS Evening News tomorrow night.
    Later.
    And, yet again later, I watched the second segment mentioned above; here's where I write about it. Thought I'd better add the link because Caregiving at the Crossroads, an intriguing blog about caregiving that I just discovered this morning (6/15/07; 0139) while I was checking out urls from which visitors have been referred, mentioned this post in one of her posts but was clearly talking about the Words Matter post, so I thought I'd add the link for those of you that are visiting from Caregiving at the Crossroads.

Embracing Failure in the Caregiver Game

2007-05-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

    It's inevitable. If you're a caregiver you're going to host a sense of failure over something, sometimes multitudes of somethings: Failure to notice; failure to do; failure to think; failure to react appropriately; failure to moderate well among extended family; failure to "whistle a happy tune"; failure to "take care of yourself"; failure to effectively medically advocate; failure to look up and out when everyone else has their eyes firmly on their own patch of ground; failure to do everything "right"; failure, finally, to know what's right.
    Along with everything else that occurred to me this weekend, it also occurred to me that when I'm at the point of exhaustion, emotional or intellectual or physical or spiritual or all or any combination of the previous at once, the most effective action I can take is to embrace my failure and live it. Without apology.
    This means:

Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't notice such and such," just say, "Oops, I didn't notice."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't do such and such," just say, "Oops, I didn't do it."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't think of such and such," just say, "My brain was elsewhere."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't react appropriately to such and such," just say, "I'm not reacting well, at the moment."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't moderate family relationships with elan," just say, "I get a failing grade in family relationships."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I can't 'accentuate the positive'," just say, "I've never been able to learn how to whistle and I'm tone deaf."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I'm not taking care of myself," just say, "You think I'm not taking care of myself. Okay."
Instead of saying, "I failed to see the importance of proper medical advocation," just say, "Why didn't the doctors see what I didn't?"
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I wasn't an example of higher spiritual values," just say, "My spirit is exhausted. Deal with it. Or don't. I've got other things to do."
Instead of saying, "I'm sorry I didn't do or know the right thing," just say, "I have no idea what's right and I'm too tired to worry about it."

Nancy Regan was right. Sometimes it's best to "Just Say No."
Later.

I'm having trouble sleeping tonight.

2007-05-29T01:24:00.000-07:00

    The day was long and busy and I felt as though I was ready to retire when Mom did, but it's also our first "warm" night. The word "warm" is relative. Although the weather cast predicted a low of 56°F in Prescott Proper, the thermometer outside the coldest corner of our house reads 48°F as I'm typing this. My guess is that "the darkest hour" will probably dip to 40°F or so up here. Thing is, for a good couple of weeks, now, I've been sleeping on the floor in front of the open Arcadia door in the back bedroom, snug in my down-everything bedding. Tonight it's too warm for all that bedding but as I stripped layer after layer, I worked myself into an endorphin buzz. So, I decided to get up. There's not an awful lot I can do without making enough noise to awaken Mom and I don't feel like reading, so I thought I'd sit here in low light, drink some decaf coffee and mention some things that have been on my mind (none of them catch up things).
    Our opportunistic tree is in its fourth year and looks like a mature tree of any other slow growth species. I can see most of its foliage, through our pseudo cathedral windows, waving in the breeze, glimmering in the cast off from the street light across from our property. Today, during my first yard maintenance period, some bicyclers (the road in front of our property is part of a very popular "forest" biking trail because it's a diagonal work-out and rewards the cycler by topping out at Thumb Butte) actually rested in its shade! I was so pleased and proud. Our property has always been inviting to passers-by, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that it is the only place along this road where vehicles can comfortably be turned back, once drivers realize they've misinterpreted their map, which happens often, since our road is the last of the natural digression of State Highway 69. I love that, beginning this year, people will be refreshing themselves in the shade of our opportunistic, indigenous, fast growing tree. This is the first year I've watered it and seasoned the soil with our home made compost and mulch. Since it doesn't really need more than available precipitation to thrive, I probably won't water it much more, but I composted and mulched it in the hope that this would help the tree resist the yearly onslaught of thrips, and it already seems to be working. It's foliage is thicker than usual, this year, deeper green, each leaf is strong and unmarred. I'd love it if a few more birds would shit a few more of these seeds in our front yard. These trees sprout all over the place. Most people cut them down and douse the stumps with stump killer, so I'm considering stopping along the road during errands and soliciting permission to pull up a couple babies for transplant into our yard. So far, though, every time I've gone out, I've forgotten to throw tools into the back of the truck. Our pear tree, which is beginning to look like it's appreciating the pampering with which I'm finally lavishing it, looks like it's got a baby, too. This is going to be a little trickier to transplant. It needs partial shade, so finding the right spot for it is going to be challenging, seeing as how our partial shade areas are pretty well populated. Once it's going strong, though, we'll have a reliable cross pollinator right in our yard. That would be nice. I'm hoping our apple tree produces some babies this year. A few years ago it did, but my neglect caused all those to die. Maybe by fall, though, with my trumped up care, we'll have some to transplant.
    We watched a rental copy of Venus today. Well, Mom watched about half of it before it induced her nap. I enjoyed it, although, to my surprise, it's not a movie I'm considering owning. Grabbed a couple of interesting quotes from it, though:

Maurice: "I am about to die and I know nothing about myself."
Ian: "I love this place. It reminds me of what I wanted to become."

