Thursday, October 14, 2004
"...to talk of many things:"
I was surprised to hear President Bush, during the debates last night, suggest that not only should those invulnerable populations not seek flu shots at this time, but healthy seniors, as well, should put off being vaccinated. I thought this was interesting, considering that I'd already decided to forego having my mother wait in the interminably long, interminably uncomfortable lines continuing to form at those few facilities still offering the injections. Luckily, my mother is not challenged in the area of immune system health. As I determined last week, she would fall into the "healthy" category (see yesterday's post if your curious as to why I made this determination). I suspect, though, that a lot more "unhealthy" seniors (i.e., pulmonarily challenged seniors who can ill afford to "catch" something that might lead to pneumatic lungs) than "healthy" seniors will be refusing to submit themselves to the conditions one is required to negotiate at this time in order to be vaccinated. In the meantime, I have yet to hear of any other industrialized countries in the northern hemisphere experiencing the same shortage. Maybe they aren't. Maybe I simply haven't had the time required to seek out the information.
Last night, as I was talking to MPS one last time before she and her daughter arrive today for a much and happily anticipated four day visit with us, without listing all the circumstances that have kept me busy and overwhelmed over the last almost-a-month (all of which she is aware), during a discussion of my need to hit Costco while they are here in order to pick up laundry softener, I mentioned that we are completely out and I had to use the small packet of softener that came with the new washer we were forced to purchase when our old washer finally gave up the ghost at the most inopportune time, while The Big Girl was in the middle of her mortal illness, spewing bodily fluids all over the place, and my mother was reacting to our every-other-day trips to Mesa to close out the sale of the mobile home by shedding water so profusely during the night and her naps that I was doing at least two loads of laundry every day, sometimes three.
"I think you need a few more challenges," MPS joked.
That's what I love about my sisters, they always have exactly the right perspective on situations, always know what to say to lift me out of my temporary-but-seemingly-permanent frenzies and put my circumstantial celebrations into perspective. All three of my sisters have a knack for this. It's the most valuable and appreciated support I receive.
"I need a vacation," I blurted a couple of nights ago to my mother when the tension of the last few weeks hit fever pitch before beginning to subside.
Bless my mother, without flinching she said, "Well then, take one. The Little Girl and I will be fine."
I briefly considered agreeing and letting the matter disappear into the depths of her dementia. Those depths, though, assured that I could seek some small, expressive relief by telling the truth and count on the truth disappearing, as well. "I can't," I said. "Even if I took just a day off, really off, if I left you with someone I'd wonder, the whole time I was gone, if you were being ignored the way you were the last couple of times I stole a few hours to run some errands. I certainly couldn't leave you alone. I'd return to you and much of the house soaked in your urine, you wouldn't have bathed, or you might have decided to bathe in the tub and then been unable to get out, you wouldn't have tested yourself to monitor your medications, you wouldn't even remember to take your medications, The Little Girl wouldn't be given fresh food and water, chances are you wouldn't eat properly, you wouldn't use oxygen when you need it, at some point you'd forget what I was doing and become frantic wondering where I was and I'd return to twice as much work and chaos as I normally deal with."
My mother didn't respond. By the time I finished my distressed litany I think she'd stopped listening. That's where I left it.
The issue of "respite", as the emerging caregiver industry likes to sanitarily label it right now, isn't as simple as scolding caregivers to overcome their guilt and go for it regardless of the consequences. It isn't as simple as putting the oxygen mask over yourself before you put it over your child. It isn't, as I discovered, even as simple as meticulously interviewing and checking the references of potential substitutes. When will the bulk of our society figure out that if we want our caregivers to enjoy and benefit from worry free respite we have to be closely involved with the caregiver, his/her tasks and responsibilities and the nature of his/her charge from day one; we have to take a hand in doing the groundwork to make that "respite" both possible and worry-free; and we have to stop blaming the caregiver for not handling, both emotionally and circumstantially the matter of "respite" on their own?????
For the past couple of months I've been winking at and trading wits with a man I frequently meet as I perform my out-of-home errands, both with and without my mother. Yesterday, through an undercurrent of excitement, we both acknowledged what we've been doing.
"Are you flirting with me?" he playfully challenged.
"It's mutual," I said. We both grinned. Then, without thinking, I added, "You don't need to worry, though. I'm so overwhelmed with the care of my mother and our life that I can't even imagine where I'd find the time or the physical, emotional and mental space to be anymore involved with you than I am, right now."
