Mom & Me Two Archive

...courtesy of a shower of "liquid sunshine". In the interim, I decided to record and post a few items I recalled while digging.

1. Yesterday when we shopped at the grocery she was not only noticeably more mobile and more enthusiastic about "being out", she reverted to her 3-years'-ago behavior of not being able to keep her eyes off the sugar and attempting to fill the basket with loads of sugar products. I allowed one treat, most of which we will probably throw out after a few days as, when we're at home she often refuses occasional offers of molded sugar. I did, however, notice that the more "not a good idea, Mom"s I delivered, the more her attitude flagged. It seems the emotional pull of sugar for her remains strong while the physical pull has declined dramatically. Apparently I'm going to have to devise some sort of strategy for divesting sugar of its connections to celebration and personal satisfaction for her.
2. A piece of information that my sisters will find interesting: Per newscientist.com, the recent results of a study in Finland suggest that mothers who consume chocolate during pregnancy produce "more active and 'positively reactive'" babies.
3. I've pretty much given up on the cigarette aversion therapy I devised. Although she's dropped her consumption to about half a pack a day, we've arrived at a place where the more I "harass" her, the more likely she is to light a cigarette and handle it as she goddamnwellpleases in defiance. I'm finding it exhausting, stressful and no longer productive to interrupt whatever we're doing umpteen million times to remind her not to hold the cigarette longer than it takes to light or drag on it, pay attention to what she's doing and to point out unsafe behaviors. A few nights ago it got to the place where I realized that the aversion therapy has gone beyond its limit to help and is now encouraging her to rely on me to monitor her smoking, of which she is capable and which I have no interest in doing for the rest of her life. So we came to an agreement which she is remembering and which seems to be working better for us. We agreed that I will leave her alone about her smoking until the next event occurs that clearly puts us in jeopardy and causes me to jump to keep disaster from happening. At the next event of this sort I take all cigarettes, place them on Ellen's doorstep, and that'll be the end of her smoking. She not only agreed to this strategy but it appears to be working.

    The rain's stopped. Mom's snoring softly, sleeping peacefully. I'll give her another hour then rouse her. Back to digging and planting.

    I promised her I'd let her sleep until I thought she might be able to benefit from some food and liquid. "I might sleep for awhile..." she cautioned.
    "That's okay. I'll be up when you awaken. It's not as though we have a schedule to keep." Although in a sense we do. Our schedule is her schedule, of which she is often not aware. Her experience is that scheduling is the province of someone outside oneself. It is my great pleasure to allow her the leeway to create her own schedule, within the limits of physical sanity, which is to say that I make sure she does not sleep herself into malnutrition or a dehydration caused blood pressure crash. Sleep, though, helps set her treatments into her body, both her acupuncture and her FT treatments. It's one of her survival tools. This is something I understand, being, myself, a dedicated advocate of sleep. It seems wise, then, for me to follow her lead and correct her only when she appears to be veering off course. She's just passed four hours, now. I'm checking on her every quarter hour or so, gauging her breathing and her position in the bed, listening for reconnaissance coughing. I don't want to awaken her too soon but I don't want her to wander through her healing sleep without proper nourishment and hydration, either. In this respect she and I have different sleep preferences. Food disturbs my sleep so I make sure I sleep on an empty stomach. Food helps her sleep so she's better off going to bed an hour or so after a meal, which she did. When I feel it's time, if she doesn't come round on her own, I'll rouse her and suggest we prepare her for the profoundly fecund slumber that occurs in the dark surround.
    Continuing with her appointment: After Mom's FT revealed that she appreciated my mother's innate approach to the treatments and enjoyed the silent conversation into which she and my mother enter, she went on to explain that one reason this experience is so valuable to her is that she was raised around people who were incredibly noisy, yet offensively silent conversationalists and that this allowed little communication to occur. The ease of silent, communicative transference is, thus, a delight to her. She mentioned that treating my mother allows her to practice the ins and outs of productive silent communication, something she's indicated is rare with most of her clients. She directed most of this information to my mother and my mother got it.
    "I'm so glad helping me is a help to you," my mother said, with that endearing, full-souled expression that betrays her pleasure in being able to give and receive simultaneously.
    The FT responded, "You were a teacher, weren't you?"
