It has been an interesting week. If today is any indication, it could prove to be interesting for a while longer. I’m generally up for a good challenge although, I must admit, I wouldn’t have signed up for this one. But, I guess, if I had thought it through better, I would have known that when I moved my mom to Colorado, extended visits to the hospital were likely to be a part of my immediate future.
If I’m being truthful about it, hospitals scare me. People in physical pain scare me. The sights and sounds and smells scare me. It is all just not my ‘thing.’ Neither are amusements parks (for somewhat similar reasons) but that is a different story.
Like it or not, this week I’ve spent many hours inside the hospital where my mother has been hooked up to various monitors and IV drips and other sundry equipment. When I got the telephone call that she had been transferred to the Intensive Care Unit, I dreaded going there for a number of reasons. Not the least of which was encountering people who were extremely sick. And dying. Including my mother.
As it turned out, it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. I’ve seen and heard and smelled all manner of things this week that, had you asked, I would have told you I couldn’t handle. But, I can. I guess it is true that we can handle more than we think we can.
Or so I thought. Apparently I can handle the sights and smells. But handling my mother is something all together different.
She was transferred to the cardiac floor after her stay in ICU. Yesterday she just needed to sleep. That was easy. When I arrived today, however, I unwittingly hopped on the erratic-heart-function-rollercoaster, with my mother as the crazy ride operator. Like something out of a horror film.
Did I mention I don’t like amusement parks?
Through a series of events, my mother’s heart rate jumped from a nice, easy going, 55 beats per minute to a terrifying 170 beats per minute in a matter of seconds. Sort of the manic depressive of internal organs.
While nurses scurried to do what they could to bring her heart rate down and people came in the room with EKG machines and blood pressure cuffs and a cardiac physician was ordering medications and tests, my mother seemed unconcerned.
After a couple of episodes of this, she was told she had to lie down and could not sit up. She objected, although prior to the racing heart adventures all she had done was lie down. Suddenly, it became exceedingly important to sit up. When the nurse said she couldn’t sit up because she risked having a stroke, my mother scoffed and said she wasn’t going to have a stroke.
And then it started. She complained. And complained. And complained. This tiny, frail, exceedingly ill, little old lady was ready to hop out of bed and start walking the halls. She was bored. She was restless. They expected her to lie in bed all day? I reminded her that she had been lying in bed all day for the past seven days. What is one more?
Up until that moment she had needed assistance to sit up, move her limbs...pretty much to do anything. I have had to feed her every day! But, once she was told she had to lie in bed she refused, and before I knew what was happening she sat up in bed, swung her spindly little legs over the side and said, “I can’t lie here any longer.” The infection she has been fighting definitely affects her thinking and reasoning, but at that moment she seemed perfectly lucid and with white downy hair standing straight up and the back of her hospital gown gaping open, she was determined to get out of that bed!
I gave her my sternest look and told her to sit right there. I was pretty confident she wasn’t strong enough to stand up on her own but, at that moment, I wasn’t really sure what she was capable of! I proceeded to jog down the hall to the nurse’s station where I informed them of what was happening. Because they could view her heart monitor at the station, they looked at her heart rate and proceeded to run down the hallway to intervene in her great escape and get her to lie back down.
She reluctantly complied and fell asleep. By the time she awoke, the beta blocker she had been given was doing its job and her heart appeared capable of keeping an appropriate and regular rhythm. She was eventually allowed to sit in a chair and that seemed to make her happier.
Up until today, I haven't been sure how she had managed to live through this week. I don’t think anyone really expected her to. Of course, I can’t predict what will happen next, but given the level of determination I saw today, I have the feeling she’s planning to stick around a while longer.
It would be nice, however, if I could stay off the Tilt-a-Whirl for a few days.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Adventures in Pole Dancing....
I admit that I sometimes do inexplicable things. Well, they aren’t that inexplicable, really. They make sense in my mind. I just can't help myself. I have this irrational fear that I’m going to die having missed the chance to do something fun or interesting at least once. This fear causes me to do things that leave other people wondering what is wrong with me. I avoid the illegal and immoral and I’m, admittedly, a bit of a ninny about dying a painful death so, I generally opt out of the things risking bodily harm. Bungee jumping off a bridge holds no appeal.
But, one day last autumn one of those Living Social coupons arrived in my email box and it was for two pole-dancing classes. Today when I think of pole-dancing I think of Sally O’Mally on Saturday Night Live but for some reason, that morning the idea of taking a pole-dancing class seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t thinking in terms of a career change or anything, but I’d been hearing that this is the newest fitness craze, and it seemed like something fun to try.