    A few weeks ago I saw a trailer for the movie Away from Her. A tiny, suggestive couple of moments in the trailer so intrigued me that I'm going to try to see this movie in the theater when it arrives here: It was the part featuring "her" developing relationship with a man at the facility to which she chooses to relocate. As I watched "her" wheel this man around and play with him at a community table, I suddenly realized that part of the magic of this relationship, for "her", was that it gave "her" the opportunity to remain a successful caregiver (vs being exclusively a care recipient and/or a caregiver suffering enforced retirement), despite "her" mental aberrations. I was immediately reminded that my mother continues to consider herself involved in mutual caregiving with me and with our beloved cats, even though, on the surface, it appears as though there is only one caregiver in our household, me. I've previiously mentioned this in these journals. I think this is part of what keeps my mother going. It isn't just that feeling needed keeps people locked into life; it's that having opportunities to give appropriate, appreciated care, to someone or something (doesn't have to be a person) other than ourselves and knowing that this care is vital, I think, enhances one's own vitality, regardless of quirks that may plague it. I remember briefly reading, in a couple of online journals, mostly notably The Yellow Wallpapaer and Mondays with Mother, similar notes in passing about residents in facilities caring for one another. Perhaps, no matter what our circumstances, we naturally seek to care for others; other people, other beings, other concerns; and we need others that will accept whatever level of care we are able to give. I'm curious to see how much this is explored in the movie, especially since, at least in the trailer, this aspect of the story seemed almost beside the point and hasn't been mentioned in anything I've read about the movie. I've made a note to remember to look up the Alice Munro story upon which it is based the next time I'm close to the library.
    I do believe it's cooled enough for me to successfully drift into sleep. Must remember to switch to summer bedding tomorrow.
    Later.

I've broken my vow...

2007-05-28T18:32:00.000-07:00

...the one to catch up on all those draft posts. It's not yet midnight, of course, but I'm rather sure I won't be working on them between now and midnight. I'm usually in trouble when I have to "vow" to do something, anyway...that usually means I don't want to do it. If it needs to be done, well, it gets done; vows for those kinds of activities aren't broken. But, the posts aren't "needed", really. A couple are important to a couple of people (although, frankly, less and less so to me). Some are informational; some are celebratory; some are rallying cries; some are confessional; some cross categories. But, you know, it's been a gorgeous weekend...on the cool side of warm, breezy, sunny, great weekend for yard work and yard enjoyment. No, I didn't get a tiller. Seems Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend is the wrong time to attempt to rent anything that has to do with yard work; should have figured that. Not sure if I'll try tomorrow...I'm thinking, more, probably Wednesday. Mostly, when I find some time to write, instead I've been zoning out in the yard. Haven't been able to get Mom out, much, although she did go out twice and both times mourned, with me, the havoc either the deer or javelina (probably both) did to our roses, the delphinium and the tomato plant, but they're recovering, and I'm fully stocked with garlic oil concentrate stuff, now.
    I've noticed a bout of Not Caring sneaking up on me...not in regard to our little family of Mom, the kitties and me, but about everything and everyone else, including estate business, about which I'm scolded, regularly, by The Literature, I should care, and certainly I've worried about it, steadily, for years...but this weekend I entered this, hmmm, well, I guess you could call it an "area", wherein I'm finding the idea of leaving the estate in its current "Gail's life gets split four ways upon Mom's death (even though no one else's life will be altered by her death), she essentially ends up with nothing because what she'll get won't be of use to her, seeing as how she'll be homeless and penniless, anyway" state hilariously and entertainingly absurd: Contemplating my relatives rooting around in an outdated will, trying to snag their share of what's listed but no longer exists and what's not listed but does exist, because, of course, since the will wasn't changed, that must have been what Mom wanted and too bad that Gail didn't fight for what she needed, oh well...you only get what you fight for...she should have put out a little more effort...
    Yeah, right. One more thing for Gail to do.
    Maybe my fundamental attitude will change, but, you know, maybe it won't. The one thing St. John's Wort hasn't done is change my attitude toward human life in general, that I'm not really interested in it once Mom kicks the bucket...too fucking ridiculous for me and, I notice, it's getting more ridiculous every day. I think I have only enough caring left to felicitously usher Mom and the kitties and me through the rest of her life. I'm looking forward to that. But, nothing else.
    I'm anticipating future periods, perhaps one will coalesce soon, wherein I'll feel like playing the caring game. It is, after all, an engaging activity. I'll look like I'm caring; I'll act like I'm caring; I might even feel like I'm caring, possibly I'll believe I'm caring. But, you know, I think, fundamentally, I'm done with serious caring. I guess that's called Being Cared Out. I vaguely remember ominous talk about this state. Now, I'm here and I'm realizing it's nothing to fear. It isn't half bad, in fact. I mean, you know, when you're cared out, there is, truly, nothing to fear.
    I'll continue writing. I can't discontinue writing. It's automatic, just as is much of life. I do it in my head...so, of course, I'll do it on a keyboard.
    I'm so sick and tired, though, of Giving a Shit. I'm really not interested in giving a shit about anything or anyone, anymore, except our own little family and our shared lives. When that gets blown apart by Mom's death, well, thank the almighty gods, I expect to be free at last.
    Later.

I have two goals for this long weekend...

2007-05-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

...yes, long weekends count, even for those living in timelessness. I love, in fact, reminding Mom of long weekends approaching because she sighs as though she's been digging ditches for several days and says, "Thank goodness, I can relax!"
Long Weekend Goals:

Catch up on all post lingering in drafts.
Install and fiddle with new internet security software on PC.