    "Yes."
    "What did you teach?"
    "Special Ed."
    I added that throughout her career she taught everyone from kindergarteners to 8th graders, was an administrator as well, her first job was in a one-room school house with 8 grades and she taught gunnery in the Navy. As well, whether or not her classroom was officially special ed she taught special ed style. All this was superfluous, I think, considering what I realized as I rattled off these statistics. I think the FT was acknowledging that while she was teaching Mom, Mom was teaching her and their reciprocal correspondence was taking place on a level that was both verdant and productive for both.
    Many years ago my mother told me that she couldn't remember ever not wanting to be a teacher, that she felt it was her calling. She has taught all her official working life. In 1973 she began considering herself a retired teacher. It appears, though, as though her calling is still guiding her journey through this life.
    As of today I'm beginning to consider that no one ever retires from one's calling. When the recognized world of work eases one out of professional practice of one's calling life takes up the beckoning chant. That's what's happening for my mother. Once the specific subspace transmission acknowledging that this is happening for my mother had been exchanged between her and her FT, my mother blossomed. Her face flushed with energy. She insisted that she accompany me to the grocery despite having told me earlier that she didn't think she'd go to the store with me after her appointment. Although I had flung the wheelchair in the back for her to use as a walker she dismissed it, grabbed a cart and we headed into the store. She hasn't been out much lately and she tired quickly so the trip was short, which was fine, we had only a few items to purchase. She mentioned in the car on the way home that her back was hurting a little, but after some lunch and an aspirin she forgot the twinges.
    At 2230 I called her. It took 45 minutes for her to make it to the dinette. Each five minute interval was punctuated with a notched up decision: First that she would only go to the bathroom; then she'd only come out to the kitchen for some water; then, well, maybe some soup sounded good; then, yes, it would be nice to have a leg rub before she headed back to bed; then, yes, why not indulge in some light conversation before sleep. She's just now heading back to bed, fed, watered, socialized, loved and comfortable. As I always do after either an acupuncture or Feldenkrais treatment, I'll let her sleep in tomorrow but not past a point to be determined in the morning when I first check in on her and sense the level and quality of her sleep.
    As I contemplate our day today, especially from what I hope is a reasonable facsimile of my mother's point of view, I can't help but review all the possible living situations she could have chosen or into which she might have fallen (literally, as I see in arrears since 10/25/03) besides having me come to live with her and what, at this point, the outcomes of those situations would have been. I shudder to think that all the other situations in some way might very well have landed her smack dab in the middle of inadequate non-alternative medical treatment and probably in a nursing home. After today I am especially grateful that I'm here with her and that, despite the dips in our figurative fortunes, she is in a love-built household that includes specific attention to her needs rather than being housed in a profit-built facility that revolves around the needs of the owners and staff. She is in a place that allows her to continue to respond to her calling rather than a place where it is assumed that calls are neither made nor need to be answered.
    It is typical for us, including (and, sometimes, most especially) The Ancient Ones among us, to assume that the lives, needs and pecadillos of The Ancients can be properly set aside on behalf of the ruddier, sturdier, and quicker among us. Isn't it normal for the elderly of most species to lay themselves down as rich compost to aid the growth of others? I'm beginning to realize the answer is, "No." Even the aged, ailing plant retains its need for fertilizer and does not release its integrity to the soil until death.
    At 86, my mother's value to the rest of our species continues to surprise and expand, despite her creative mentality and frailing body. I'm astounded, humbled and honored that I am in a position to make this possible. We both needed the confirmation today brought. I could not be more pleased.
    Well, to bed. Soon after sunrise Rose Planting Day will commence. Looks like I won't be changing the aforementioned link until tomorrow sometime.
    Later.

...creating a great deal of excitement in our household. In case I didn't mention it, besides buying the two roses plants at Costco, Mom and I agreed that it would be interesting to spot our unusually situated and flora-ed property with rose bushes here and there, some in the clearly domesticated area, some in the wilder area. I scouted out and bought 7 bushes, each representative of the major rose colors, including copper and violet, each unnamed, thus sold in a lot at an amazingly reduced price. I also bought a named blue climbing rose that I intend to train over the remaining shed in the back. The bushes arrived just before Mom's PT appointment. Due to a trip to the grocery on which Mom wanted to accompany me (I was not about to discourage her) they haven't been planted. I need to hit Home Depot and pick up some peat, bone meal and rose food, so I'm waiting for Mom to head in for a nap. Tomorrow, early, I'll dig holes and plant the gems. We're both very excited about the arrival. All the bushes are healthy and sprouting, so in 7 to 8 weeks we should have some spectacular blooms all over the property.
