Monday, August 9, 2004
Interesting day, yesterday...
...met lots of people, most interestingly the couple with whom my mother's roommate lives, her daughter and son-in-law or vice versa. Except for the absence of type 2 diabetes (which both caregivers expressed relief that her mother had not yet developed) and the possible cause of their mother's mini-strokes, their mother's profile is very much like my mother's except that theirs is 2 years ahead of mine. This is the roommate whom both my mother and I decided seemed internalized in a distinctly "dud as a roommate" way. Their mother has been living with them since 1995, one year after I came to live with my mother.
"She was pretty independent then."
Wow, I thought. Sounds familiar.
She also began to exhibit pronounced decline as a result of the same internal physical activity through which my mother has proceeded; "TIAs", which this couple, like me, refers to as "mini-strokes". Her etiology is different than my mothers. Hers was absolutely traced to advanced plaque in the carotid arteries. There is a "roto-rooter" procedure that can be performed to reduce it but their mother turned out not to be a candidate for it for age related reasons. So she continues to mini-stroke.
I told her that Mom's carotids had utra-sounded fine and that her causes seemed to be small thrown clots and/or episodes of bleeding in the brain in the lower left quadrant. No headaches, no phasing any more than usual, so the doctors have ruled out operable aneurysm.
The woman nodded. "Throwing clots." She cocked her head toward the Ancient Woman on the bed. "They think she does that, too. How long has it been since the last one?" the wife quizzed the husband.
"Over a year. How old's your mother?"
"Turned 87 last week."
The wife nodded toward her Ancient One reclining on a bed in demi-sit-up position. "89."
I gathered that their Ancient One was not doing as well this time, or, at least not as well as she has. She was (which Mom and I witnessed and discussed between us, taking it as a lesson) resolutely refusing therapy. She was, Mom and I noticed, a whiner. She asked me to push her call button once when she had it in her hand. I reminded her how to push it. By the time the CNA arrived, which was almost immediately, she forgot she had called or even wanted someone.
"We told her she had to get strong," the wife continued.
Wow. Sounds familiar. "Mine's a WWII vet, gunnery instructor in the Navy. I compared this to boot camp for her. It seems to have made an impression."
The woman, in the most unexpectedly kindly of ways looked at me as if to say, "Yeah, that should work a time or two."
A moment of silence while she and I studied her mother.
"She tells me that they don't come to exercise her enough," the daughter said.
"They exercise my mother a lot. Except today."
She looked back at her mother. "Some of it could have to do with lack of motivation this time."
I didn't mean to tattle tale but I realized, in her position, I would want to know what I divulged. "She refused therapy Friday afternoon. I was here. In her defense, she really didn't feel good, that was obvious, and the therapist mentioned their earlier work out session so I know she got some movement in Friday, just not Friday afternoon."
The woman nodded. "Good," she said. She shared some much needed information about inexpensive, easily installed set-ups for home use that extend the capabilities available to an Ancient One.
I was very grateful. My mother has been judged a "high fall" risk, of which I've been aware but didn't know fall risk is categorized. Mom is very lucky that she isn't braking bones.
I guess the way my mother is passing through the last era of her life is typical. I'm not surprised. I can see, from this couple, that it definitely helps to have family involved in actively incorporating an Ancient One. I sensed that the structure of their relationship with this matriarch was different than us with ours and is no less close and loving and compassionate and, as well, stressed out by demands, not the least of which is that both partners work. She confided that they had changed their work schedules so that a responsible, known, trusted adult was always with their mother. Teenagers were a great help.
I remember the charge nurse on duty the afternoon my mother was checked in saying that Mom's roommate was "feeling bad" right now but was "alert, which is good."
When I mentioned that my mother's drastically reduced short term memory is so bad that it makes her a poor candidate for all types of procedures in which the patient must "cooperate" with the physician-proceduralist, the daughter laughed and entered into a private joke with her mother about her mother's short term memory which proved my point and heartened me. My mother and I are not the only ones who share "memory" jokes. Her mother, although older than mine, obviously is just entering the period where she is aware of losing her short term memory and worries about it. I assured the daughter that Ancient Ones, if well cared for, eventually stop worrying.
This woman's SNF visit, which apparently is due to end today, was the last of three spread over the last 3 years. I realized out loud that this may be the first of intermittent visits for my mother.
The woman nodded. "Especially if she falls and breaks bones."