    So, naturally, here I am, writing about other stuff, but, I only have a few minutes before awakening Mom (actually, I'll probably be a few minutes behind when I finish this), so I wanted to use the time to carve my goals in virtual stone.
    All errands that need to be done over the next few days were completed this morning, including checking out the possibility of renting a tiller next week. Looks good for that. This morning when I headed out to water and feed plants, I noticed the javelina had eaten all the tender new rose shoots! Damn! The stuff I've been using to keep them away works, but the place that sells it ran out and said they wouldn't have a new shipment until last night...so application lagged for a few days. The javelina have been good about leaving everything alone, but, I guess, last night was the night that the stuff I've been using (a product with garlic oil concentrate) gave up the ghost. Now, at least, I know how long the stuff stays active. This morning the shelf was indeed full, so I bought several shakers full, inquired into buying it in bulk (which is possible), "warned" the store that I'd be using it frequently throughout the growing season and asked them to make sure they kept it in stock...then filled out a suggestion card. Hope that helps!
    I'm not, by the way, using it around the onions and basil and mint. They seem to leave that alone. Everything else is fair game, though, including the compost bins. I think, next year, I'll consider planting garlic around everything. That will probably be cheaper and should work just as well.
    Mom's been up and at 'em quite a bit over the last few days, so I expect my computer time will be limited, but, from this point on, expect several catch up posts to begin appearing.
    I gave in, by the way, in regard to ham for our "holiday dinner" this weekend. Mom's been talking "beans and ham" a lot, lately, so I figured this would kill two birds with one stone and I could freeze whatever was left over. So, holiday dinner, which will probably be tomorrow rather than Monday, will be ham, corn on the cob (nuked) and home made blueberry cobbler. Sounds good, doesn't it! Come on over, there'll be plenty!
    Better awaken the Mom. I hear her stirring, right on time.
    Later.

I think I might be on vacation...

2007-05-23T11:51:00.001-07:00

...but I'm not sure. Over the last few days I've been incredibly hazy. Old inside family jokes about strong backs and weak minds have been plaguing my thoughts. My body has seemed okay...thriving, in fact, while I've been doing yard work; achey, but, within hours, ready to go out and dig another hole or squat over a few more unwanted weeds. I've noticed my wandering mind, though, easily irritated by things I usually ignore, like intermittent buzzes made by old fans...yesterday I found myself riveted by the almost nonexistent ticking of the washer's soak cycle.
    This morning, I awoke in a strange fog out of a dream featuring me in a fog. My body seems to finally be following my mind, today. I can't seem to get going. So, I've got to figure, it's vacation time. Shouldn't bother Mom, too much. She's been in a slow cycle over the last few days, too, although I managed to coax her out yesterday, even though it was a little cooler than she likes, to admire the new leaves on the roses and the bright blue delphinium, which is flourishing after Saturday's planting.
    I can't even seem to get through a couple paragraphs of reading out loud, which is one of our shared favorite evening activities. Neither of us is interested in focusing. Seems like I had plans for today, but I can't remember, now, what they are.
    Oh well. Guess I'll just float downstream. Hope we don't hit any rapids. I feel as though it would be fine with me if we were dashed against rocks.
    Later.

Here's something for all of you, who know in-home caregivers...

2007-05-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

...and either think it's no big deal or don't think about it much, to ponder:
    I've recently struck up a friendly acquaintance with a woman who is, among handling other family challenges, caring in-home for her elderly mother (who has cancer), and her husband (who has a variety of escalating health problems that have led to clear disability).
    What you need to know about this woman: Prior to finding it necessary to become an avocational in-home caregiver, she was a professional nurse. She spent many years working in hospitals, live-in facilities, in private duty and in hospice. She is highly skilled, extensively experienced and loves her vocational work. She is the kind of professional health care worker you'd want handling your own relatives if they ever needed professional intense needs care.
    Her current situation: Despite a sterling professional resume, she is clearly overwhelmed by in-home caregiving, for a variety of reasons, all of which are well known to all avocational caregivers:

Her extended family is as recalcitrant when it comes to helping and relieving her as are most caregivers' families;
She is intimately familiar with, and can confirm, what most of us avocational caregivers suspect and/or have experienced: You can almost never rely on professionals to do more than a somewhat less than adequate to completely inadequate job of covering for you, thus she is reluctant to hire anyone to take her place. The professional caregiving landscape is, according to her, littered with those who don't, well, care very much, or very well;
Those for whom she cares are incapable of understanding the breadth and depth of what she does for them;
The members of her extended family network (most of whom live close to her) refuse to familiarize themselves with what she does for those of their shared relatives who require intense needs care even enough to understand it, let alone pitch in, thus, when they visit, which is rare, they are more of a burden than a refreshment or delight.

