Mom & Me Two Archive

    Turns out Sara Lee doesn't make a passable raspberry pie. I'm not sure what caused it to smell like raspberries while it was baking but it didn't taste like raspberries. It didn't taste like much of any kind of fruit, berry or not, so we dumped our pieces along with the rest of the pie, split the cream I'd whipped and this summer's raspberry sauce, folded them together and that's what we had for dinner last night. It wasn't raspberry pie but it was raspberries, sweet enough to satisfy Mom, delicious enough to satisfy me.
    After the second viewing, Mom is sure that The Terminal is about a man with a speech impediment. Since, depending one one's take, it could be interpreted as such I didn't disavow her of this notion. The point, for her, was that, speech impediment or not, it was his spirit that "won the day", or, days, and this pleased her. Last night's viewing was indeed a discussion viewing, involving not only the movie but fond recollections of our family's experiences "living out of" the Honolulu airport, other family airport experiences of note, other family vacation experiences of note, fire flies and fire opals, black swans and the Black Hills, endless road trips and England, relatives and revelry...we had a pleasant evening.
    Since my mother has been known to savor the shopping experience I asked her last night if she was interested in "braving the holiday crowds" to do some window shopping this weekend. There's only one place here in Prescott that even approaches "holiday crowd" syndrome, the "new" Walmart Superstore, and she and I both prefer to avoid that store any time of the year. It's too big, too hard to negotiate and, inevitably, when you finally find the section you want, the item you want is out of stock. I suggested that I pack her up in the wheelchair and we do the rounds of the shops at the mall and the courtyard square, making sure to linger at her favorite shopping experience, Bashford Court and The Christmas Store (which, much to her delight, is open all year). She didn't seem keen on the idea so I suggested "lunch" (which will probably fall within the early dinner hour) out as well, at which she displayed minor interest. So I'm not sure what's on the agenda for today. I'm not going to push her if she seems uninterested in activity. Maybe I'll get in a lot of project time. There's a happy thought.
    Later.

...which was write the essay mentioned in the last post hurriedly between duties. If you're interested, it's entitled I Can't Get It for You Wholesale. You can reach it by clicking on the aforementioned title or navigating from the Links section to the right.
    Yes, it's been mostly a duties day today. Mom's been very animated and governed by a surge of energy despite her late arising and her nap. She was down for so short a time this afternoon that I don't think she napped, just relaxed long enough to trigger a bowel movement. As well, ham transcends short term memory loss. I've had to keep an eagle eye on her to make sure she doesn't munch ham all day. Last night as I separated, bagged and froze most of what was left (which was quite a bit; the smallest I was able to obtain at such short notice was an 8.5 pounder and I think we ate maybe .75 of a pound) and packaged and secreted enough for today's meals in the refrigerated section I was sure that while she may pick from the little I left unfrozen she'd never go scouting through the freezer for ham. I was wrong. The freezer was the first place she looked (that's long term memory for you). About an hour after breakfast while I was wiping down her bed with alcohol, turning the fan on it and making it she found a package of ham in the freezer (hadn't even bothered to look for the refrigerated portion), transferred it to the counter and, as I entered the kitchen, she was hacking away at the contents with a butter knife and fork. I was relieved when she decided to nap and sorry when it turned out to be a "nap sprint" to the bathroom.
    Mom wants to see The Terminal again tonight. She mentioned it without prompting, referring to it as, "...that movie we saw last night about the man who had a speech impediment." I'm not sure whether I'll watch the movie or steal some time for my project while keeping an eye on her. I'll wait to see whether she's watching the movie in order to absorb it or discuss it. Sometimes her requests for second viewings are primarily for discussion purposes.
    My Month of Me is drawing to a close. Even though it's been difficult during this last week or so to scavenge adequate time for my project, I'm not at all displeased with my progress. When I can I've been working like hellfire. Whether writing or sorting and mulling, I've already accomplished much more than I expected. I'm sorry to see the time come to an end but I now know that the project won't be left behind.
    Later.

