I was shocked when my husband, gazing out the window, asked, "Do you think those girls with white undersides are grade school?"
What he actually said was, "Do you think those squirrels with white undersides are gray squirrels?"
Friday, June 13, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
A Busy Day
Mom had a very busy day yesterday. In addition to washing and changing the sheets on her bed, she decided, early in the morning, to defrost her mini-refrigerator. Usually she asks for help with this job, but yesterday she decided to attempt it on her own. After switching off her refrigerator, she promptly forgot all about it. The melting ice soon filled the shallow tray under the freezer compartment. When she tried to empty the overflowing tray, she spilled the water, soaking the carpet.
I have noticed something new about her. She's a little more nonchalant these days after years of worrying and fretting over every little thing. Perhaps chronic low-level anxiety is why a doctor put her on valium over 30 years ago. In any case, she usually has to have things just so. A year ago, she would have been in a tizzy over the wet carpet. This time, she merely said, "Oh, it'll dry in a day or two."
She has been uncharacteristically stoic about recent major losses. When she accidently threw out her wedding and engagement rings in February, she "was awake all night" after first discovering their loss. After a day or two, it was, "Oh, well." Similarly, I thought she'd grieve deeply when Arlo, our beagle, had to be put to sleep. She surprised me. The woman who's always claimed an extraordinary love of animals, the woman who sobbed over the death of her cat, Sadie, just a year ago, the woman who spent every day for the past nine years with Arlo at her feet, appears to miss him not at all.
I have noticed something new about her. She's a little more nonchalant these days after years of worrying and fretting over every little thing. Perhaps chronic low-level anxiety is why a doctor put her on valium over 30 years ago. In any case, she usually has to have things just so. A year ago, she would have been in a tizzy over the wet carpet. This time, she merely said, "Oh, it'll dry in a day or two."
She has been uncharacteristically stoic about recent major losses. When she accidently threw out her wedding and engagement rings in February, she "was awake all night" after first discovering their loss. After a day or two, it was, "Oh, well." Similarly, I thought she'd grieve deeply when Arlo, our beagle, had to be put to sleep. She surprised me. The woman who's always claimed an extraordinary love of animals, the woman who sobbed over the death of her cat, Sadie, just a year ago, the woman who spent every day for the past nine years with Arlo at her feet, appears to miss him not at all.
Springs of Compassion
One of my favorite blogs, MY PERSONAL LENS, has a quote today by George Washington Carver, reminding me to be compassionate with my frail, elderly and often cantankerous old mother because someday I will be frail, old, and cantankerous myself.
I am a caretaker whose springs of compassion threaten to run dry. Mom is 99, and will have lived with us for 9 years come August. A friend e-mailed me a "thought for the day" a few weeks ago that I did not take as intended. It advised a woman to live in such a way that, when she gets out of bed every day, the devil says, "Oh, hell! She's awake." I immediately thought, "That's just the way I feel when I see the light on under Mom's door in the morning."
These days she's a combination of fogginess and demandingness.
"I need you to call Debbie (her nurse-practitioner) and ask her why I have to take all these pills." (She's been taking these pills for the last 30 years. She forgets how angrily she rejected Debbie's suggestion that she could get along without her daily valium and nightly sleeping pill.)
"I need you to take me to get my hair washed today."
I know Mom is bored, lonely, and depressed. Macular degeneration has robbed her of the ability to read or even watch television. She listens to, rather than watches, her two favorite televangelists. She used to receive books-on- tape from the library, but has lost interest in those as well. This one's voice is too high. That one's voice is too low. This book is boring. That book has too many swear words. She says she "doesn't have time to sit around and listen to stories." I suspect that she can no longer follow a complicated story line.
Conversation can be a challenge. "What was that terrible noise at two in the morning?" she asked recently.
"I don't know. We didn't hear anything."
"You didn't? That noise lifted me right up out of my bed! I opened the door but you were nowhere to be seen. It was the same noise I heard two or three years ago in the middle of the night. What do you think it was?"
A helpful book** I found at the library yesterday suggested a way to enjoy better conversations. The authors state that folks nearing the end of their lives engage in a process called "life review". They suggest setting aside 30 minutes as often as you can for just listening to your parent talk about his or her life. They even present a list of questions you can ask, such as "What were you like as a child?" or "Where did you live as a young adult?"
We caretakers are told that we need to take care of ourselves. One suggestion is to join a support group. I am a homebody. Once I'm home, I want to stay home. The mere thought of driving across town just to talk makes me tired. That's why blogging has become so important. I feel as if I already have a virtual support group. The comments of on-line friends are like a cool drink of water.