Of course, I wasn’t going to go to a pole-dancing class by myself. What fun would that be? I started thinking about who would be a likely candidate to join me on this adventure. My friend Shelly came to mind immediately. If I want to do something ‘different’ Shelly is typically game. So, I purchased two pole-dancing class vouchers for $15 and called Shelly to tell her I had a fabulous birthday gift for her.
Her response was less than thrilled. It was more along the lines of, “You want me to do what?” Eventually, she got used to the idea, or maybe she was resigned to it, I’m not sure. Regardless, I made a reservation for our class and we made our plans to go.
When we arrived at the studio the surroundings were a bit disconcerting. It was located right next to a bar. Now, is that really a good idea? Granted, the classes are supposed to be for fitness… but still.
We entered the dimly lit studio in our sweatpants and t-shirts and wended our way through the scantily clad 20-something-year olds. Hmmmm. I began to rethink the wisdom of this idea. I scanned the room for anyone else even remotely close to my age. I scanned again. Nope. Nobody. Expect for Shelly. But even she is five-years younger! A quick review of my options left me with leaving (which I had no intention of doing), or embracing the experience.
I went with embracing.
The class started with some stretches and then moved into some interesting wriggling and writhing movements which pretty much just served to make us laugh. Perhaps we are immature. Or, perhaps the whole thing just looked ridiculous. I’m not sure which. Things really got silly, though, when the instructor told us to crawl seductively across the floor.
The hardwood floor.
Now exactly how seductive can one look crawling along a hardwood floor in sweatpants, while wincing and yelping, “ouch?” It just wasn’t working for me. Shelly suggested that, were I to try this again, I might want to invest in some of those knee pads roofers wear.
Yes, that would add to the seductive look I already had going!
Maybe I could have crawled seductively across a hardwood floor when I was 20. I don’t recall feeling the need to do so but, maybe my knees would have protested less then. I’m not sure my knees would have thought the whole thing was any less foolish, however.
In the end, Shelly and I had a really hard time taking this whole notion of pole fitness seriously. We laughed more than we exercised. At first everyone in the room seemed very serious-minded about their pole-dancing. After a while, though, we added enough comic relief that they seemed to take themselves a little less seriously. Maybe that was our contribution.
I know pole fitness is the latest ‘thing.’ And I gave it a try. Honestly. I did. The laughter did my soul good, but I’m pretty sure a good healthy walk or a yoga class would benefit my body more.
I don’t believe I’ll need to try that again.
But, one day last autumn one of those Living Social coupons arrived in my email box and it was for two pole-dancing classes. Today when I think of pole-dancing I think of Sally O’Mally on Saturday Night Live but for some reason, that morning the idea of taking a pole-dancing class seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t thinking in terms of a career change or anything, but I’d been hearing that this is the newest fitness craze, and it seemed like something fun to try.
Of course, I wasn’t going to go to a pole-dancing class by myself. What fun would that be? I started thinking about who would be a likely candidate to join me on this adventure. My friend Shelly came to mind immediately. If I want to do something ‘different’ Shelly is typically game. So, I purchased two pole-dancing class vouchers for $15 and called Shelly to tell her I had a fabulous birthday gift for her.
Her response was less than thrilled. It was more along the lines of, “You want me to do what?” Eventually, she got used to the idea, or maybe she was resigned to it, I’m not sure. Regardless, I made a reservation for our class and we made our plans to go.
When we arrived at the studio the surroundings were a bit disconcerting. It was located right next to a bar. Now, is that really a good idea? Granted, the classes are supposed to be for fitness… but still.
We entered the dimly lit studio in our sweatpants and t-shirts and wended our way through the scantily clad 20-something-year olds. Hmmmm. I began to rethink the wisdom of this idea. I scanned the room for anyone else even remotely close to my age. I scanned again. Nope. Nobody. Expect for Shelly. But even she is five-years younger! A quick review of my options left me with leaving (which I had no intention of doing), or embracing the experience.
I went with embracing.
The class started with some stretches and then moved into some interesting wriggling and writhing movements which pretty much just served to make us laugh. Perhaps we are immature. Or, perhaps the whole thing just looked ridiculous. I’m not sure which. Things really got silly, though, when the instructor told us to crawl seductively across the floor.
The hardwood floor.
Now exactly how seductive can one look crawling along a hardwood floor in sweatpants, while wincing and yelping, “ouch?” It just wasn’t working for me. Shelly suggested that, were I to try this again, I might want to invest in some of those knee pads roofers wear.
Yes, that would add to the seductive look I already had going!
Maybe I could have crawled seductively across a hardwood floor when I was 20. I don’t recall feeling the need to do so but, maybe my knees would have protested less then. I’m not sure my knees would have thought the whole thing was any less foolish, however.