Oops. His eyes widened. His eyebrows shot up. We suffered a moment of awkward silence. I was lucky. He recovered almost immediately. His entire aspect softened and he said, "You never know. Maybe we could work something out."
Since both of us were unsure of ourselves and I was on a strict time schedule, we left it at that.
Maybe. Maybe my luck will change in this area. Maybe I've bumped into one of the few men who doesn't feel that the bulk of relationship nurturing is the woman's domain and won't be overwhelmed by my commitment to my mother. I'd like to think so.
I also enjoy imagining that pigs, do, indeed, have wings.
Last night, as I was talking to MPS one last time before she and her daughter arrive today for a much and happily anticipated four day visit with us, without listing all the circumstances that have kept me busy and overwhelmed over the last almost-a-month (all of which she is aware), during a discussion of my need to hit Costco while they are here in order to pick up laundry softener, I mentioned that we are completely out and I had to use the small packet of softener that came with the new washer we were forced to purchase when our old washer finally gave up the ghost at the most inopportune time, while The Big Girl was in the middle of her mortal illness, spewing bodily fluids all over the place, and my mother was reacting to our every-other-day trips to Mesa to close out the sale of the mobile home by shedding water so profusely during the night and her naps that I was doing at least two loads of laundry every day, sometimes three.
"I think you need a few more challenges," MPS joked.
That's what I love about my sisters, they always have exactly the right perspective on situations, always know what to say to lift me out of my temporary-but-seemingly-permanent frenzies and put my circumstantial celebrations into perspective. All three of my sisters have a knack for this. It's the most valuable and appreciated support I receive.
"I need a vacation," I blurted a couple of nights ago to my mother when the tension of the last few weeks hit fever pitch before beginning to subside.
Bless my mother, without flinching she said, "Well then, take one. The Little Girl and I will be fine."
I briefly considered agreeing and letting the matter disappear into the depths of her dementia. Those depths, though, assured that I could seek some small, expressive relief by telling the truth and count on the truth disappearing, as well. "I can't," I said. "Even if I took just a day off, really off, if I left you with someone I'd wonder, the whole time I was gone, if you were being ignored the way you were the last couple of times I stole a few hours to run some errands. I certainly couldn't leave you alone. I'd return to you and much of the house soaked in your urine, you wouldn't have bathed, or you might have decided to bathe in the tub and then been unable to get out, you wouldn't have tested yourself to monitor your medications, you wouldn't even remember to take your medications, The Little Girl wouldn't be given fresh food and water, chances are you wouldn't eat properly, you wouldn't use oxygen when you need it, at some point you'd forget what I was doing and become frantic wondering where I was and I'd return to twice as much work and chaos as I normally deal with."
My mother didn't respond. By the time I finished my distressed litany I think she'd stopped listening. That's where I left it.
The issue of "respite", as the emerging caregiver industry likes to sanitarily label it right now, isn't as simple as scolding caregivers to overcome their guilt and go for it regardless of the consequences. It isn't as simple as putting the oxygen mask over yourself before you put it over your child. It isn't, as I discovered, even as simple as meticulously interviewing and checking the references of potential substitutes. When will the bulk of our society figure out that if we want our caregivers to enjoy and benefit from worry free respite we have to be closely involved with the caregiver, his/her tasks and responsibilities and the nature of his/her charge from day one; we have to take a hand in doing the groundwork to make that "respite" both possible and worry-free; and we have to stop blaming the caregiver for not handling, both emotionally and circumstantially the matter of "respite" on their own?????
For the past couple of months I've been winking at and trading wits with a man I frequently meet as I perform my out-of-home errands, both with and without my mother. Yesterday, through an undercurrent of excitement, we both acknowledged what we've been doing.
"Are you flirting with me?" he playfully challenged.
"It's mutual," I said. We both grinned. Then, without thinking, I added, "You don't need to worry, though. I'm so overwhelmed with the care of my mother and our life that I can't even imagine where I'd find the time or the physical, emotional and mental space to be anymore involved with you than I am, right now."
Oops. His eyes widened. His eyebrows shot up. We suffered a moment of awkward silence. I was lucky. He recovered almost immediately. His entire aspect softened and he said, "You never know. Maybe we could work something out."
Since both of us were unsure of ourselves and I was on a strict time schedule, we left it at that.
Maybe. Maybe my luck will change in this area. Maybe I've bumped into one of the few men who doesn't feel that the bulk of relationship nurturing is the woman's domain and won't be overwhelmed by my commitment to my mother. I'd like to think so.
I also enjoy imagining that pigs, do, indeed, have wings.