    While I have some time I want to talk a bit about Mom's appointment today. As usual, it was, literally, a pleasure to watch the therapist work on Mom. As I watch the therapist work and Mom respond, I enter into that "pleasure shiver" zone and, in a sense, am "treated", myself.
    The therapist told me that last week she aligned Mom's pelvis, which might have caused the surprising twinges of pain Mom experienced for a few days. She explained that when the body is realigned it sometimes takes a while for it to get the hang of the new structure. She mentioned as well, once again, how much she enjoys working on Mom. Because Mom relaxes and communicates non-verbally with such skill and ease, as she works with Mom she and Mom enter into a non-verbal "conversation" (from this point on, all double quotes in this post are the therapist's words). She said working with Mom is an "epiphany". I was so intrigued with these comments that I whipped out my 'Life' (the small notebook I carry around with me) and wrote them down. Then, because it seems only fair, I told the therapist that I report on the 'physical therapy' sessions on my website because of my fascination with this process and my hunch that, somewhere, someone will stumble across some of this information and experience an 'Ah ha!' moment.
    At this point the therapist was careful to distinguish that Feldenkrais is a separate designation that should not be lumped into the general category of "physical therapy". Although she is an LPT, Feldenkrais is a specialty that has not yet been embraced by institutionalized physical therapy and is therefore considered a specialty of its own. In an effort to honor this woman's obvious talent and skill in this area I will be henceforth referring to her as the 'FT', Mom's 'Feldenkrais Therapist'.
    Mom just went down for a well deserved nap and I have more to report but I want to take advantage of this time to go to Home Depot and pick up the supplies we need for rose planting in the morning. Something I just discovered that I want to mention: The link I placed on the Information Links & Resources page for the Feldenkrais Institute is incorrect. Once again, the template from the auto site builder added some of its own protocol. I wish I'd noticed it before. I'll repair that this evening when I get back here. In the mean time, the above link is correct and should activate without a problem.
    Later.

...quote courtesy of the movie Little Buddha. Mom's rousing/bathing/eating breakfast timetable was typical. She was reluctant to arise but energized by a half hour of good natured, witty conversation in which we picked on each other's sentence constructions and made puns out of each other's comments. Several times I mentioned our plans to hit plant nurseries today. She seemed enthusiastic. For the third day in a row her appetite was robust. She asked for two pieces of toast and considered two eggs, deciding instead on an extra slice of bacon. She asked for preserves on one piece of toast. During breakfast the weather began to cloud over, thunder, then rain. I turned on the weather report. As the all day possibility of thunderstorms was announced she shuddered and suggested we "wait and see how it looks outside." When I brought the emptied garbage cans back from the curb she shot a few pointed questions at me concerning the exact degree of cold and wind outside.
    "It's cold," I confirmed, "and feels colder because of the wind. But, I think we can dodge the rain and even if we can't you'll be bundled up under an umbrella, walking, which will generate some heat. Anyway, afterwards we'll stop somewhere warm that smells like good hot food and have lunch. You won't melt," I reminded her.
    "I might," she said. "I'm awfully sweet."
    I laughed, as I always do when she's looking for a clever excuse to refuse an invitation to an outing.
    "Why don't we play some Sorry [something she has never been the first to suggest] and see what develops outside."
    Although I saw where this was leading, considering her high spirits I decided that maybe as the day progressed and she spotted periods of sun between the benign showers she'd change her mind.
    Didn't happen. Although she was up most of the day, dressed for an outing (which she only allows when an outing is planned) and took only a brief nap in the late afternoon, if I had pushed her I'm sure would not have budged. Instead we talked, watched some of the Deep Space Nine marathon on Spike TV. (we share a fascination with this series), I did some chores while she insisted she'd help me then "supervised" me while I kidded her about how helpful she was and she kidded me about how I couldn't do these things without her...and we spent the day at home.