In the end, Shelly and I had a really hard time taking this whole notion of pole fitness seriously. We laughed more than we exercised. At first everyone in the room seemed very serious-minded about their pole-dancing. After a while, though, we added enough comic relief that they seemed to take themselves a little less seriously. Maybe that was our contribution.
I know pole fitness is the latest ‘thing.’ And I gave it a try. Honestly. I did. The laughter did my soul good, but I’m pretty sure a good healthy walk or a yoga class would benefit my body more.
I don’t believe I’ll need to try that again.
Friday, April 15, 2011
You Talkin' to Me?
Today was 9 Health-Fair day. Steve and I go every year. For very little money we get comprehensive blood work. So, this morning we followed our usual routine of going to the health-fair and then, after 12 hours of fasting, going out for a big, fattening, unhealthy breakfast.
The health-fair routine is pretty predictable. Wait in line for your turn to get blood drawn. Sit down at the table and have the nurse or paramedic or whomever, wrap a tourniquet around your upper arm. Here is where the story develops a tiny little bit of plot. To me they say, “You’ll feel a little pinch.” Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. A few minutes later they slap a Band-Aid on my arm and I’m done. Meanwhile, Steve’s arm is being examined by multiple people who mutter things like, “Oh dear.” Sometimes they just hum ominously while shaking their heads.
I leave the blood draw room for what follows. Typically, one person attempts to draw Steve’s blood by poking his arm several times. Then another person takes over and they poke around for a while. Then Steve turns white and they start asking if he’s okay or needs to lie down. He declines the lying down part. More poking ensues and eventually they manage to find a vein and draw out enough blood to test.
I’ve usually covered the entire health-fair in the time it takes him to give a vial of blood. Today was no exception. Each health related exhibit at the fair has literature to give away and I always decline taking it because I know I’ll just throw it away after I’ve read it. As I was passing the Breast Cancer booth I was captivated by the macabre little models of breast tumors compared with various fruits. While looking at the tumor vs. raspberry model, a woman came up from another booth and thrust a pamphlet toward me. She asked me if I was aware of Overeaters Anonymous.
Um. I guess I have heard of it. Yes. She proceeded to shake the pamphlet in front of my hands and insisted I take it. I politely said, “Thank you but, I don’t have a problem with compulsive eating.” At this point she and another woman gave each other knowing glances, smiled and one of them said, “Oh that’s what I used to say, too!” The other one chimed in, “I was still saying that sixty pounds ago!”
I felt confused. Were they talking to me!?
I actually looked down my body at my abdomen and my thighs assessing their size. I thought for a minute I might have ballooned out or something. I began to get concerned that I was overweight and had only been fooling myself about being average. Like maybe I have reverse anorexia where I think I’m of average weight when I’m really obese.
Against my better judgment, I took the quaking brochure while the women explained that there were support groups available every day of the week. I nodded numbly and I managed to slip through a few people to escape further condemnation of the Overeaters Anonymous women.
They didn’t seem so anonymous to me!
I felt a bit shaken by the whole thing and went to have my bone density tested. I’d been reading about bone density lately and thought I’d see what that was all about. I felt somewhat relieved at getting a borderline low density assessment since women with low bone density are typically smaller framed and not overweight.
And then I got a grip on myself.
Why is it so easy, in this culture, to make a woman feel inadequate about her weight? What is wrong with this situation that I would actually, if only for a moment, entertain the idea that having a borderline low bone density is a GOOD thing because it meant I wasn’t large?
When I finally met up with Steve and his battered, bruised, arm I told him the story. Of course, he laughed, and reminded me that in this culture we all have to have some ‘problem.’
I reminded him that I do have a problem. She’s elderly and calls me several times a day.
I was able to enjoy my pancakes with syrup and several cups of coffee as we visited and watched Steve’s arm swell and turn blue. I’m sure there are people out there for whom Overeaters Anonymous is a life-saver. I have no doubt that the organization is valid and helpful and much needed. What bothered me was how much it bothered me that they singled me out as someone who needed their organization!
Who I am is not defined by how much I weigh. No woman should feel that her value and worth are defined by her size and shape. And yet…all it took was one pushy, not-so-anonymous, overeater to make me question myself. I overcame my insecurity fairly quickly. How many other women wouldn't be able to?
What I couldn’t,overcome, however, was how unappealing my breakfast raspberries looked.
The health-fair routine is pretty predictable. Wait in line for your turn to get blood drawn. Sit down at the table and have the nurse or paramedic or whomever, wrap a tourniquet around your upper arm. Here is where the story develops a tiny little bit of plot. To me they say, “You’ll feel a little pinch.” Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. A few minutes later they slap a Band-Aid on my arm and I’m done. Meanwhile, Steve’s arm is being examined by multiple people who mutter things like, “Oh dear.” Sometimes they just hum ominously while shaking their heads.