...the ham, baked yams, pea salad and superb fresh sweet basil bread, sliced, spread with garlic herb butter, sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan and grilled, were extraordinary. Not that we stuffed ourselves. Since Mom didn't awaken until 1100 we ate dinner around 2000. It's typical in our family to delay dessert. By the time dinner and the movie The Terminal were over both of us were too satisfied to enjoy dessert so decided we'd have raspberry pie for dinner tomorrow evening. It baked up suspiciously good, smelled like raspberries...maybe Sara knows what she's doing.
    Dinner was easy, requiring no more than an hour and a half prep time, thus I was able to get in a much needed nap today. For the last two mornings I've been hacking back our pyracantha bushes (more like super weeds), putting my muscles to the test behind one of my father's old saws that should have been sharpened decades ago and scratching my hands, gloved though they were, beyond recognition. Today my upper body was protesting, "What the fuck did you think you were doing out there?!? If you can get your mother down for awhile, lay me down, too!" So, I did, beneath a blanket of ibuprofen for three hours. I'm feeling much better. Which means, of course, that my mother slept her ass off today, but, well, she was in good spirits while she was up, even volunteered that she enjoyed the movie. Usually I have to pry an opinion out of her but this one impressed her. We talked about how it reminded both of us of Frank Capra's stuff with a veil of light gray over the end. I'll try it on her at least once more before I return it. I'm thinking, considering her reaction, this might be a keeper.
    I've been thinking about some of the stuff in a recent comment all day (when I wasn't asleep). I think I might be writing an essay or at least a somewhat more organized than usual post about it tomorrow if I don't get completely caught up in my project. Stay tuned. One way or another, it will be entitled, "What you can buy, and what you can't", or something like that. But, you know, I'm tired and satisfied and I've got a Little Girl on my lap warming me into thoughts of sleep, so...
    ...later.

    Although evening before last I'd considered skipping it I was provoked by an advertisement on one of her programs that featured a traditional Thanksgiving feast laden table. Upon viewing it Mom initiated a conversation about Thanksgiving dinner with, "I've never liked turkey. I don't know why everyone serves turkey on Thanksgiving. It has no flavor and neither do the leftovers."
    "Well," I responded, "I know your preference is ham."
    Her eyes lit, thus initiating a discussion of what we'd have for Thanksgiving if our preferences were addressed. From this it was a short skip to deciding to have Thanksgiving dinner.
    Although my meat preference is for some sort of beef or pork roast I don't mind ham and I love Mom's delight in it so that's what we're having. No stuffing, thank you, no mashed potatoes, no gravy, just a baked yam apiece, not candied, not marshmallowed and not those huge spuds that leave no room on a plate for anything else. Lightly nuked peas mixed with sauteed onions, celery and green peppers, fresh bacon bits and a tart herb dressing. Maybe some home made Sweet Basil bread if the breadmaker works and the yeast doesn't fail. None of her traditional Raisin Mustard Sauce. I offered to make it (it's easy) but I guess her ham preferences have changed...she wants her slab neat this year. Definitely bake the ham with pineapple but, I said, I hope she doesn't mind that I'm not using marashino cherries which I detest. That's fine, she agreed, she's never liked them either, she put them on "for the kids". She suggested shrimp cocktail and deviled eggs, too, so I struck a bargain with her and we had the shrimp and the eggs last night for dinner.
    No pumpkin pie. I didn't know this until a few years ago because my mother used to make The Best Pumpkin Pie in the Universe. It's like a highly spiced pecan pie held together with pumpkin instead of carmelized corn syrup; it is so loaded with pecans and so highly spiced that when it comes out of the oven it's brown instead of orange. It's so good that I hate everyone else's pumpkin pie. She confessed, though, that she's never liked pumpkin pie, not even her own. I left the dessert portion open and found a raspberry pie I thought might be an interesting experiment, especially since we still have some of the spectacular whole raspberry sauce I made with this summer's harvest in case Sara Lee's version of raspberry pie leaves something to be desired. Real whipped-on-demand cream, no sugar. Mom prefers dairy products untampered.
    Instead of eating in the middle of the afternoon we'll follow our regular schedule which works best with her meds: Dinner at least seven hours after breakfast, whenever that occurs.