    I am often asked by those who know and care about me why I don't do the outside store chores on my own when she doesn't want to go. I used to. Now I do this only when one becomes urgent and all my "let's get out" tricks have failed. It isn't that I have major concerns about leaving her alone. I have some, but those are usually allayed by making these trips when it becomes necessary to take them alone: When she's napping or when she's enjoying high alertness. You'd think, wouldn't you, that high alertness would signal that getting her out would be "a good thing". Sometimes, though, high mental alertness doesn't also accompany high physical alertness. When, for instance, we were battling her anemia and for my convenience I did what was necessary "outside" without trying to tempt her into joining me, after a while I sensed that she was losing touch with her life because I was neglecting to make sure she was involved in as much of the detail of it as possible. Often, too, I found that when I'd gone ahead with a trip in which she seemed interested but I negotiated the trip alone because I didn't have the patience to wait for her to be "up to it", she was not shy about expressing her disappointment. The one stipulation is that we do not cancel appointments unless the appointment is not of a medical nature and she is physically unable to make it. Even then the physical inability has to be strikingly apparent to me for her to successfully beg off.
    It's a tricky business, negotiating among my mother's need for rest when she's ill, her inclination toward inertia which becomes more acute with age (as I'm sure it does in all of us who reach Ancient Status), her continued interest in the "outside" world despite her natural listing toward remaining at home in her rocking chair at any particular time and my knowledge that when I "force" her to come out with me she rarely regrets it and often expressly appreciates my attempts to get her moving past her comfort zone.
    I could get an elder sitter. I expect, at some point this will be necessary. I am confident of my ability to size up candidates quickly and determine whether or not I can trust them with my mother so I don't have a trust issue with others being with my mother. At any rate, I am familiar with a few very reliable people up here who hire themselves out as elder sitters who I consider trustworthy and have already proven themselves to be good personality matches with my mother. When we have company I often leave her with a guest (or guests) to do an errand or take in an amusement if she and the guest in question have no interest in what I've planned. The fundamental issue is that my intense curiosity about my mother and every moment of her life keeps me here. It's important to me to try not miss a moment of what is left of her life.
    Hmmm...this leads directly into one of the "reminders" I left myself in the post before last.

2. What Mom Said about Living Alone: A few nights ago one of our conversations turned into a Contrast & Compare session of her and my inclinations toward living alone vs. living with others. I can't remember how it started nor all the twists the conversation took but at one point we talked about how much she and I are aware that I treasure living alone, thus, how surprised I am that I have not only come to adjust to living with her but enjoy it.
       "I suppose the reason this is easy for me," I remember saying, "is that you are my mother, you've known about my need for alone time since I was born and you've always accepted it." I then offered the supposition, based on her once expressing to me how proud she was to discover her ability to negotiate life on her own after Dad died and how pleased she was to have the chance to confirm her life long suspicion that was fully capable of surviving on her own, that maybe I got my comfort with and preference for living alone from her.
       Her immediate corrective response was that she has never cared for living alone. She added that the nine years between my father's death and me coming to live with her were "the worst years of [her] life." She said this without rancor or regret, simply stated it as a fact.
       I was stunned to immediate tears. "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry," I sobbed. "I wish I had known. I wouldn't have made you wait so long if I'd known."
       In her usual unsentimental acceptance she waved away what I know she considered my shockingly inappropriate reaction. "Goodness! Don't apologize! It didn't hurt me! It was good for me!"
       I know that this was, and indeed is her reality of those years. I know that despite my newly acquired knowledge that she is not at all like me in respect to preference for living arrangements, when my father died, despite her love for him, she felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She told me this long ago. I know that all the experiences she had negotiating life on her own were exhilarating for her because she related them to me with vigor and pride at least once a week, usually more often, from the day my father died until the day I came to live with her. I know that her confidence, her sense of herself and her sense of her ability to negotiate life on her own, none of which has ever been frail, expanded by leaps and bounds. I never, though, never suspected that she'd wished she could have been doing all this while sharing her household with a loved one.