I leave the blood draw room for what follows. Typically, one person attempts to draw Steve’s blood by poking his arm several times. Then another person takes over and they poke around for a while. Then Steve turns white and they start asking if he’s okay or needs to lie down. He declines the lying down part. More poking ensues and eventually they manage to find a vein and draw out enough blood to test.
I’ve usually covered the entire health-fair in the time it takes him to give a vial of blood. Today was no exception. Each health related exhibit at the fair has literature to give away and I always decline taking it because I know I’ll just throw it away after I’ve read it. As I was passing the Breast Cancer booth I was captivated by the macabre little models of breast tumors compared with various fruits. While looking at the tumor vs. raspberry model, a woman came up from another booth and thrust a pamphlet toward me. She asked me if I was aware of Overeaters Anonymous.
Um. I guess I have heard of it. Yes. She proceeded to shake the pamphlet in front of my hands and insisted I take it. I politely said, “Thank you but, I don’t have a problem with compulsive eating.” At this point she and another woman gave each other knowing glances, smiled and one of them said, “Oh that’s what I used to say, too!” The other one chimed in, “I was still saying that sixty pounds ago!”
I felt confused. Were they talking to me!?
I actually looked down my body at my abdomen and my thighs assessing their size. I thought for a minute I might have ballooned out or something. I began to get concerned that I was overweight and had only been fooling myself about being average. Like maybe I have reverse anorexia where I think I’m of average weight when I’m really obese.
Against my better judgment, I took the quaking brochure while the women explained that there were support groups available every day of the week. I nodded numbly and I managed to slip through a few people to escape further condemnation of the Overeaters Anonymous women.
They didn’t seem so anonymous to me!
I felt a bit shaken by the whole thing and went to have my bone density tested. I’d been reading about bone density lately and thought I’d see what that was all about. I felt somewhat relieved at getting a borderline low density assessment since women with low bone density are typically smaller framed and not overweight.
And then I got a grip on myself.
Why is it so easy, in this culture, to make a woman feel inadequate about her weight? What is wrong with this situation that I would actually, if only for a moment, entertain the idea that having a borderline low bone density is a GOOD thing because it meant I wasn’t large?
When I finally met up with Steve and his battered, bruised, arm I told him the story. Of course, he laughed, and reminded me that in this culture we all have to have some ‘problem.’
I reminded him that I do have a problem. She’s elderly and calls me several times a day.
I was able to enjoy my pancakes with syrup and several cups of coffee as we visited and watched Steve’s arm swell and turn blue. I’m sure there are people out there for whom Overeaters Anonymous is a life-saver. I have no doubt that the organization is valid and helpful and much needed. What bothered me was how much it bothered me that they singled me out as someone who needed their organization!
Who I am is not defined by how much I weigh. No woman should feel that her value and worth are defined by her size and shape. And yet…all it took was one pushy, not-so-anonymous, overeater to make me question myself. I overcame my insecurity fairly quickly. How many other women wouldn't be able to?
What I couldn’t,overcome, however, was how unappealing my breakfast raspberries looked.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
These are Medicinal Herbs. Honest!
I am working on dissertation revisions again. Dissertation writing is arduous and has a way of depleting my energy, so it seems that when I reach the height of dissertation work I naturally gravitate toward something else that has a more creative quality to it. Then both sides of my brain are happy and my energy is restored. A happy brain and restored energy make me a nicer person.
I think that’s called balance.
The current diversion: making and consuming herbal infusions. Yes, my time and attention when I’m not working on my dissertation (or when I supposed to be working on my dissertation but choosing not to) has turned to researching the medicinal effects of taking certain dried herbs, putting them in a jar, covering the herbs with boiling water, capping it, letting it set overnight and consuming it the next day.
So far I’ve made infusions out of oatstraw and stinging nettles and while I understand that the effects of herbal remedies are realized over the long haul, I’m not sure I’m really going to be committed to drinking this stuff for the rest of my life. We’ll see. Somehow these concoctions lack what you might call, ‘curb appeal.’ Stems and leaves floating in green water isn’t all that appetizing, I must admit. I’m willing to give it some time and it is interesting to try new herbs but I’m pretty sure without some recognizable physical changes this might be a short lived experiment.
Most of what I’ve learned about herbal infusions comes from the website of a woman named Susun Weed. So, for starters, her name is a little suspect. I mean, from what I can tell, she knows her herbs and while she might not fit cultural norms of beauty, she has a certain beauty in her countenance and convivial manner. I’m skeptical, however, of her name. Really? Weed? And, I’m willing to bet when she was born her parents named her Susan, along with half the other parents in the US. I’m pretty sure she altered the spelling. ‘Weed’ might be just a bit too convenient of a name for an herbalist.