    She is, at this time, going through an entrenched period of caregiver burnout. She describes herself as a once easy-going, live-and-let-live kind of person who could deal with anything. This still comes through in our mutual correspondence, but she is also, now, clearly desperate and beside herself. She is displeased (to say the least) with what she senses she's becoming as a result of pursuing in-home, intense needs caregiving and fears for her future self. She continues, here and there, to gratefully experience extended moments of deep joy, inspiration and exhilaration through her in-home, intense needs caregiving, but she is more often so inundated that she continually wonders if and when she will fall into the deep end.
    I'm going to take a moment to spell out the point of this post: This woman is highly professionally skilled and experienced in the type of care many of us have found ourselves offering avocationally; not only this, she was a superior professional caregiver. She loved giving care when she was a professional. It was her calling. If her in-home care recipients disappeared today she would probably go right back to her former career and find as much satisfaction in it as before. She was able to remain grounded, familiar with and pleased with herself throughout her long career. She is now doing it avocationally and is finding that in the home environment exactly the same skills, experience and demands in which she reveled are ripping her apart, changing her in ways which confuse and try her.
    People, how many times do we caregivers have to shout this before the rest of you get it???? In-home, intense needs caregiving is extremely demanding. It requires a level of dedication and devotion, emotionally, intellectually, physically, socially and psychically, that can undo even the pros. Why do you suppose this is true? I can tell you: We live in a society that, for the most part, is extremely caregiver unfriendly...so caregiver unfriendly that it's hard to find pros like my friend; so unfriendly that the best advice caregiver advisers can offer us is akin to no advice at all: Hire someone to cover for you so you can take a break, regardless of the very real possibility that when you return from your break, you'll have to work double time to clean up the mess your hired help created.
    Shaking head, closing eyes, humming to myself..."when will we ever learn, when will we ever learn..."
    Later.

Thought it might be a good idea to mention...

2007-05-17T11:22:00.001-07:00

...that the lack of writing here isn't, at this time, anyway, indicative of problems, internal or external. A couple of projects have been monopolizing Mom's and my time and interest:

Gardening. I've always contended that there is something "special" about the piece of property upon which we live up here in Prescott. Our recent interest in working the property continues to underline my contentions. Although we're having mixed success (I think some of our stuff was planted and replanted too late to get it going this year), there is something invigorating for Mom and me about getting out and enjoying our yard...watering, puttering, admiring, enjoying. Not that Mom has suddenly become Ms. Movement...but, at least, she's sitting somewhere else besides in the house, and her mind and attention are directed to a variety of other life aspects.
Something, too, I've been meaning to mention, in case any readers have been following my use of St. John's Wort: One of the warnings when taking this medication is to protect oneself from sun exposure, especially those of us with light skin, which includes me. I didn't pay attention and am now nursing a sun exposure rash on my left forearm, which seems to be responding, slowly, to 1% hydrocortisone cream and SPF 45 sun block.
A former writing partner of mine and I have reinitiated our attempt to break into the short fiction market. So far we've had no sales, although we're constantly encouraged by the personal rejection notes we're receiving.
Mom and I are continuing our intriguing exploration of Islam through books. All of them are fascinating (we're reading a little here and a little there and rounding out our reading by referring to a copy of the Qur'an I purchased) but there's one in particular that started our exploration and I should mention because it has personal significance for both of us: The Trouble with Islam Today by Irshad Manji. We were introduced to this book through a segment of the PBS series, which aired some weeks ago, America at a Crossroads. The segment Faith without Fear featured, among other things, a conversation between Irshad and her mother about their shared religion. During the conversation, Mom piped up, "That sounds like you and me when we're talking about Christianity!" She was specifically referring to a continuing conversation in which we indulge revolving around my insistence that I'm not a Christian and her insistence that I am. Our notice of Ms. Manji and her mother provoked a later conversation about our own mother-daughter conversational fearlessless. "We should get that book," Mom suggested...and that's how our informal study of Islam began. Our study has, since, evolved into a historical curiosity about the evolution religion, in general, which we'll be shortly supplementing with a yet another Karen Armstrong book which promises to be equally intriguing, The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our Religious Traditions.

So, life is busy, and good, Mom is doing well, I'm doing well, we're multiply engaged and I'm continuing to maintain a light touch when it comes to monitoring her, which pleases her and keeps me from obsessing over circumstances of aging about which nothing can be done.
Later.

Gorgeous Mother's Day, here...

2007-05-13T08:22:00.000-07:00

...for more reasons than just the weather, which is warm (mid to high 70's), bit of a breeze, exactly to my mother's tastes. She's been out in the yard a couple of times in the last few days and is excited, as well, about Mother's Day. No company, as usual, but, this Mother's Day, she has received, or is receiving (one, I understand, will arrive today) bouquets from all her daughters. Our house is full of flowers; my mother is beside herself in flower glory! So are our cats, especially Mr. Man, who likes to nibble on them; luckily, he takes discreet bites.
    Mom wanted ham, again, for Mother's Day, but I argued that we've had ham three times since Christmas (which involves getting a bone in half ham, then having it in various guises for a week or more) and, although I don't dislike ham, I'm getting sick of it. She laughed and we ran through a variety of other possible main dishes. The one that sounded best to her was Beef tri-tip strips slow roasted in Hoisin sauce with my peculiar additives; a cheese tortellini salad with sun dried tomatoes, artichokes, Bermuda onions, green peppers, a variety of olives and a tart, lemon laced dressing; for dessert, a fresh, home made raspberry cobbler with freshly whipped cream. She's probably salivating in her sleep as I'm writing this.
    Not much to report, except that gardening is becoming a feature of our daily lives; Mom supervising, me doing the work. Which reminds me...I've got some mid-morning watering to do...better get at it.
    Later.

Ever since delving into...