**THE END-OF-LIFE HANDBOOK: A Compassionate Guide to Connecting with and Caring for a Dying Loved One by David B. Feldman, PhD, and S. Andrew Lasher, Jr., MD.
I am a caretaker whose springs of compassion threaten to run dry. Mom is 99, and will have lived with us for 9 years come August. A friend e-mailed me a "thought for the day" a few weeks ago that I did not take as intended. It advised a woman to live in such a way that, when she gets out of bed every day, the devil says, "Oh, hell! She's awake." I immediately thought, "That's just the way I feel when I see the light on under Mom's door in the morning."
These days she's a combination of fogginess and demandingness.
"I need you to call Debbie (her nurse-practitioner) and ask her why I have to take all these pills." (She's been taking these pills for the last 30 years. She forgets how angrily she rejected Debbie's suggestion that she could get along without her daily valium and nightly sleeping pill.)
"I need you to take me to get my hair washed today."
I know Mom is bored, lonely, and depressed. Macular degeneration has robbed her of the ability to read or even watch television. She listens to, rather than watches, her two favorite televangelists. She used to receive books-on- tape from the library, but has lost interest in those as well. This one's voice is too high. That one's voice is too low. This book is boring. That book has too many swear words. She says she "doesn't have time to sit around and listen to stories." I suspect that she can no longer follow a complicated story line.
Conversation can be a challenge. "What was that terrible noise at two in the morning?" she asked recently.
"I don't know. We didn't hear anything."
"You didn't? That noise lifted me right up out of my bed! I opened the door but you were nowhere to be seen. It was the same noise I heard two or three years ago in the middle of the night. What do you think it was?"
A helpful book** I found at the library yesterday suggested a way to enjoy better conversations. The authors state that folks nearing the end of their lives engage in a process called "life review". They suggest setting aside 30 minutes as often as you can for just listening to your parent talk about his or her life. They even present a list of questions you can ask, such as "What were you like as a child?" or "Where did you live as a young adult?"
We caretakers are told that we need to take care of ourselves. One suggestion is to join a support group. I am a homebody. Once I'm home, I want to stay home. The mere thought of driving across town just to talk makes me tired. That's why blogging has become so important. I feel as if I already have a virtual support group. The comments of on-line friends are like a cool drink of water.
**THE END-OF-LIFE HANDBOOK: A Compassionate Guide to Connecting with and Caring for a Dying Loved One by David B. Feldman, PhD, and S. Andrew Lasher, Jr., MD.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Washday Blues
When Mom moved in with us nearly nine years ago, she announced, "My job will be the laundry." That was the household chore I liked the most, but I let her take it over. Soon she had a routine. She did a load of our laundry on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. This included folding it and delivering it to our bedroom. After awhile, she made a few restrictions: she wouldn't do king-size sheets or my husband's blue jeans.
During the past 6 months, she's started having trouble with the controls. After a minor disaster a few weeks ago with the washer, she said, "I am not touching that machine unless someone is at home to turn it on for me." Yesterday she was ready to take charge again. "WHEN are you going to call a repairman and get that machine fixed? I can't always be waiting around for someone to turn the machine on for me."
"I don't need to call a repairman. The washer is not broken, " I replied.
She shook her head impatiently. "Look," she said, shaking a bony finger at me, "I've run that machine for years and have never had any trouble with it before."
I noticed that the dial was still set at the end-of-cycle position. I had forgotten to reset it after washing the sheets and jeans that morning.
"I think I know why you had trouble today, " I said. " I forgot to reset the dial."
"I know how to reset that dial," she informed me, huffily.
This is the woman with advanced macular degeneration, so I said, "It was probably difficult for you to see that the dial needed to be reset."
"Difficult to see, nothing!" she snapped. "I can't see at all!"
"Well, there you are," I muttered to myself.
During the past 6 months, she's started having trouble with the controls. After a minor disaster a few weeks ago with the washer, she said, "I am not touching that machine unless someone is at home to turn it on for me." Yesterday she was ready to take charge again. "WHEN are you going to call a repairman and get that machine fixed? I can't always be waiting around for someone to turn the machine on for me."
"I don't need to call a repairman. The washer is not broken, " I replied.
She shook her head impatiently. "Look," she said, shaking a bony finger at me, "I've run that machine for years and have never had any trouble with it before."
I noticed that the dial was still set at the end-of-cycle position. I had forgotten to reset it after washing the sheets and jeans that morning.
"I think I know why you had trouble today, " I said. " I forgot to reset the dial."
"I know how to reset that dial," she informed me, huffily.
This is the woman with advanced macular degeneration, so I said, "It was probably difficult for you to see that the dial needed to be reset."
"Difficult to see, nothing!" she snapped. "I can't see at all!"
"Well, there you are," I muttered to myself.
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