Regardless, I go along with Susun’s recommendations and claims of great health and energy by concocting jars of steeping straw in my kitchen. I’ve asked myself why I am doing this. Certainly others have asked me why I’m doing this!
According to Susun some of these herbs can enhance lactation. That’s fine. Except, I’ve no need for lactating at this stage of my life. Some of the herbs are supposed to be able to remedy health issues. But I don’t have any real health issues. I was hoping the outcome would be a renewed zeal for finishing my dissertation or some terrific insight into my research that makes all of the loose ends tie up neatly. So far the only outcome I’ve found is the laughter and joking that comes from my children finding the stash of little plastic bags of dried green leaves.
Perhaps their laughter is the best reason of all.
I’m not looking for some magic elixir to make me live forever because I am not all that concerned about how long I live. But while I’m alive; I want to live. I want to learn interesting things and have new experiences. I want relationships that are meaningful and I want laughter to fill my home and my life. I want to balance hard work with frivolity, sorrow with happiness, and quiet with noise.
As long as I’m alive, I want it all.
So while oatstraw may be a passing fancy, I intend to keep love and laughter around for as long as I can. And by way of balance, I think I’ll make some oatstraw infusion, and a rich chocolate cake.
I think that’s called balance.
The current diversion: making and consuming herbal infusions. Yes, my time and attention when I’m not working on my dissertation (or when I supposed to be working on my dissertation but choosing not to) has turned to researching the medicinal effects of taking certain dried herbs, putting them in a jar, covering the herbs with boiling water, capping it, letting it set overnight and consuming it the next day.
So far I’ve made infusions out of oatstraw and stinging nettles and while I understand that the effects of herbal remedies are realized over the long haul, I’m not sure I’m really going to be committed to drinking this stuff for the rest of my life. We’ll see. Somehow these concoctions lack what you might call, ‘curb appeal.’ Stems and leaves floating in green water isn’t all that appetizing, I must admit. I’m willing to give it some time and it is interesting to try new herbs but I’m pretty sure without some recognizable physical changes this might be a short lived experiment.
Most of what I’ve learned about herbal infusions comes from the website of a woman named Susun Weed. So, for starters, her name is a little suspect. I mean, from what I can tell, she knows her herbs and while she might not fit cultural norms of beauty, she has a certain beauty in her countenance and convivial manner. I’m skeptical, however, of her name. Really? Weed? And, I’m willing to bet when she was born her parents named her Susan, along with half the other parents in the US. I’m pretty sure she altered the spelling. ‘Weed’ might be just a bit too convenient of a name for an herbalist.
Regardless, I go along with Susun’s recommendations and claims of great health and energy by concocting jars of steeping straw in my kitchen. I’ve asked myself why I am doing this. Certainly others have asked me why I’m doing this!
According to Susun some of these herbs can enhance lactation. That’s fine. Except, I’ve no need for lactating at this stage of my life. Some of the herbs are supposed to be able to remedy health issues. But I don’t have any real health issues. I was hoping the outcome would be a renewed zeal for finishing my dissertation or some terrific insight into my research that makes all of the loose ends tie up neatly. So far the only outcome I’ve found is the laughter and joking that comes from my children finding the stash of little plastic bags of dried green leaves.
Perhaps their laughter is the best reason of all.
I’m not looking for some magic elixir to make me live forever because I am not all that concerned about how long I live. But while I’m alive; I want to live. I want to learn interesting things and have new experiences. I want relationships that are meaningful and I want laughter to fill my home and my life. I want to balance hard work with frivolity, sorrow with happiness, and quiet with noise.
As long as I’m alive, I want it all.
So while oatstraw may be a passing fancy, I intend to keep love and laughter around for as long as I can. And by way of balance, I think I’ll make some oatstraw infusion, and a rich chocolate cake.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sad Reality
I recognize that being a woman with ‘mom issues’ is cliché. I also recognize that being a woman over 40 who bleaches her hair blond is cliché. But that doesn’t stop me. It is no secret that I was born to people who had no business having children. But, they did. And, I’m glad. They had their problems but, hey, without them as parents I might have had some boring, vanilla upbringing. Or, come to think of it, I wouldn't have had any upbringing at all!
My mother likes to talk about our family as if we were right off the set of Leave it to Beaver. Truthfully, we were a bit more As The World Turns and it still confuses me when she recalls my childhood. I’m fairly certain we lived in different homes. Perhaps her memories are skewed in one direction, mine in another, and somewhere in between is reality. Although, when my siblings and I get together and reminisce, it seems clear that we all grew up in the same environment. Not sure where my mom was. But, therein might lay the problem.
