Tuesday, July 27, 2004
It's 0218, Mom went to bed just a few minutes ago.
I had to pick her up off the floor, again, earlier this evening, or, I guess it would be yesterday evening. She went in for a nap around 1700. Normally around this time I make myself a cup of coffee knowing that when she awakens she'll be up for awhile and drinking coffee will keep me alert. Yesterday evening, instead of doing this I decided, no coffee, even though I was exhausted. I decided I needed to get out of that habit and maybe nap when Mom's napping. I laid down at 1800, set my alarm for 1900 knowing how exhausted I was. I guess I was so exhausted I turned off my alarm in my sleep. A few minutes before 2000 I bolted awake. I headed down the hall, noticed a light in the dinette and Mom's oxygen cord strung down the hall, which was a surprise since she usually takes the cord off first thing when she awakens from a nap. I figured she must have arisen on her own and made her way out to the dinette, which seemed promising. I also guessed that the distance from her bedroom to the dinette is less than 40 feet, the length of the cord. As I entered the kitchen I saw her sitting on the floor between the kitchen and the dinette. Her oxygen cord hadn't reached into the dinette had, apparently, pulled her back, she'd lost her balance and ended up sitting on the floor.
I lowered myself to the floor with her, asked her what happened. She wasn't sure, although I was. She also wasn't sure how long she'd been there. I asked her if she was hurt. She responded that she was not. I checked her out everywhere, asking specifically about her knees, her legs, her back, her neck, and moved my hands over her body looking for places that might register pain on touch. Everything seemed fine, thank the gods. So, I manuevered her into position and picked her up off the floor while talking her through the procedure. As she did yesterday, despite my clear instructions before I began to pick her up and during the procedure, she unlocked her arms from around my neck and tried to "help" me by bracing herself against the refrigerator and the counter. I had to yell at her, while I was halfway up, to get her to stop "trying to help" me and lock her arms around my neck, again. She did. Luckily, there was no danger to my back, as my legs, I've discovered, are strong enough to remain sturdily in a semi-squat while waiting for my mother to believe that she does not have to help the whole goddamned world at a time like this, she needs to allow the world to help her.
I take full responsibility for this collapsing-to-the-floor incident. I shouldn't have napped. I am, first of all, not much of a napper but, second, I've pretty much given up even those naps that seem impossible to resist in order to make sure that this sort of thing doesn't happen when my mother arises from hers. I learned my lesson, today, and, luckily, it seems as though there is no damage to my mother.
She's been very weak in the legs again today, partly, I think, a hold over from yesterday. I think some of the weakness, too, is because I insisted on giving her metoclopramide before breakfast and lunch to make sure she kept at least two of her meals down, since all the food she really ingested, yesterday, was breakfast. I hope the vomiting wasn't from lowering hemoglobin but I guess we'll find out Wednesday, since it is imperative, I think, to get her to the lab today. We didn't make it to the lab yesterday because the metoclopramide made her so woozy that I was afraid she'd collapse; yet, I also felt that, to be on the safe side, I needed to give it to her. I didn't give it to her at dinner.
Being ancient is a tough row to hoe. Being the caretaker of an Ancient One is a tough row to hoe. I've just about decided I'm not going to allow myself to get old. Period. I admire my mother for hanging in there and I know she has her reasons, but, well, my life doesn't have the same reasons as hers and none of the reasons for my life have anything to do with becoming ancient.
I'm unclear, now, how much of her developing weakness these past few months is due to her dedication to immobility and how much of it might be due to something else. Her blood pressure is still going crazy. I wonder if something "new" is going on inside her. I wonder if I was too hard on her yesterday. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder...and, you know, I know that I probably won't find much out from the doctors, I never do, but, well, it looks like we're due for another round of visits.
She seems to think she is having trouble urinating, again, although she actually isn't. Her right eye is swimming a bit more obviously in the white area. I wonder if she's having a series of mini-strokes although nothing else seems to point to this. Her obvious weakness isn't sudden, really, nor has it gotten suddenly worse. I know, that sounds pretty strange to be saying, considering the last few days, but there are so many other variables involved that its hard to say these incidents are "sudden".
I'm on the island, again, with my mother, the island with no other people, only resources. It's the only place, now, from where I've been able to draw the strength to continue from moment to moment these last few days, making plans and then having to change them, then having to change the changes, then having to pick her up off the floor, again.
The end of my mother's life is seeming imminent, again. This happens on occasion. When it does I'm reminded of her Will, which specifies no funeral; rather, a memorial service, as I believe she put it, "have a party on me." This is her style. Over the last few years I've made and confirmed, many times over, a decision of my own of which I am presently reminded as I observe, at the moment, how her hold on life seems tenuous. At previous times like this I've meant to mention it but am usually too busy to get back here. Tonight, though, having made myself drink a cup of coffee at 2030 so I could keep up with her this evening, I find myself having the time to put this down. When my mother dies I am planning not to be involved in her memorial service, neither the execution of it nor in attendance. I am soaked to the bone with my mother. Not only do I have no need for a memorial service, I have no desire to attend and be at the mercy of people whose memories of my mother, of their own accord, are fragmented, personal and no longer related to mine. I consider that I'm not going to want to be around people mourning her loss. I will have no desire to set myself up as a grief stricken resource for others. This journal is the resource of who my mother has been and continues to become while I've been with her through this period to the end of her life. I began this journal so there would be a resource that didn't involve me being asked, over and over, to tell stories on my mother. All my stories, all my memories, everything about her that I can relate is here. When she dies I expect to be grief stricken but I have no desire to be the resource on my mother at her memorial service. I won't need to be. I won't want to be. Everything everyone will want to know will be here. This is my memorial. This is my service. When she is done, my memorial and my service will be done.