    The wee hours of this morning hosted an interesting occurrence. At 0450 (I looked at the clock) I was awakened (probably out of a very light sleep) by the sound of Mom shuffling over the hall carpet. Figuring correctly that she was on her way to the bathroom I leapt out of bed to make sure that I changed what I knew would be her soaked underwear and manipulate the reattachment of her oxygen before she fell back to sleep. Amazingly, she had not yet leaked through to the sheets. This has happened very occasionally since she began copious night leakage. Normally, though, her bladder's needs don't awaken her and, as I joke to her, her bladder decides aw, what the hell, it's cold, she's comfortable, I'm full of warm liquid, let's forget the trip to the bathroom, Gail can handle the mess in the morning. The interesting thing about this occurrence at this time is that through the last several mornings every time Mom has awakened she's commented on how much she sweated the night previous. I always correct her, she is always shocked that she's leaking urine at night, usually takes some convincing to believe it, then I explain, once again, the trajectory of her incontinence since 10/25/03. It's become one of the funnier daily episodes in our life. Her sleep induced incontinence also causes easily negotiated but annoying rashes in the creases where her thighs meet her pelvic girdle. I've discussed this with her recently because lately we've been tending to them a lot throughout the day to keep the itching down so she doesn't scratch herself raw. This morning when I came to her urinary aid I wondered if maybe, somewhere in her tired, convoluted brain, she's registered our recent conversations and her bladder is changing its attitude because of her emotional shock at being a bedwetter. It will take a few more nights for me to discover if this is true. It may mean that I'll be waking in the middle of the night to make sure that she doesn't go back to bed with underwear loaded for leakage. I'd like to think that I can encourage her to change her underwear herself and I'll certainly try but I'm not going to count on this; she has a problem pulling the underwear tops past the tops of her thighs. I don't really care who changes her underwear if it means that she'll sleep in a dry bed and I'll have less laundry and fewer opportunities to smell her urine.
    Last night we watched The West Wing and I took particular note of something a nurse character said to "Leo", the character recovering from heart surgery: "The body is predictable." The nurse went on to explain the difficulties he was having with recuperation in terms of his neo-post-operative heart. While I was deciding this morning whether to go back to bed or stay up (I stayed up) I thought about this in light of the fact that this particular month is not the time when I would expect my mother's body to be able to jog itself back to nightly continence since she's moved very little and slept much more than I usually allow since November 1st. I've further considered my observation that she is somewhat weaker than she was on 10/31/04. It appears that her body isn't as predictable as younger bodies. I wonder if this is typical of Ancient bodies. Maybe, because the Ancient physical condition often borders on frail if it isn't actually frail, physical determination and ability are no longer triggered in the muscles of movement and the autonomy of the spinal cord but coincide, instead, with mental determination and spark more obviously from the brain. Once this was studied, of course, it could be considered predictable, but I can attest that medical science is far from this eventuality. I cannot tell you how many times my mother's recoveries have amazed her health care providers, whose expectations are based on their assumptions about Ancient bodies and are typically slight. It's funny because it's not uncommon for me to be privy to stories of the amazing recoveries of other Ancient Ones but I don't hear them from health care providers, I hear them from the Ancient Ones' families.
    Thanksgiving preparations call me to duty. I think I'll see if I can arouse her earlier than has been lately usual and give her the opportunity to enjoy my holiday fussing. Oh, yeah, but first, I need to get a paper. She mentioned that she wants to read the Thanksgiving paper this morning.
    Later, again, probably much, I need to put in some dedicated project entry time now that we're approaching the end of My Month of Me.

    The only video (including televised shows and disc-in-the-slot video) presentation that Mom can't seem to watch without wanting a cigarette and thinking that she still smokes is Sex and the City. We've been watching episodes of the show lately. I finally noticed that whenever Carrie lights up Mom looks around for cigarettes. She begins insisting that she smokes and that there must be cigarettes in the house or she stares at me indignantly, expecting me to head out on a short trip to buy her some. I've thought about why this particular character in this particular show is so far her only cigarette trigger: It's true, Mom can watch video after show after video featuring someone lighting a cigarette and doesn't notice. But when Carrie on lights up Mom's a smoker again. I think there are a couple of reasons:

1. Although Carrie isn't her favorite Sex and the City character all the other characters' lives are filtered through hers so she's the most visible, the most "real" and the most multi-faceted.
2. Carrie always smokes when she's either highly agitated or highly satisfied (as in after sex). Cigarettes are part of her celebration of emotional extremes. My mother's smoking has had these elements, although not exclusive of simple nicotine replenishment. I do know that capping or inviting satisfaction and sorting through agitation with a cigarette have been important rituals for her. Sex and the City exaggerates smoking for my mother by highlighting these uses of smoking and often talking around them through dramatizing Carrie's constant battle to quit. Interestingly, even in the later episodes where Carrie mentions, in a variety of situations, that she no longer smokes, my mother starts hunting cigarettes. Thus, Carrie's smoking remains visible even though Carrie no longer indulges.