Reality has always been elusive to my mother. Even when she was much younger. Somewhere she picked up the idea that if she just said things were okay, the really would be. I believe in the power of positive thinking but, when the house and cars were being repossessed because my father forgot to stop drinking and go to work, it was a little disconcerting to have my mother saying things were just dandy in our secure, happy world.
I don’t feel the need to rehash childhood memories with my mother. Occasionally she says something so absurd I can’t help but laugh and remind her that what she is saying is complete fantasy. When I do, she sheepishly chuckles and says she guesses I’m right. She follows up with a question that isn’t really a question. She asks if my childhood was really that bad and I say no. What is the point? She can’t change the past. She asks for reassurance and I give it to her.
Being dysfunctional works for us.
These days, though, it is harder to know how to deal with my mother’s lapses in reality. These days the lapses seem less about just not wanting reality to be reality and more about truly not knowing. And that changes my own reality about how to deal with her.
Recently, I had to make a decision about my mother’s care and it ended up being much more difficult than I anticipated. For the past year I have been delivering her prescriptions on a weekly basis but, about once a week she forgets to open the pill box and take the medications I’ve prepared for her. When she forgets, it sets up a cycle that happens quickly and severely. She becomes physically ill, can’t eat, can’t think straight, gets too weak and fatigued to walk and her pulse drops frighteningly low.
I then have to go to her apartment, coax her into taking her pills, persuade her to eat and try and get her back on track. She has trouble thinking and communicating for a few days and just about the time she is back to ‘normal,’ the cycle starts up again. Her physician, the nurse at her retirement community, and my sister have all been encouraging me to set her up on a program to have a nurse deliver her medications throughout the day, every day. I’ve been resisting the decision because I was hoping my mother would make the decision herself.
I was hoping my mother would see how frequently her life is disrupted by not taking her medication. I kept thinking she’d decide on her own to start the program, ensuring that she takes the medications regularly, feels better and ends the cycle.
Maybe lack of reality is hereditary.
She didn’t make the decision on her own and last week I started the process of putting her on the program. She is upset with me about it. This is one more thing to take her independence away. It makes me sad. She’s always been crazy, but that was a crazy of choice. This is different. This is someone who desperately doesn’t want to let go of reality. Even though her reality has always been sketchy, this loss of reality is organic. And she can’t control it. And it scares her.
So, I sadly walk though this phase with her. Her normal lack of reality is annoying. This lack of reality is much harder to watch. Sometimes I can’t tell which is which and then I don’t know how to respond. I have times when it feels like I’m walking through a house of mirrors; not sure what is real and what isn’t.
She’ll get over being angry at me for this decision. She probably won’t stop telling me she is angry about it, but I hope, eventually, she realizes it is for the best. This decision might even slow down some of her movement toward losing touch with reality. The organic kind. Not the fantasy kind.
For years my siblings and I have wished that my mother would stop living in her ridiculous fantasy world and deal with reality. Now though, as I watch her slow decent into dementia, the silly world that she’s always chosen doesn’t seem so bad.
My mother likes to talk about our family as if we were right off the set of Leave it to Beaver. Truthfully, we were a bit more As The World Turns and it still confuses me when she recalls my childhood. I’m fairly certain we lived in different homes. Perhaps her memories are skewed in one direction, mine in another, and somewhere in between is reality. Although, when my siblings and I get together and reminisce, it seems clear that we all grew up in the same environment. Not sure where my mom was. But, therein might lay the problem.
Reality has always been elusive to my mother. Even when she was much younger. Somewhere she picked up the idea that if she just said things were okay, the really would be. I believe in the power of positive thinking but, when the house and cars were being repossessed because my father forgot to stop drinking and go to work, it was a little disconcerting to have my mother saying things were just dandy in our secure, happy world.
I don’t feel the need to rehash childhood memories with my mother. Occasionally she says something so absurd I can’t help but laugh and remind her that what she is saying is complete fantasy. When I do, she sheepishly chuckles and says she guesses I’m right. She follows up with a question that isn’t really a question. She asks if my childhood was really that bad and I say no. What is the point? She can’t change the past. She asks for reassurance and I give it to her.
Being dysfunctional works for us.
These days, though, it is harder to know how to deal with my mother’s lapses in reality. These days the lapses seem less about just not wanting reality to be reality and more about truly not knowing. And that changes my own reality about how to deal with her.
Recently, I had to make a decision about my mother’s care and it ended up being much more difficult than I anticipated. For the past year I have been delivering her prescriptions on a weekly basis but, about once a week she forgets to open the pill box and take the medications I’ve prepared for her. When she forgets, it sets up a cycle that happens quickly and severely. She becomes physically ill, can’t eat, can’t think straight, gets too weak and fatigued to walk and her pulse drops frighteningly low.