"So far, so good," I mused.
"Good," my companion in caregiving answered. "You're lucky."
Yeah. I know. thankyouthankyouthankyou.
"I was hoping she wouldn't decline, she'd just suddenly stop," I said.
"Yeah, I know," she said, echoing me from a distance.
"It's not so bad, though."
The woman smiled at me. "No." Her voice was flat but strong. I knew she meant this. As do I.
Mom had begun to arouse from a late afternoon doze. The night nurse, concerned about her impacted bowels, decided to try the "gentle method", a laxative dose of Phillip's Milk of Magnesia. The charge nurse and I had talked some hours earlier about my mother's lack of bowel movements in the hospital. It's nice to know that attention to Ancient bowels is a primary concern of professional health care workers. I wish that I had thought to ask at that time if they were going to attempt a laxative on her. I wish the nurse had discussed the possibility. I would have told them, use the antacid dose on her; that'll do the trick and there will be a possibility that she will be able to warn you in enough time to get her to the toilet. In fact, early yesterday morning she did make it to the bathroom with the help of a CNA. And, had a bowel movement, a quantitative one. But, she also had three to four days of iron-soaked shit (anyone who has dealt with Ancient Iron-soaked Shit knows why I am elaborating). So she spent yesterday morning shitting all over the place without advance warning. When I told this to the evening CNA, explaining why she was nodding off early, the CNA laughed and I was delighted to join her. Bowel incontinence. That's what the day nurse called it, while a good half the floor staff had their hands stuck in shit up to their elbows.
The woman who partnered with her husband in giving care to one of their matriarchs had the look about her that told me she had encountered many such incidents in seeking and managing appropriate medical care for her mother. They also lived in the west central rural area of Arizona. I warned her against seeking serious medical help in Prescott.
"Yeah. I know. We've got relatives up there." She was not surprised that my mother and I were stalwart in our commute to the Valley for health care.
We shared a look that acknowledged that both of us knew that this was one of the advantages of one's Ancient One "going slow."
Later in the day at a much needed get-away visit to inform our informal (pun intended) family, MCF, et al, about Mom I let my hair down, some. One of my acquaintance-type-friends, someone I'd like to get to know better but we don't live close and have very involved lives from each other's perspective, is a long-experienced nurse, both here and in Canada. She had an interesting perspective on nursing homes and SNF "visits", honed through experience, to which she referred as "doing my time". It was "unlike any type of nursing" she's experienced, before or after. I got the sense she liked it at first. She referred to her stint, though, as "heartbreaking". She has known, since the day we first met a few years ago, that I am my mother's full time caregiver. She approaches me with a quiet expression of assurance in the dignity of what I am doing, knowing the task in detail, physically, intellectually and emotionally.
Another experienced dialyzer told me she'd heard some stories about my mother's facility that they drug patients in the evening. I looked at our mutual acquaintance, the RN, and said, "MCF tends to over dramatize, does she not?"
The RN nodded vigorously. "Not anymore, not for a few years, if they haven't wanted to get their asses kicked."
I think this is true. I did not question the night nurse Saturday about my mother's blurred speech with suspicions of malfeasant attempt. Although the possibility occurred to me, and I asked if they might've given her "something", I figured they'd have had a good reason for it and would have tailored the dosage to my mother's requirements. As well, if she hadn't been administered anything I needed to keep her tired slur in mind for diagnostic purposes, note the date mentally in case of future occurrence. And, it is also true that MCF over dramatizes. I'm satisfied with the informal conversation about the place, of which I've heard much, sometimes in the lobby of the facility where leaving caregivers are giving incoming caregivers advice. The facility has a good reputation and does not seem to have a vested interest in keeping short term residents longer than necessary.
Mom and I were playing Sorry in the West Wing Day Room and were beginning our second round (I won the first) when we were asked to vacate the room to make way for the "Restorative Eating" group. I asked the director of the exercise what "restorative eating" is.
"This is where meals are served to those who have to redevelop eating skills they lost due to strokes, you know..."
I told her I didn't know.
"Well, teaching them how to use utensils, switching sides, learning how to swallow..."
"Really?!? You can rehabilitate that?!?"
"Oh, yes. People coming off feeding tubes sometimes need to reeducate their throats..." she raised her chin and stroked her own.
"Hmmm..." I said, rolling Mom out of the room, "it's nice to know that kind of rehabilitation is available."