    So, I'm reining in our watching of Sex and the City for awhile.

    Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I've mentioned to my mother several times why it is we are not visiting relatives in the Valley to celebrate this year. I've been truthful and detailed and she always seems to accept my explanation at the moment. Then, a few to several hours later, she's lost the memory and we go through the same dialogue. Finally, yesterday, by way of bringing up the subject once again, she stated/asked, "I guess MPS and BIL and the kids are visiting BIL's parents this year."
    I know, because of her interminable reiterating, that she's having trouble with the real explanation and probably, too, with my insistence on running the holidays my way this year. I didn't want to go through it all again, so I said, "I don't know but I imagine so." She hasn't asked since. This seems to satisfy her.
    Am I harboring any guilt over keeping my mother from seeing family this year over Thanksgiving (and, maybe, I don't know, Christmas, too); don't I care that this 'might be her last holiday season', etc. No. Every year might be her last; I've been considering this for 10 years. This year I need a break from The Caregiver's Harried Holiday Season so I'm taking it. And, you know what? It feels really, really good.
    A few days ago Mom was watching the "Oprah" part of her afternoon television line-up and I had my project papers sprawled over the floor considering what to keep and what to trash. Once again, Oprah was giving gifts to her audience. As the gifting came to a close she introduced the entertainment segment and her peculiar choice of words suddenly registered with me, "The holidays aren't just about receiving, you know," and I thought Well, this is interesting, she's scolding her audience for taking advantage of her generosity...I guess all gift horses have mouths, don't they. Oprah continued, "they're about giving, too, and hope." I realized this is why caregivers are so damned stressed throughout the holidays. Here we are, giving care constantly throughout the year in the most intimate and demanding of ways while working hard to allow our charges to retain as much of their personal dignity as possible, usually receiving little to no help or inadequate help or help that ups the ante for us as caregivers, being harassed beyond endurance by the caregiver establishment to "take care of yourselves, too," the holidays come along with platitudes about generosity and charity that become so ubiquitous one can't even escape them through Muzak...and if one is a caregiver of the Ancient and infirm hope isn't an issue, living has nothing to do with hope, not that hopelessness takes the trump but life works better under intense caregiving circumstances if one takes a Zen attitude which has everything to do with enhancing the moment and nothing to do with hope...
...and The Rude Caregiver strikes again. Don't talk to me about giving. Don't talk to me about hope. I'm in The Zone. If you think you have anything of value to caregivers to say about giving and hope then step into The Zone, my friend, look around, strip beds, bathe my mother and scan her for new bruises and infections, consider when she might be ready for a bowel movement and make sure these go smoothly enough so she neither strains nor remains dirty enough to give herself a UTI, keep doctors from needlessly plundering her in the name of healing and juggle all the miscellaneous business of her life as well as your conjoined lives. While doing this make her feel as though she is not being personally invaded or victimized, remind her to drink liquids several times a day, take stats, plan meals, keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn't falter when moving about, do everything you can think of to keep her feeling safe and secure including second guessing and constant, creative reevaluation and, by the way, keep her from eating condiments straight out of their bottles from the refrigerator, creatively remind her that she no longer smokes while invalidating society's ubiquitous reminders of smoking, wonder if she's sleeping and moving too little or too much, keep your ears tuned as you sleep in case she decides to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night so you will arise to make sure her journey is uneventful, awaken her in the morning and answer, once again, her daily question "Why?" she should get up and answer it with conviction, truly love her and make sure she knows she's loved, all the while retaining your sense of yourself as an individual with a unique mix of talents, skills and dreams...then talk to me.