I then have to go to her apartment, coax her into taking her pills, persuade her to eat and try and get her back on track. She has trouble thinking and communicating for a few days and just about the time she is back to ‘normal,’ the cycle starts up again. Her physician, the nurse at her retirement community, and my sister have all been encouraging me to set her up on a program to have a nurse deliver her medications throughout the day, every day. I’ve been resisting the decision because I was hoping my mother would make the decision herself.
I was hoping my mother would see how frequently her life is disrupted by not taking her medication. I kept thinking she’d decide on her own to start the program, ensuring that she takes the medications regularly, feels better and ends the cycle.
Maybe lack of reality is hereditary.
She didn’t make the decision on her own and last week I started the process of putting her on the program. She is upset with me about it. This is one more thing to take her independence away. It makes me sad. She’s always been crazy, but that was a crazy of choice. This is different. This is someone who desperately doesn’t want to let go of reality. Even though her reality has always been sketchy, this loss of reality is organic. And she can’t control it. And it scares her.
So, I sadly walk though this phase with her. Her normal lack of reality is annoying. This lack of reality is much harder to watch. Sometimes I can’t tell which is which and then I don’t know how to respond. I have times when it feels like I’m walking through a house of mirrors; not sure what is real and what isn’t.
She’ll get over being angry at me for this decision. She probably won’t stop telling me she is angry about it, but I hope, eventually, she realizes it is for the best. This decision might even slow down some of her movement toward losing touch with reality. The organic kind. Not the fantasy kind.
For years my siblings and I have wished that my mother would stop living in her ridiculous fantasy world and deal with reality. Now though, as I watch her slow decent into dementia, the silly world that she’s always chosen doesn’t seem so bad.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
This Old...And Full...House
I’m not a ‘saver.’ One of those hoarders that keeps everything and collects the junk of everyone else. I definitely do more tossing than keeping. Perhaps that comes from my desire to live in a small house. You can’t keep a lot of junk in a small house. Well, you can keep a lot of junk but that makes for a cluttered and crowded living environment. When it comes to people, though, I think I might be a hoarder.
A couple of weeks ago Parker moved back home after a six-month stint of apartment dwelling. His roommate, Jesse, move in with us too. And now my little house has six adult-sized people living in it. Every bedroom has a resident and the basement doubles as a family room and Jesse’s bedroom.
My soul is happy.
I don’t think I’ll be one of those mothers whose purpose in life leaves when her children do but, I know that when they are all home and under one roof I am happiest and most content. They are all pretty independent; coming and going as their work schedules, school schedules, and social lives dictate. And, they bring in all manner of junk food that I would never buy. That makes Steve happy. I mean, it would be rude for him not to eat it with them, right?
The times when everyone is actually home, in the house, and interacting are very rare. But, when they occur, they are wonderfully fun. There is laughter and joking and a spirit of loving comaraderie. I didn’t give birth to Jesse but I might as well have. He fits in perfectly.
And so I savor.
I savor because I know that these young men, all in their early 20s, won’t live here for that long. And I know that Anna, right on their heels, won’t be far behind. It is right and good that they will launch into accomplishing their various goals and aspirations. I wouldn’t want them to be emotional cripples who can’t leave mama. Well, okay, I do want that a little. But that isn’t what I hope for them. I want to see them move on and thrive. When the time is right.
But, for today, the time is right for them all to be here, in my house, bringing their youthful joy and spirit, leaving piles of shoes at the front door, eating Oreos and chocolate milk, and coming and going on a 24-hour schedule. The bustle and commotion bring me joy.
Someday my house will be empty and quiet. Of course, by then I’ll have my dissertation finished and I won’t need a quiet and empty house! And Steve says that isn’t true anyway, that when the kids are gone I’ll just invite stray cats, dogs, and people to live with us. He might be right. But they won’t be my precious children.
For today, I savor the time I have with them. They are giving me a valuable gift not only of their presence but by teaching me to hold them tightly in my heart and loosely with my hands. To take each day as it comes and to cherish the time, right now, because it won’t always be this way. Life doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t stop. I won’t get these moments back. There are no ‘do-overs.’ There is only right now to drink it in and embrace it.
Let tomorrow bring what it will. Today, I embrace the joy.
A couple of weeks ago Parker moved back home after a six-month stint of apartment dwelling. His roommate, Jesse, move in with us too. And now my little house has six adult-sized people living in it. Every bedroom has a resident and the basement doubles as a family room and Jesse’s bedroom.
My soul is happy.