       I know too, because of the nature of our first four years together, that had I been aware of her desire to live with someone and had combined households with her sooner that none of the above personal boons granted in the wake of my father's death would have been denied her, as, during our initial years together she lived her life, I lived mine and we compared notes as we both came to rest each day in our shared household. Still, the thought of my mother, of the person she is, having spent tens of thousands of hours alone at home wishing she was sharing space and camaraderie with someone she loved and who loved her, ahhh...still, I ache in retrospect for those hours about which I was not aware.
       "Mom," I said, as I fought to contain my tears, "you know, we're joined at the hip, you and I, literally because you gave birth to me and figuratively because of how we know each other. [Yes, for those of you who have never encountered me in a voice-to-ear conversation in which I am disarmed, I really do talk like this. Many who know and love me, including my mother, make it clear that it is a quirk of mine that is more easily endured than appreciated.] If some recognizable part of us can live over and over if we choose, and if you and I each decides to do this again at the same time and know each other, don't wait. If you're alone and you don't want to be, next time, Mom, don't wait nine years. Tell me. I'll come to you immediately."
       Normally when I soar into these emotional flights of fancy my mother reacts with an embarrassed, genteel, good humored dismissal. That night she looked directly into me and promised, "I will."

    A couple of weeks ago we ran out of instant decaf coffee, which is what Mom drinks. Typically, I buy the mega-size of decaf instant coffee crystals that Costco sells. At some point before we emptied our last jar, Costco decided to no longer offer any brand of instant decaf. A little less than a month ago, because we were entertaining company who drink only decaf, I bought a bag of premium decaf coffee beans (a Costco house brand packaged by Starbucks) in order to serve our visitors tasty decaf coffee. When Mom's instant ran out I decided to use the decaf beans to make Mom's coffee. Those of you who know my mother know that what my mother calls coffee is little more than water colored with a few instant decaf crystals to look like, well, sort of like coffee, depending on how many times throughout a day she's watered down the dregs of her last cup and reheated it. Toward the end of the day it looks more like dishwater. I was very careful to make sure that I continued to make coffee as weak as that which Mom prefers to drink, using an amount of freshly ground coffee beans that, for the normal person, would be considered equal to the amount that might accidentally spill out of the grinder when filling a coffee filter.
    At the same time Mom's celebrated daily bowel movements became daily fecal accidents. I've established a protocol for taking care of fecal accidents so that clean up disrupts whatever routine we've established for the day by only about a half hour. One accident over a period of a couple of weeks doesn't shift me into "Why is this happening?" gear. But when she was experiencing accident after accident day after day, my concern and my strategy for figuring out why this was happening became tightly focused. I plundered her food intake; her liquid intake; her medicine intake; her movement quotient; changed this and that; added lots of binding foods, primarily solid and semi-solid dairy, all of which Mom loves, to her diet. The only action I didn't take was to give her OTC stuff on the order of Imodium AD. Her overall health and energy level remained good and slowly improving. Nothing I did, though, seemed to solve the problem.
    Finally, late last week on a serendipitous hunch I decided to pay the exorbitant cost for a tiny jar of instant decaf at the "regular" grocery to see if it might be the decaf beans that were causing the problem. The day we switched back to instant decaf was the day her fecal accidents stopped and her daily, normal, easily anticipated bowel movements continued. I mention this because, apparently, it isn't the caffeine in coffee that stimulates the bowels. It's something else, maybe to acids or oils, whatever remains in a decaf coffee bean but is eliminated during the process of turning coffee into instant decaf coffee.
    Since Mom drinks coffee for the idea rather than for the flavor she noticed no difference during the switches but did notice that she's stopped having bowel accidents. I explained everything to her and her comment was, "Please don't serve me 'good' coffee, again."
    In the little time I have left before I rouse her and we spend part of the day looking for a variety of plant foods for our roses and fruit trees, let me see how many of the "reminders" I left for myself in the last posting I can cover.

1. Regarding my mother's last PT appointment: She got a workout, so much so that over the weekend her back bothered her more than usual and she "slept it off". At the end of the session the PT mentioned that Mom is a "piece of cake" with which to work, unlike many of her other clients. I couldn't help but ask what it is that 'makes' someone hard to work with.