2007-05-07T23:45:00.001-07:00

...yesterday's edition of The New York Times Magazine and discovering the article on wisdom and The Wisdom Scorecard, I haven't been able to get the subject of wisdom, partially as it pertains to Mom's and my scores on the test, out of my thoughts.
    This morning at 0200 my mother awoke me as she stood over my bed like her own specter, breathing heavily, not a "wise" action for her to take. Aside from scaring the bejesus out of me and worrying me, then insisting, during a half-hour argument which I, admittedly, initiated and fueled, that I had told her to awaken me at 0200, I couldn't get back to sleep, even though I was due to arise at 0630 in order to prepare to do some early morning business. The primary reason I couldn't resettle myself in bed was because my mother had awakened me from a vivid dream in which she and I were squaring off on the definition of wisdom on a proscenium in front of an audience of academicians. This was a dream, so any semblance to reality ends here. Our discussion, of which only wisps remain in my memory, involved us bringing a variety of ridiculous images to bear on behalf of our separate arguments, images which immediately materialized. I remember two of these: Butterflies, the mention of which invoked hordes of glittering indigo butterflies drifting through the theater; the other was the mention of patterns of silverware, upon which members of the audience hoisted and waved silver utensils which displayed each member's preferred pattern. My mother mentioned the butterflies. I mentioned the silverware and argued for the proposition that the pattern "Florentine" best exemplified the definition of wisdom. Don't ask, please.
    In the fading wake of this perplexing dream, I decided to head out to the living room, fire up the computer and reread both the article on wisdom and my posts [here and here] about Mom's and my experience with the test. Two and a half hours later, it occurred to me that the test composer, Dr. Monika Ardelt, might find our results interesting. I composed an email that sketched my mother's and my situation and cued Dr. Ardelt to my two posts of yesterday. I mentioned the disconnect between my perception of my mother's and my own wisdom and the test's scoring. I then said, in part, that "in contrast to the [NYT] article, our results seem to shed somewhat more light on the existence of observable wisdom in the lightly demented elderly, at least, and might further elucidate the definition of wisdom in those of advanced age."
    To my surprised delight, she responded to my email. I found what she wrote so interesting that I thought some of my readers might also appreciate it. I asked Dr. Ardelt for permission to quote in my journal the following three paragraphs from her email, to which she graciously assented [Please Take Note:  Her correspondence is automatically copyrighted under her name as of today's date. If you wish to repeat what she's written, please seek permission from her through her email address listed at the link above attached to her name.]:

    About the wisdom test: First, the test is not copyrighted, but the NYT probably wanted to make sure that it could not be copied. I did not ask for this. In fact, the test is published in one of my articles on the “Empirical Assessment of a Three-dimensional Wisdom Scale,” which can be downloaded from my web page [at this address; it's the fifth bullet down under Selected Publications; in addition, you might want to take note of her other articles, all of which have intriguing titles.].
    Second, the test works better in the aggregate than as a test for an individual wisdom score. Yes, "misdiagnoses" in wisdom will occur, particularly if people answer according to social desirability, which your mother apparently did not, itself a sign of wisdom. Because of the social desirability bias, I never tell my respondents that this test measures "wisdom."
    Is your mother wiser than you, although the test told you that you are wiser than her? I do not know. This depends in part on the "honesty" of your answers (not that I doubt your honesty, but it is quite easy to paint a more ideal image of ourselves than we really are) and in part on the definition and measurement of wisdom. I am the first to admit that my measurement of wisdom is not perfect, but it works quite well in the aggregate and it helps me to identify people relatively high and relatively low on wisdom.

    Her explanation that the test "works better in the aggregate" certainly makes sense and was welcome news, since the wisdom article in NYT didn't make this clear; it insinuated, instead, that the test was designed to court the individual over the group. I think it's important, too, to take special note of Dr. Ardelt's statement: "Because of the social desirability bias, I never tell my respondents that this test measures 'wisdom.'" In opposition to this, NYT introduced the test as an invitation to score one's individual wisdom quotient, clearly not the original intent of the test. Regarding "social desirability": Because I took pains to mention in my second post the process to which my brain was probably subject the second time I took the test, I was amused at her discussion of honest answering. My brain is particularly adept at flattering me as its host and continues to go to great lengths to do this. At this time in my life I'm not concerned with reining it in...an indication, I think, of at least one area in which my mother's wisdom outstrips my own.
    If you've taken the test and find it at all intriguing, even negatively intriguing, I urge you to read the paper Dr. Ardelt published on the test, mentioned in her quote above. As you read it you will discover that the New York Times Magazine article on science's attempts to qualify and quantify wisdom compares to Dr. Ardelt's paper as a comic book version of Moby Dick would compare to the original. Dr. Ardelt's article describes, in detail, the pursuit that led to the test and the history of the development of the test. Along the way are many thought provoking paragraphs about psycho-science's attempts to pre-define wisdom in order to understand exactly that which it is seeking and why the search was initiated. Although not specifically addressed in the paper, it's a good idea to keep in mind that this particular search for wisdom focuses on its applicability to human psychology, not cyber-psychology, although, as I read, I wondered if it could have cross-applicability.
    The article is loaded with quotes, observations and descriptions that, if closely attended, can whirl you round and round in an exhilarating, contemplative dance of wisdom-wondering. In the depths of the article, I suddenly developed sympathy for Vivian Clayton's final decision to abandon the study of wisdom, despite her clear knack for it.
    The test is presented in a format that further documents a lot about how it was developed. Within the article, scoring is explained. Its various stages of usefulness are delineated. Finally, if you took the test and found yourself scoffing at it, your scoffing is probably addressed within the article. Reading the article is rather like following a topographical map of psycho-science seeking its Holy Grail.
    If you find yourself wanting to contact Dr. Ardelt, she has asked me to note that she will be unavailable through her email address at her linked page, above, from May 9 - May 20, so responses will not be immediate
    I just ushered my mother to bed. I kidded her about her determination to awaken me long before dawn this morning and added, "I'm telling you now, Mom, tomorrow morning I do not want you to awaken me at 0200. Remember this, please: If you awaken at 0200 and have an unbearable urge to awaken me, I did not ask you to do this and you do so at your own peril!"
    My mother grinned. "Well, then," she responded, "how about 0300?"
    Wise of her to ask.
    Later.