I don’t think I’ll be one of those mothers whose purpose in life leaves when her children do but, I know that when they are all home and under one roof I am happiest and most content. They are all pretty independent; coming and going as their work schedules, school schedules, and social lives dictate. And, they bring in all manner of junk food that I would never buy. That makes Steve happy. I mean, it would be rude for him not to eat it with them, right?
The times when everyone is actually home, in the house, and interacting are very rare. But, when they occur, they are wonderfully fun. There is laughter and joking and a spirit of loving comaraderie. I didn’t give birth to Jesse but I might as well have. He fits in perfectly.
And so I savor.
I savor because I know that these young men, all in their early 20s, won’t live here for that long. And I know that Anna, right on their heels, won’t be far behind. It is right and good that they will launch into accomplishing their various goals and aspirations. I wouldn’t want them to be emotional cripples who can’t leave mama. Well, okay, I do want that a little. But that isn’t what I hope for them. I want to see them move on and thrive. When the time is right.
But, for today, the time is right for them all to be here, in my house, bringing their youthful joy and spirit, leaving piles of shoes at the front door, eating Oreos and chocolate milk, and coming and going on a 24-hour schedule. The bustle and commotion bring me joy.
Someday my house will be empty and quiet. Of course, by then I’ll have my dissertation finished and I won’t need a quiet and empty house! And Steve says that isn’t true anyway, that when the kids are gone I’ll just invite stray cats, dogs, and people to live with us. He might be right. But they won’t be my precious children.
For today, I savor the time I have with them. They are giving me a valuable gift not only of their presence but by teaching me to hold them tightly in my heart and loosely with my hands. To take each day as it comes and to cherish the time, right now, because it won’t always be this way. Life doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t stop. I won’t get these moments back. There are no ‘do-overs.’ There is only right now to drink it in and embrace it.
Let tomorrow bring what it will. Today, I embrace the joy.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Make Mine Red!
Even before he could talk he had memorized things about chassis and engines and fuel pumps that regular, ordinary adults knew little about. Admittedly, he doesn’t get his brilliance about cars from me. My knowledge pretty much ends at paint color.
When he turned 16, Charles was allowed to drive our cars. Much to his horror. Being people who value cars as simple transportation, we never buy new, rarely buy pretty and have been known on more than one occasion to accept automobiles from friends that would otherwise be hauled to the junk yard. The cars would be hauled to the junk yard. Not the friends.
Anyway, not wanting to continue being humiliated by driving the ancient family mini-van with the side trim stripped away due to a close encounter with a light pole, Charles saved money to buy his own vehicle.
The object of his desire was a 1993 Ford Bronco. I’m pretty sure there were some letters and numbers after the name but I can’t recall what they were.
I do know it was blue.
Charles and the Bronco had many wonderful adventures before numerous repairs, rising fuel prices, and a several mile commute to work caused him to decide to sell it a few years ago. He sold it to someone who wanted only the engine and transmission and then planned to junk it.
The day the sale transacted was one of the saddest in Charles’s young life. He bravely fought tears as he watched it drive away. His remorse over the sale increased but the deed was done and we assumed the Bronco had been made into pop cans. Or whatever they do with scrap metal.
Some time later Charles happened to be driving through a neighborhood when he turned a corner and…there it was…the Bronco…sitting in front of a house! Complete with a ticket for being parked and inoperable. The buyer had taken the parts he wanted but couldn’t bring himself to take it to the junk yard.
Shortly thereafter the Bronco returned to our house on a flatbed tow-truck. It is stored in our garage without the internal organs typically needed to sustain life. But Charles has a vision. His vision is to restore the Bronco to its original pristine condition.
When most people look in our garage, amid the clutter and miscellaneous refuse, they see a broken down, roughed up, lifeless hunk of metal. Otherwise known as a ‘junker.’ Charles sees far beyond the dents, scratches, blemishes, missing parts and rust spots.
Charles sees something beautiful.
It occurs to me that the Bronco in many ways represents humanity. People are often blemished and rough and at times emotionally lifeless. But, if we put in the effort, we can see past the rust and dents and see the beautiful. Sometimes it takes far more love than we are humanly able to give, to see through the damage. That is when prayer comes in handy. When I can’t find a way to love, I can pray for divine intervention to help me see past the broken side mirror and flaking paint. I guess God sees all of us as restored and freshly painted.
And when I start to see past the obvious and, instead, see possibility, I can be more tolerant and caring and truly kind to those whose lives intersect with mine. It doesn’t really matter if it is my immediate family, my crazy mother, a neighbor, or just a passerby, if I offer genuine love and caring rather than scorn and condemnation I’ve done something to improve life on this planet.
I’m not sure if we get to choose how others see us in our restored condition; if they choose to see us that way at all. But, if it is up to me, I’d like to think we are all bright, shiny...and RED.
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