"When a person can relearn how to feed herself (she was referring to the first Restorative Eating Resident to arrive by self-mobilized wheel chair to lunch, whose 106th birthday was yesterday, "their interest in life often revives."
"I can imagine," I told her, thanking her for the information.
Now that I know my mother is semi-aware of her phone, I'll call her a couple of times today.
When my mother was bathed Saturday one or more of the CNA's styled her hair back culminating in a pastiche bun at the top back of her head. Very sleek and chic. This style completely changed her presentation. It brought her sloped forehead, well formed nose and high cheekbones into attractive relief and gave her the appearance of height. She's spent her life (not sure whether on purpose or inadvertently) softening her distinctive, noticeable profile by keeping her hair jaw length and curling it or softening her "high, teased bun" preference of the last several years with a front, teased, softly curled bang. I realized yesterday, that she is much better represented in her Ancient One Face if she allows her magnificently understated bone structure to draw attention away from her wrinkled cheeks, a physical feature which still worries at her like a miniature Doberman. The new style highlighted her profile to perfection and highlighted the physical stamp of her meticulous determination. I decided on the spot that Mom and I would try doing her hair this way using her two good pastiches and creating a cascade of short curls over a sleek, slightly teased for height under"growth".
I'm noticing we're beginning to "miss" clothes at the SNF, even though I specified that I am to take home her laundry. I can't locate her yellow flowered night dress, her peach knit shirt with embroidered flowers at the neck, her yellow "Pagosa Springs" t-shirt with embossed horses and one of her favorite pairs of blue, light-weight slacks made out of one of those crinkly, semi-shiny materials. As well, she was one (new) bra short, yesterday. When asking after them I was told they were probably put in the laundry mistakenly. So I'll check tomorrow when I return. Other durable goods all seem to be accounted for. I hadn't actually (perhaps naively) given any thought to the oft heard warning that nursing homes and skilled nursing facilities are great places to "lose" things. I'll just keep up on it. I provided her floor with a detailed inventory, made no apologies for the amount of stuff I hauled into Mom's room and we moved in with the air of people who trust their environment to preserve their belongs. I think this will work out except, well, I noticed the day we arrived that while I brought in about 1/3 of my mother's wardrobe our roommate had been provided with one day dress and spent most of the day, every day, in a SNF issue robe. However she also is not up as much as my mother. As well, my mother insists on "dressing" for the day, mostly. Even if she decides to lounge she wears one of several favorite "night shirts" or dresses and a good looking, embracing house coat. Her habit of dressing for a laid back day may be unusual. I did notice that of the many chair bound residents who roam the halls, all are dressed in obviously private wear before they venture from their rooms unless hospital issue pieces are more amenable to the therapy in which this one or that one is involved. We arrived, however, with open intentions and well-documented (the inventory with which I was very careful) trust, the type of which enhances business relationships, implying only the highest of intentions to those who helped us move things around in the room and dump boxes to get stuff out of the way. I made sure, as is only prudent, that I left nothing, nothing of any value there except both pairs of her needed glasses and her hair piece.
Visit-wise, MPS and her family are covering visits by ones and twos and threes on days I'm not there. MPBIL will be stopping by to see her this afternoon. I hope to hear him confirm she has been offered therapy at least two times today. As well, I need to call the administration office and answer some questions about Mom for insurance purposes. I will be spending the day and night here in Prescott. My intention is to do some minor business today and some more tomorrow in the Valley, so I'm planning on arising very early in the morning and getting to Mesa before the rush hour starts, no later than 0630, hopefully somewhat before. Every minute will count tomorrow and so will avoiding as much of rush hours, here and there as possible.
I'm resting well here now. The cats ground me. So does being in my own surroundings.
Depending on how much I allow myself to relax I may start inputting test results from the hospital. Oh yeah, that's one thing I want to mention to the SNF administration. I want a copy of her chart on dismissal, including her Mesa PCP's involvement as well as her hematologist's, who has an office across the street from the SNF at the Chandler branch of the hospital-industrial-complex in which my mother is usually treated. That might be convenient.
I think I'll make myself a second cup of coffee and some breakfast and make decisions about the day. Start a laundry before it gets too hot. Consider designing and redesigning the day.
I was very careful to quadruple bag the clothes on which my mother shat yesterday. I thought about what it would be like to smell her from that perspective all the way home in the cab of the truck and thought, no, nope, nope, nope. As it is the laundry smells pretty much as it did before my mother's departure (although I don't have to do it every day); urine and shit soaked.