       "Many people aren't good at being intimate with themselves," she replied. She went on to explain that in order to receive maximum benefit from physical therapy a person needs to be able to sense and communicate what is going on inside themselves on a physical level: To be able, for instance, to pinpoint sources of pain and pleasure; to be able to instinctively follow a twinge to its source, etc. They must also be able to communicate their personal physical perceptions to the therapist, either verbally or in some other manner. My mother is quite good at all of this, including communicating non-verbally to the therapist what her body is experiencing through her body movements and reactions. According to the therapist she has a highly developed and useful sense of her physical self. "Your mother is amazing," she said.
       I have always thought my mother's physical sense was exactly the opposite. I should have known better. Reviewing what I know of my mother, I understand that the therapist is right. My lifelong sense that my mother is not a particularly physically focused being has been in error. She is very aware of her body, its state at any particular time and is capable of communicating this to others if she considers it necessary. Otherwise, this information is for my mother, alone. I think most of the time she doesn't because as long as she senses that she is okay she considers her sense of her physicality a private matter. She will divulge what she knows to health professionals and to me when I'm doing the "doctoring". I've learned without realizing it that when I need her physical feedback I must approach her as a healer would; a formalized approach. I didn't realize I was doing this until the PT explained her perception of my mother's awareness of her physicality to me.
       I have always known that my sisters and I are very aware of our bodies and use this awareness on ourselves daily. I've never thought much about it but I have I assumed we got this from my father's side of the family. My evidence has been that it was my father who talked about how to use one's body to successfully negotiate tasks. My most striking piece of evidence, which I consciously recall every time I'm behind the wheel, is that when my father taught me to drive he highlighted driving by "the seat of [my] pants": Feeling what the car is doing through every part of me that is in direct contact with the car including hands, feet an, most especially my ass. His driving philosophy was that one does not drive a car, one "corrects" it. The only way one can do this quickly and successfully is to rely on one's body to read the car. This technique develops into a habit that works much more quickly than thinking on the level of which we are typically conscious about what the car is doing. Although it is this technique that causes anyone's driving skills to become automatic, if one is aware of one's sources of information from the very beginning one allows these cues to develop more quickly and one's ability to be an aware driver soars above the average.
       Now that I think about it though, I realize that my mother also taught us physical sense, mostly through silent example. She has always been able to instantaneously physically relax. My mother has always trusted her body to be able to do whatever she needs it to do. Her personal record of lack of injury or chronic illness is a tribute to her ability to "know" physically who she is and what she needs to do to maintain her preferred level of functioning. While it is true that at this point in her life she is more likely to overestimate her abilities based on past experience (the kink that caused her to injure her back), her physical awareness, her ability to "be intimate with [herself]" is still standing her in excellent stead. Without realizing it I've counted on her sense of her physical self to guide me in figuring out what she needs to help her heal and what isn't going to work for her.
       As well, continuing historical rumination, I realize that, for instance, our family's habit of long evening walks throughout my childhood, which became famous in our neighborhood because, as our neighbors reported to us, on our extended, every-three-year off-island vacations our family dog would take these walks alone every evening, contributed to the development of this nascent inherited ability.
       My sisters and I are very lucky to have been produced by biological parents who, despite any other problems they may have, were and are always able to factor in their physical sense of themselves with a high degree of accuracy. We also, of course, are able to ignore this information if it's troublesome and we don't want to deal with it at a particular time but we are always aware of what we're ignoring. I think this is also what causes all of us to be more than a little circumspect about the abilities of any individual professional healer to help us correct a physical problem.
       In final support of this familial ability, yesterday at my acupuncture appointment (last week, this week and next week the recipient of treatment has been, is and will be me) the acupuncturist was surprised that in a week I had been able to "clear" a couple of issues with debilitating physical manifestations that typically take more than one session for a client to clear. When she expressed her surprise I said, "I really worked on it, gave it a lot of thought." I did, but I wasn't aware of how much work I'd been doing through the previous week until she mentioned the results. When we began work on a few other issues in order to "rocket" me into "the next phase of [my] life" she mentioned, "I love working with you on this level." I responded that I loved working with her, too, because I've found, throughout my life, that non-alternative physicians are very hard for me to work with simply because they don't address my ability to heal on the same level that I address it within myself. Her type of healing help works for me. Courtesy of Mom's PT, I now know why.

    Time to wake up The Mom and start our collaborative day.
    Later.