guilt, caretaker, eating, drinking, dying

2007-05-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

Sounds like another movie directed by Ang Lee, doesn't it, only probably not much comedy in this one, unless you count irony. It's a string of search terms someone punched into Google which led the searcher to my site.
An intriguing string, which is why I'm mentioning it; sounds like it encompasses just about everything to do with caretaking/caregiving. I couldn't help but ponder each word in the string. Following are my off-the-cuff thoughts:

guilt: Everyone who is a caregiver, including professional caregivers, and everyone who knows a caregiver, sometimes including the care recipient, experiences guilt over the situation. The caregiver is often afflicted with almost non-stop guilt, not being able to ever avoid the situation. Most of the guilt clusters around the following concerns:
Am I doing enough for my care recipient;
Am I doing enough for myself;
Am I the cause of others I know not being particularly interested in becoming involved;
Am I explaining enough to whomever is taking over care of my recipient for me that I won't return to a recipient who is on the brink of a health crisis precipitated by neglect, mishandling and/or injury;
Why can't I feel constantly good about what I'm doing;
Why can't I feel constantly good about having someone take care of me?
caretaker:
What is a caretaker, anyway;
Why are landscaping caretakers so much more, hmmm..., well, happy about their accomplishments and satisfied at the end of the day than I am;
Am I taking too much care, or too little, of my care recipient or myself;
Is there such a thing as "too much care";
What if someone for whom I suspect I will be taking care in the future no longer wishes to be "independent", despite society insisting that she is capable of independence;
How reliable is society's determination versus my future care recipient's determination regarding the desirability of her independence;
Am I a "bad" caretaker if I can't take it, anymore, and turn my care recipient over to someone else, like professionals;
Is caretaking "bad" for my caretaking relative;
Is it "bad" for the care recipient?
eating:
Am I stress eating because I'm a caregiver;
Is stress eating "bad" for me;
Am I feeding my care recipient the "right" foods;
If my care recipient is very old, strong willed, continues to have a hearty appetite and insists on foods that her doctors may not recommend, is that okay;
What are the "right" foods;
How important is it to stick to the "right" foods under these circumstances;
How important is the food=pleasure equation to the very old and/or very ill;
If my care recipient is in facilitized care and her institutional diet is clearly abhorrent to her to the point that she isn't getting enough nutrition, can I do anything;
Why is institutionalized food, particularly for the aged and infirm, so bad and does it have to be?
drinking:
Am I stress drinking for desperately needed and little provided respite because I'm a caregiver;
If it provides a measure of relief, is it really "bad" for me;
What about hydration and my care recipient...who can absolutely tell me what is proper hydration for the elderly and/or infirm;
Will these hydration directives change as my care recipient ages and her health conditions change;
If my care recipient wants to drink alcoholic beverages, is it okay;
If my care recipient is an alcoholic and still able to provide herself with her preferred method of self-anesthesia, what should I do;
What can I do, if this is the case?
dying:
Will caregiving contribute to an earlier death for me than I otherwise could have expected;
How am I going to know when my care recipient is approaching or in the "active dying phase";
What do I do when this happens;
Do I even want to be present as my care recipient dies;
Is it okay if I don't want to be present;
Can I trust hospice services to ensure a comfortable, pain free "active dying phase";
Have I somehow, accidentally contributed to an earlier death for my care recipient than would be true if my care recipient were under someone else's care;
After my care recipient's death, will I be so overwhelmed with grief and exhaustion that I will have trouble carrying on;
If, after her death, I am relieved, what does this say about me;
How will my attitudes toward death change after having accompanied my care recipient through to her death?

What a movie this string would make! Hopefully my generation is becoming so aware of caregiving that several of us will be inspired to make movies about caregiving and be bold enough to call them movies about caregiving.
Later.

"And the winner is..."