Oh, yeah, remind me to tell you the good news about her type 2 diabetic profile. I'm dancing on the ceiling about this one.
Later.
"She was pretty independent then."
Wow, I thought. Sounds familiar.
She also began to exhibit pronounced decline as a result of the same internal physical activity through which my mother has proceeded; "TIAs", which this couple, like me, refers to as "mini-strokes". Her etiology is different than my mothers. Hers was absolutely traced to advanced plaque in the carotid arteries. There is a "roto-rooter" procedure that can be performed to reduce it but their mother turned out not to be a candidate for it for age related reasons. So she continues to mini-stroke.
I told her that Mom's carotids had utra-sounded fine and that her causes seemed to be small thrown clots and/or episodes of bleeding in the brain in the lower left quadrant. No headaches, no phasing any more than usual, so the doctors have ruled out operable aneurysm.
The woman nodded. "Throwing clots." She cocked her head toward the Ancient Woman on the bed. "They think she does that, too. How long has it been since the last one?" the wife quizzed the husband.
"Over a year. How old's your mother?"
"Turned 87 last week."
The wife nodded toward her Ancient One reclining on a bed in demi-sit-up position. "89."
I gathered that their Ancient One was not doing as well this time, or, at least not as well as she has. She was (which Mom and I witnessed and discussed between us, taking it as a lesson) resolutely refusing therapy. She was, Mom and I noticed, a whiner. She asked me to push her call button once when she had it in her hand. I reminded her how to push it. By the time the CNA arrived, which was almost immediately, she forgot she had called or even wanted someone.
"We told her she had to get strong," the wife continued.
Wow. Sounds familiar. "Mine's a WWII vet, gunnery instructor in the Navy. I compared this to boot camp for her. It seems to have made an impression."
The woman, in the most unexpectedly kindly of ways looked at me as if to say, "Yeah, that should work a time or two."
A moment of silence while she and I studied her mother.
"She tells me that they don't come to exercise her enough," the daughter said.
"They exercise my mother a lot. Except today."
She looked back at her mother. "Some of it could have to do with lack of motivation this time."
I didn't mean to tattle tale but I realized, in her position, I would want to know what I divulged. "She refused therapy Friday afternoon. I was here. In her defense, she really didn't feel good, that was obvious, and the therapist mentioned their earlier work out session so I know she got some movement in Friday, just not Friday afternoon."
The woman nodded. "Good," she said. She shared some much needed information about inexpensive, easily installed set-ups for home use that extend the capabilities available to an Ancient One.
I was very grateful. My mother has been judged a "high fall" risk, of which I've been aware but didn't know fall risk is categorized. Mom is very lucky that she isn't braking bones.
I guess the way my mother is passing through the last era of her life is typical. I'm not surprised. I can see, from this couple, that it definitely helps to have family involved in actively incorporating an Ancient One. I sensed that the structure of their relationship with this matriarch was different than us with ours and is no less close and loving and compassionate and, as well, stressed out by demands, not the least of which is that both partners work. She confided that they had changed their work schedules so that a responsible, known, trusted adult was always with their mother. Teenagers were a great help.
I remember the charge nurse on duty the afternoon my mother was checked in saying that Mom's roommate was "feeling bad" right now but was "alert, which is good."
When I mentioned that my mother's drastically reduced short term memory is so bad that it makes her a poor candidate for all types of procedures in which the patient must "cooperate" with the physician-proceduralist, the daughter laughed and entered into a private joke with her mother about her mother's short term memory which proved my point and heartened me. My mother and I are not the only ones who share "memory" jokes. Her mother, although older than mine, obviously is just entering the period where she is aware of losing her short term memory and worries about it. I assured the daughter that Ancient Ones, if well cared for, eventually stop worrying.
This woman's SNF visit, which apparently is due to end today, was the last of three spread over the last 3 years. I realized out loud that this may be the first of intermittent visits for my mother.
The woman nodded. "Especially if she falls and breaks bones."
"So far, so good," I mused.
"Good," my companion in caregiving answered. "You're lucky."
Yeah. I know. thankyouthankyouthankyou.
"I was hoping she wouldn't decline, she'd just suddenly stop," I said.
"Yeah, I know," she said, echoing me from a distance.