By the way, the party interested in our mobile home, which I have been wanting to sell for a buck, has decided not to purchase it. I'm not sure why, although I believe it was being considered as a quick turnover investment and the possibility of turning it over really quickly fell through due to the park management's priorities. Perhaps someone else will be interested it buying it for a buck but I'm pretty overwhelmed by my mother's personal and health issues, right now, so her business issues, as usual, will have to wait, or go on, in their way, without my help.
I wonder what "tomorrow", the sunrise after my imminent sleep, will bring.
Later.
I lowered myself to the floor with her, asked her what happened. She wasn't sure, although I was. She also wasn't sure how long she'd been there. I asked her if she was hurt. She responded that she was not. I checked her out everywhere, asking specifically about her knees, her legs, her back, her neck, and moved my hands over her body looking for places that might register pain on touch. Everything seemed fine, thank the gods. So, I manuevered her into position and picked her up off the floor while talking her through the procedure. As she did yesterday, despite my clear instructions before I began to pick her up and during the procedure, she unlocked her arms from around my neck and tried to "help" me by bracing herself against the refrigerator and the counter. I had to yell at her, while I was halfway up, to get her to stop "trying to help" me and lock her arms around my neck, again. She did. Luckily, there was no danger to my back, as my legs, I've discovered, are strong enough to remain sturdily in a semi-squat while waiting for my mother to believe that she does not have to help the whole goddamned world at a time like this, she needs to allow the world to help her.
I take full responsibility for this collapsing-to-the-floor incident. I shouldn't have napped. I am, first of all, not much of a napper but, second, I've pretty much given up even those naps that seem impossible to resist in order to make sure that this sort of thing doesn't happen when my mother arises from hers. I learned my lesson, today, and, luckily, it seems as though there is no damage to my mother.
She's been very weak in the legs again today, partly, I think, a hold over from yesterday. I think some of the weakness, too, is because I insisted on giving her metoclopramide before breakfast and lunch to make sure she kept at least two of her meals down, since all the food she really ingested, yesterday, was breakfast. I hope the vomiting wasn't from lowering hemoglobin but I guess we'll find out Wednesday, since it is imperative, I think, to get her to the lab today. We didn't make it to the lab yesterday because the metoclopramide made her so woozy that I was afraid she'd collapse; yet, I also felt that, to be on the safe side, I needed to give it to her. I didn't give it to her at dinner.
Being ancient is a tough row to hoe. Being the caretaker of an Ancient One is a tough row to hoe. I've just about decided I'm not going to allow myself to get old. Period. I admire my mother for hanging in there and I know she has her reasons, but, well, my life doesn't have the same reasons as hers and none of the reasons for my life have anything to do with becoming ancient.
I'm unclear, now, how much of her developing weakness these past few months is due to her dedication to immobility and how much of it might be due to something else. Her blood pressure is still going crazy. I wonder if something "new" is going on inside her. I wonder if I was too hard on her yesterday. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder...and, you know, I know that I probably won't find much out from the doctors, I never do, but, well, it looks like we're due for another round of visits.
She seems to think she is having trouble urinating, again, although she actually isn't. Her right eye is swimming a bit more obviously in the white area. I wonder if she's having a series of mini-strokes although nothing else seems to point to this. Her obvious weakness isn't sudden, really, nor has it gotten suddenly worse. I know, that sounds pretty strange to be saying, considering the last few days, but there are so many other variables involved that its hard to say these incidents are "sudden".
I'm on the island, again, with my mother, the island with no other people, only resources. It's the only place, now, from where I've been able to draw the strength to continue from moment to moment these last few days, making plans and then having to change them, then having to change the changes, then having to pick her up off the floor, again.
The end of my mother's life is seeming imminent, again. This happens on occasion. When it does I'm reminded of her Will, which specifies no funeral; rather, a memorial service, as I believe she put it, "have a party on me." This is her style. Over the last few years I've made and confirmed, many times over, a decision of my own of which I am presently reminded as I observe, at the moment, how her hold on life seems tenuous. At previous times like this I've meant to mention it but am usually too busy to get back here. Tonight, though, having made myself drink a cup of coffee at 2030 so I could keep up with her this evening, I find myself having the time to put this down. When my mother dies I am planning not to be involved in her memorial service, neither the execution of it nor in attendance. I am soaked to the bone with my mother. Not only do I have no need for a memorial service, I have no desire to attend and be at the mercy of people whose memories of my mother, of their own accord, are fragmented, personal and no longer related to mine. I consider that I'm not going to want to be around people mourning her loss. I will have no desire to set myself up as a grief stricken resource for others. This journal is the resource of who my mother has been and continues to become while I've been with her through this period to the end of her life. I began this journal so there would be a resource that didn't involve me being asked, over and over, to tell stories on my mother. All my stories, all my memories, everything about her that I can relate is here. When she dies I expect to be grief stricken but I have no desire to be the resource on my mother at her memorial service. I won't need to be. I won't want to be. Everything everyone will want to know will be here. This is my memorial. This is my service. When she is done, my memorial and my service will be done.
By the way, the party interested in our mobile home, which I have been wanting to sell for a buck, has decided not to purchase it. I'm not sure why, although I believe it was being considered as a quick turnover investment and the possibility of turning it over really quickly fell through due to the park management's priorities. Perhaps someone else will be interested it buying it for a buck but I'm pretty overwhelmed by my mother's personal and health issues, right now, so her business issues, as usual, will have to wait, or go on, in their way, without my help.
I wonder what "tomorrow", the sunrise after my imminent sleep, will bring.
Later.