...wherein, if I were in the normal world of employment I would face my employer, declare that, after unsuccessful negotiations and finally outright protests, I was being abused, the impossible was being expected of me without the help I need to bring both circumstances and goals into the realm of the reasonable and possible (for me, which means that I've agreed to accomplish the super-reasonable and im-possible and am almost there, just a little help from the finish line), I'd cast my karma to the winds and walk out.
    Yesterday afternoon and evening, during a day in which it was obvious that my time would be best spent devoting the day to my mother and ignoring my project, she once again indulged in her "remind me why I ever thought it was a good idea to buy this house" tirade and could not be soothed. After several hours in which I tried to soften her discomfort with a hearty bean and HoneyBaked Ham® bone soup, fresh from the oven blueberry muffins, yet another viewing of one of her favorite movies, Cheaper by the Dozen (the new version), during which I joined her in the audience (so to speak) and in celebrating her dream of a huge family, made every possible effort and then some to assure her of the blessed attributes of this house and our life together, she retired grumbling and inappreciative. Although the subject of my insistence on selling the mobile home in Mesa never came up I'm sure this was also in the back of her mind and contributed to her ornery attitude.
    Despite knowing that today will be a new day for her and she will probably remember nothing of yesterday's discomfort, despite knowing that she, too, is allowed days of multi-layered discomfort and grousing, despite everything, if I was doing this in the world of normal employment I'd be outta here and on my way to redesigning my life.
    Instead, since today's weather dictates another day of savory aromas and insulated comfort, I'll be serving her ham for breakfast, baking pumpkin cranberry muffins and individual beef pot pies, trying to coax her into actually making some of the cards she's been planning for the past few days, maybe playing some games with her, probably watching The Ten Commandments yet again (although, actually, I never mind this movie, I seem to always discover some new ultra-dramatic bit of dialogue or acting that renders the experience delightful) and hoping that, through me, she appreciates the wild, wet weather we're having.
    I've refused to mention Thanksgiving and she seems to have forgotten that it is less than a week away. My intention is not to make a big deal of it. I haven't decided whether I'll cook a special meal...I'm leaning toward not doing this. I'm also leaning toward a very modest, stay-at-home Christmas, as, the closer it gets the less I want to shuffle through making Christmas into a big production. I'm still not interested in honoring the inevitable "do it for Mom" dictate this year. Lately, not a day goes by but what I consider that, for all the advantages of having The Single One taking care of my mother, she probably would have been better off in a family setting despite what the medical profession might have done to her under the auspices of someone who wouldn't have been available to negotiate and refuse diagnoses and treatments.
    I'm not a good nurturer when I have to do it full time without any let-up and with very little time and absolutely no help to nurture myself. "You just do it," I recall my mother and my sisters saying many times with sometimes stubborn, sometimes humble overtones when describing their own super-human nurturing accomplishments. I'm getting to the place where I can't just do it anymore. I'm beginning to feel like consequences be damned. I'm experiencing this incredible thirst that threatens to kill me if I ignore it.
    I think about the possibility that after my mother dies I will feel great pride in a job well done, renewed by my accomplishments; then reality trashes the scenario. Immediately after my mother's death my entire life will be split into fourths, a quarter for me. I will be exhausted, without a home, without income, without a viable employment history for the previous 10+ years (assuming that my mother lives for a few to several more years). I will no doubt have to move and will not have the means to do so. I will probably lose my beloved cat. I will certainly lose most of my possessions, as well as my mother's which, realistically, have become mine, since they form the material spine of our home and our life. One of my sisters has offered to take me in until I "get on my feet" but this doesn't seem like a viable option for me, as it will involve not only my own internal up and at'em drive, but someone else's as well, and, frankly, I expect I won't feel like getting up and at'em at someone else's behest for awhile. I suspect, rather than feeling excitement that the possibilities are suddenly endless for me, I will feel inconsolably bereft and defeated. To hell with the idea that one makes one's own reality, to hell with lemonade. I'm beginning to understand not only the cooperative but the uncooperative effort that life is among humans. My transmission is being drained by the circumstances of intense caregiving. I think, when this is over, I'll be immovably low on fluid and my life will be too wrecked and expensive to fix.
    On days such as today, when the weather tosses everything about, my soul is normally revived. Today I note my difficulty in reveling in my usual way in wild weather and wonder if I've lost, to my mother's needs, my ability to storm my way out of any fortress.
    My mother is stirring. Time to continue...
    Later.