"It's not so bad, though."
The woman smiled at me. "No." Her voice was flat but strong. I knew she meant this. As do I.
Mom had begun to arouse from a late afternoon doze. The night nurse, concerned about her impacted bowels, decided to try the "gentle method", a laxative dose of Phillip's Milk of Magnesia. The charge nurse and I had talked some hours earlier about my mother's lack of bowel movements in the hospital. It's nice to know that attention to Ancient bowels is a primary concern of professional health care workers. I wish that I had thought to ask at that time if they were going to attempt a laxative on her. I wish the nurse had discussed the possibility. I would have told them, use the antacid dose on her; that'll do the trick and there will be a possibility that she will be able to warn you in enough time to get her to the toilet. In fact, early yesterday morning she did make it to the bathroom with the help of a CNA. And, had a bowel movement, a quantitative one. But, she also had three to four days of iron-soaked shit (anyone who has dealt with Ancient Iron-soaked Shit knows why I am elaborating). So she spent yesterday morning shitting all over the place without advance warning. When I told this to the evening CNA, explaining why she was nodding off early, the CNA laughed and I was delighted to join her. Bowel incontinence. That's what the day nurse called it, while a good half the floor staff had their hands stuck in shit up to their elbows.
The woman who partnered with her husband in giving care to one of their matriarchs had the look about her that told me she had encountered many such incidents in seeking and managing appropriate medical care for her mother. They also lived in the west central rural area of Arizona. I warned her against seeking serious medical help in Prescott.
"Yeah. I know. We've got relatives up there." She was not surprised that my mother and I were stalwart in our commute to the Valley for health care.
We shared a look that acknowledged that both of us knew that this was one of the advantages of one's Ancient One "going slow."
Later in the day at a much needed get-away visit to inform our informal (pun intended) family, MCF, et al, about Mom I let my hair down, some. One of my acquaintance-type-friends, someone I'd like to get to know better but we don't live close and have very involved lives from each other's perspective, is a long-experienced nurse, both here and in Canada. She had an interesting perspective on nursing homes and SNF "visits", honed through experience, to which she referred as "doing my time". It was "unlike any type of nursing" she's experienced, before or after. I got the sense she liked it at first. She referred to her stint, though, as "heartbreaking". She has known, since the day we first met a few years ago, that I am my mother's full time caregiver. She approaches me with a quiet expression of assurance in the dignity of what I am doing, knowing the task in detail, physically, intellectually and emotionally.
Another experienced dialyzer told me she'd heard some stories about my mother's facility that they drug patients in the evening. I looked at our mutual acquaintance, the RN, and said, "MCF tends to over dramatize, does she not?"
The RN nodded vigorously. "Not anymore, not for a few years, if they haven't wanted to get their asses kicked."
I think this is true. I did not question the night nurse Saturday about my mother's blurred speech with suspicions of malfeasant attempt. Although the possibility occurred to me, and I asked if they might've given her "something", I figured they'd have had a good reason for it and would have tailored the dosage to my mother's requirements. As well, if she hadn't been administered anything I needed to keep her tired slur in mind for diagnostic purposes, note the date mentally in case of future occurrence. And, it is also true that MCF over dramatizes. I'm satisfied with the informal conversation about the place, of which I've heard much, sometimes in the lobby of the facility where leaving caregivers are giving incoming caregivers advice. The facility has a good reputation and does not seem to have a vested interest in keeping short term residents longer than necessary.
Mom and I were playing Sorry in the West Wing Day Room and were beginning our second round (I won the first) when we were asked to vacate the room to make way for the "Restorative Eating" group. I asked the director of the exercise what "restorative eating" is.
"This is where meals are served to those who have to redevelop eating skills they lost due to strokes, you know..."
I told her I didn't know.
"Well, teaching them how to use utensils, switching sides, learning how to swallow..."
"Really?!? You can rehabilitate that?!?"
"Oh, yes. People coming off feeding tubes sometimes need to reeducate their throats..." she raised her chin and stroked her own.
"Hmmm..." I said, rolling Mom out of the room, "it's nice to know that kind of rehabilitation is available."
"When a person can relearn how to feed herself (she was referring to the first Restorative Eating Resident to arrive by self-mobilized wheel chair to lunch, whose 106th birthday was yesterday, "their interest in life often revives."
"I can imagine," I told her, thanking her for the information.