2007-05-06T18:37:00.003-07:00

...rather, the results are: My mother scored 3.5 on the The Wisdom Scorecard, the wisdom test mentioned in the immediately previous post. This places her in the category of "relatively moderate wisdom".
    My initial intention had been to podcast her taking the test and what I expected would include an animated discussion, as well as print out the questions for her. Seems the author of the test, Dr. Monika Ardelt, is zealous enough of her copyright so that it is impossible to even copy/paste the questions as they appear. Any attempt to print within the pages or save the pages to one's hard drive and print them yield similar dismal results. Since I have a great respect for copyright, I decided it would be unfair to podcast my reading of the questions. I did, though, type out the questions and responses for my mother so that, as I read them aloud, she could follow along. I figured this would aid her in her deliberation and I think I was right. I was wrong about the possibility of discussion. My mother had no problem choosing answers and the little discussion in which we indulged was beside the point of the test.
    I was surprised by her results, since I scored higher, at 4.3, than she. I consider my mother, for many reasons, much wiser than me. The results of the test haven't shaken my regard. Although my mother waffled almost not at all over her choice of answers, one aspect of her answering involved decidedly avoiding absolutes. For instance: Answers included five options, topped and bottomed by either "Strongly agree" and "Strongly Disagree" or "Definitely true of myself" and "Not true of myself". Mom consistently chose the less superlative answers. Throughout the entire 39 question test she chose only one "Strongly Disagree", no "Strongly agree"'s, three "Not true"'s and no "Definitely true"'s. I consider this wise. She's lived long enough and experienced enough so that she knows that human nature can turn on a dime, if the circumstances are right. I think she believes it's best not to set herself up for unmanageable surprises by assuming that she and her circumstances are never going to change. It shouldn't surprise anyone to know that my answers were littered with absolutes. Mom also chose a high number of "Neutral"'s and "About half-way true"'s, for, I'm sure, the same reason she avoided the absolutes. As well, as she mentioned once, it's possible that she's felt offensive or "less wise" toward someone in the past but can't, now, remember that she has. I did not counter that the test was probably designed to reflect present opinions, feelings and attitudes. I thought of doing this but figured this would sway her interpretation of the test. I was thinking that perhaps the test was designed to reflect, in some subterranean way, whether someone was deliberating over her present state or a panorama of all states through which she's lived. I think, now, I was wrong about this, but, well, whatever.
    Because I was surprised by her results versus mine, I decided to take the test again, this time noting my answers. Although I knew, being one of those people who is good at taking tests, my brain had probably figured out what were the "wisest" answers, I was hoping I'd remember, as I trudged once again through the statements, what I'd previously answered and, as well, feel the same as I did the first time. No such luck. The second time through I scored 4.5. I suspect this means my brain had autonomically begun to figure out how to "beat" the test, if such a thing could be said about this test. My observation also informed me that, on some of the questions on which I think I previously avoided absolutes, this time I chose absolutes, "knowing" that these were more reflective of me. Chances are, they are simply more reflective of my brain deciding that "wisdom" is a desired quality, one which I cherish, this is a test of wisdom, my brain has been trained to a certain "test taking wisdom" that allows it to perform well on such challenges, obviously better as it repeats a particular test, and it intervened in my memory and my desire to duplicate my previous answers and results.
    I remembered, after our excursion into this attempt to measure wisdom, that I'd written about wisdom and Ancients over at the essay section of this group of sites. The link will take you to the essay, if you're interested. I reread it to see if my ruminations have changed on this issue. They haven't. I continue to believe that Age and Experience no more confer wisdom than does any other condition of being human. I also remain unsure about what does confer wisdom.
    In case you're wondering why I consider my mother wiser than me, despite the results of the test, here are some (further, considering that I've already posed others) reasons:

She does not allow my emotionality and confusion over various issues, sometimes and especially involving family, to affect her phlegmatic approach to these issues;
She is less inclined than I to initially resist confusion if it occurs;
She has an even stronger sense of herself than I do of myself, and, believe me, I have a very strong sense of myself;
She is not apt to be thrown by anything; I can still be thrown by some things.
I have lately learned that she is more forgiving than me, even though I think I'm more forgiving than most.

    We haven't yet read the article about wisdom in in the NYT Magazine. We'll probably do that this evening. We considered doing this immediately after the test, but Mom said she'd rather be "fresh" when we read it, meaning she wanted to wait until after her nap, even though she was a couple hours away from taking that nap. This is another reason why I consider her wiser than me: When I'm interested in something, even a little, it's easy for me to forgo the replenishment of sleep, even when I know I need it, despite the fact that I know that, when I'm tired, the more likely my memory is to retain less, the more likely my interpretive skills are to miss something or miscalculate, the more likely my need for sleep will throw befuddlement into my pursuit. Mom knows better. That's a component of her wisdom quotient, I think, one that this test surely did not measure.
    In considering the subject of wisdom I remember the following episode: When I was in my first year of college a friend of mine was pulled out to sea by an undertow and drowned. I can't remember exactly how many people dove in to save him, but at least one of those men died. My friend's body was never recovered. Were those who attempted to save him, especially the one or more who died, wise or foolish? What about other life circumstances? Was Van Gogh's life wise or foolish? Suppose Van Gogh's work had somehow never been discovered and/or lauded, as happens with the work of some dedicated, talented, accomplished artists? Wise or foolish life?
    Maybe wisdom will never be amenable to being tested on paper...maybe it can only be recognized as we observe our own and others' pursuit of life, and, even then, maybe it can't be recognized as easily or definitively as we'd prefer.
    Maybe Mom and I will discover that the magazine article comes to a similar conclusion...
    ...later.

I consider my mother wise.