Now that I know my mother is semi-aware of her phone, I'll call her a couple of times today.
When my mother was bathed Saturday one or more of the CNA's styled her hair back culminating in a pastiche bun at the top back of her head. Very sleek and chic. This style completely changed her presentation. It brought her sloped forehead, well formed nose and high cheekbones into attractive relief and gave her the appearance of height. She's spent her life (not sure whether on purpose or inadvertently) softening her distinctive, noticeable profile by keeping her hair jaw length and curling it or softening her "high, teased bun" preference of the last several years with a front, teased, softly curled bang. I realized yesterday, that she is much better represented in her Ancient One Face if she allows her magnificently understated bone structure to draw attention away from her wrinkled cheeks, a physical feature which still worries at her like a miniature Doberman. The new style highlighted her profile to perfection and highlighted the physical stamp of her meticulous determination. I decided on the spot that Mom and I would try doing her hair this way using her two good pastiches and creating a cascade of short curls over a sleek, slightly teased for height under"growth".
I'm noticing we're beginning to "miss" clothes at the SNF, even though I specified that I am to take home her laundry. I can't locate her yellow flowered night dress, her peach knit shirt with embroidered flowers at the neck, her yellow "Pagosa Springs" t-shirt with embossed horses and one of her favorite pairs of blue, light-weight slacks made out of one of those crinkly, semi-shiny materials. As well, she was one (new) bra short, yesterday. When asking after them I was told they were probably put in the laundry mistakenly. So I'll check tomorrow when I return. Other durable goods all seem to be accounted for. I hadn't actually (perhaps naively) given any thought to the oft heard warning that nursing homes and skilled nursing facilities are great places to "lose" things. I'll just keep up on it. I provided her floor with a detailed inventory, made no apologies for the amount of stuff I hauled into Mom's room and we moved in with the air of people who trust their environment to preserve their belongs. I think this will work out except, well, I noticed the day we arrived that while I brought in about 1/3 of my mother's wardrobe our roommate had been provided with one day dress and spent most of the day, every day, in a SNF issue robe. However she also is not up as much as my mother. As well, my mother insists on "dressing" for the day, mostly. Even if she decides to lounge she wears one of several favorite "night shirts" or dresses and a good looking, embracing house coat. Her habit of dressing for a laid back day may be unusual. I did notice that of the many chair bound residents who roam the halls, all are dressed in obviously private wear before they venture from their rooms unless hospital issue pieces are more amenable to the therapy in which this one or that one is involved. We arrived, however, with open intentions and well-documented (the inventory with which I was very careful) trust, the type of which enhances business relationships, implying only the highest of intentions to those who helped us move things around in the room and dump boxes to get stuff out of the way. I made sure, as is only prudent, that I left nothing, nothing of any value there except both pairs of her needed glasses and her hair piece.
Visit-wise, MPS and her family are covering visits by ones and twos and threes on days I'm not there. MPBIL will be stopping by to see her this afternoon. I hope to hear him confirm she has been offered therapy at least two times today. As well, I need to call the administration office and answer some questions about Mom for insurance purposes. I will be spending the day and night here in Prescott. My intention is to do some minor business today and some more tomorrow in the Valley, so I'm planning on arising very early in the morning and getting to Mesa before the rush hour starts, no later than 0630, hopefully somewhat before. Every minute will count tomorrow and so will avoiding as much of rush hours, here and there as possible.
I'm resting well here now. The cats ground me. So does being in my own surroundings.
Depending on how much I allow myself to relax I may start inputting test results from the hospital. Oh yeah, that's one thing I want to mention to the SNF administration. I want a copy of her chart on dismissal, including her Mesa PCP's involvement as well as her hematologist's, who has an office across the street from the SNF at the Chandler branch of the hospital-industrial-complex in which my mother is usually treated. That might be convenient.
I think I'll make myself a second cup of coffee and some breakfast and make decisions about the day. Start a laundry before it gets too hot. Consider designing and redesigning the day.
I was very careful to quadruple bag the clothes on which my mother shat yesterday. I thought about what it would be like to smell her from that perspective all the way home in the cab of the truck and thought, no, nope, nope, nope. As it is the laundry smells pretty much as it did before my mother's departure (although I don't have to do it every day); urine and shit soaked.
Oh, yeah, remind me to tell you the good news about her type 2 diabetic profile. I'm dancing on the ceiling about this one.
Later.