2007-05-06T12:44:00.001-07:00

This probably doesn't surprise any of my readers. What may surprise some of you is that I consider her no less wise in her traipsing through dementia than I did before her mini-stroke took a toll on certain of her brain functions. In some ways, I consider her wiser now than before; not because of her dementia, but because she's probably at least a decade older than she was when she mini-stroked and she's continued to be capable of allowing life to widen her focus, despite her dementia.
Thus, it is with much delight that I discovered that the online edition of today's New York Times features a quiz that purports to measure one's wisdom. My intention is, of course, today, to administer it to my mother and see where she falls on the following 5 point scale:

1-3: relatively low wisdom
3-4: relatively moderate wisdom
4-5: relatively high wisdom

    The test consists of 39 statements, five choices per question, all choices designed to solicit whether the testee considers the statements an accurate to inaccurate reflection of herself. The statements are pretty predictable, appearing to measure flexibility of outlook more than anything else.
    When I think about how I define my mother's wisdom, flexibility of outlook is certainly a factor. I think most cultures would agree with this, but, recently, while Mom and I have been reading some books on the development of Islam, particularly a valorous attempt at biography entitled Muhammad: A Prophet for Our Time written by Karen Armstrong, it has become apparent to me that flexibility of outlook is not always prized, nor considered wise, as it was not within nomadic, tribal societies for some centuries previous to Muhammad's birth. Specifically realizing this confers some circumspection on ultimate measures of wisdom at any time within any group of people. This week's New York Times Magazine also includes a long article about the nature of wisdom, which is being studied by scientists. The introductory blurb says, in part, "The trick lies not just in measuring something so fuzzy but also in defining it in the first place." I haven't yet read the article, although I will. It's likely that, after administering the wisdom test to my mother, I'll read it aloud for both of us so we can discuss it.
    The subject of my consideration of my mother's wisdom is curious in itself. I have always considered her wise to some extent, primarily because I have always trusted her. I'm sure this is not a good objective measure of wisdom since kids tend to trust their parents, even when they learn a suspicious and fatalistic outlook from them. This trust of what can become a disastrous outlook is usually hardwired and difficult for thought or experience to change. Within the last few or more decades I've also become aware that my view of her wisdom is always through eyes that are 34 years younger than hers; thus, I've learned that whatever she's packed into those 34 years can be, at any particular time, unimaginable to me.
    I'm curious, though, to know whether someone else's measure of wisdom will come to the same conclusion to which I've come in regards to my mother, especially after taking the quiz myself and wondering, as I read the statements, how my mother would apply them to herself and just how "wise" any of the 39 attitudes actually are, factoring for particular persons and societies. I was surprised to find that I can't predict how she'll answer...or, even, whether she'll find the test interesting and amusing enough to finish. It's possible that she'll laugh and say something like, "Goodness, child, I have no idea! What's the next statement?"
    1330 will mark her 12-hour-night-sleep mark, not including the half hour she read to herself in bed before her light went out (she was wholly engrossed, last night, in our viewing of the Planet Earth series, and insisted on seeing it through to the end, except the episodes about the future). I will awaken her with news of the questionnaire and I'm sure she'll be intrigued enough to want to sample it immediately after breakfast, so I'm hoping to report on the results, including any attendant conversation, much later today, possibly past midnight, depending on how her day goes.
    Which reminds me: Yesterday evening, immediately after her nap, she reported to me that she felt, "much better" than she's been feeling the last few days, which surprised me. In a recent post I reported that she'd seemed, over some days, hazier than usual, thus, I've been surveying her, almost to distraction, every hour or so when she's awake about how she feels, despite her ruddy physical appearance. She's been steadily answering, "Fine, just fine," sometimes giving me that sarcastic, "Why are you asking?" look. When she reported to me that she was suddenly feeling "much better", then added that she'd been feeling "lousy" over the last few days, I was beside myself.
    "Why then, Mom, when I've been asking, have you been telling me that you feel fine?"
    "Well, it didn't seem like I felt that bad."
    "But, you're telling me," I continued, "that, now, looking back, you actually were feeling 'that bad.'"
    "Yes, I suppose so."
    "You know, Mom," I directed her, "when you're not feeling good and I ask, you need to tell me."
    "I suppose so..." she responded, giving me a wary glance.
    I laughed. "Okay," I said, "what was behind that glance?"
    "I'm wondering what you could have done about it."
    Good point. I was noticing something different, but I have to admit that nothing I was noticing was unusual for her, certainly not enough for me to worry or haul her into the doctor. I conceded to her on this. My experience tells me that it's more likely than not that, even if a doctor had "discovered" something, maybe lower than usual hemoglobin or, if some sort of brain scan was prescribed, activity that was a little different than usual, nothing of consequence would be done as a result and, within days, Mom would be "back to normal", doctor or no.
    "For future reference," though, I said, "when I ask, and ask so often, let me know when you're not feeling your normal self, okay?"
    Again, that wary glance. "What does that mean?" Her tone was challenging.
    "Hmmm..." I said. "Maybe that means that I need to be a little more specific in my prying."
    "Good idea," she agreed.
    Maybe that's some of what wisdom is.
    Later.

I just finished updating...

2007-05-06T03:04:00.001-07:00

...Movies, Mom & Me. Each time I update that section, I shudder over how many movies we own, simultaneously reflecting on how many movies we rent, as well.
Strange, I never thought we'd get this involved with movies at home. I even put off getting a DVD player for us for a loooong time, because it just didn't seem as though we'd ever watch many movies at home. I just performed a casual counting which includes those dvds I've separated from the rest for eventual trade back and also includes a count of "1" on multi-dvded TV series and documentary productions. We've got 226 titles, assuming my count was accurate. I've watched all at least once...Mom's watched most at least once. Yikes! Got me to thinking that movies are becoming a bit like reading to one's care recipient used to be, except that I read to Mom, too, almost every evening, and she also reads to herself; and, more and more, I'm also reading to myself. Amazing what you can do when you live in Timelessness!
Later.

Just a lot of stuff

2007-05-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

    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.

One of my readers mentioned that she's never seen a roadrunner...

2007-05-04T08:42:00.001-07:00

...(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.