Mom & Me Two Archive

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    Love and All that Shit.

    Mom was a little under the low weather: Cold and windy despite plentiful sun. It was a slow day for her. We did a few exercises, again informally, until she dropped the weights and said, "No more." I heeded her desire. She was so obscured by the low that she didn't notice the Christmas tree this evening. Usually she notices it anew every evening and talks about it.
    We enjoyed another Just Desserts dinner tonight. It consisted of a lavish, luscious dessert muffin from the dozen sent to us for Christmas by friends. I'm satisfied that, in order to handle holiday sweets and delight my mother with them without trumping her blood sugar, Just Desserts dinners are the way to go. That's how she likes her sweets, pure and unadulterated by nutrition. I hope we aren't sent too many more sweets. If we get too many more I'll have to throw some away.
    We had one 'looking for Kleenex' incident this evening after she'd been on oxygen for a half hour past her exercise session. I always put her on oxygen during the session then leave her on for awhile until she catches her breath. By that time I figured she'd be fine off it, so I cut the tank and retrieved a box for her. She was surprisingly conservative in her use. Maybe breaking this habit won't be much of a problem. I'm wondering now, though, what other obsessive habit she may develop in its place. I'm also wondering how I'm going to handle her eyes watering when her allergies act up. Most of the time the drops we have take care of the problem but sometimes, especially in the spring and fall, even the drops don't help much. As well, any visit to The Valley brings on unstoppable tearing. Could be by the next pollen season she'll have forgotten about her nose.
    We are continuing with Deep Space 9. Despite her "low degree" today she insisted on packing a few episodes in this evening. She remembered that one of the episodes on the last disc we were working through yesterday was entitled "Dax", she was too tired to watch it last night but remembered that she'd determined it was a "must see". It always surprises me how much of my mother's memory kicks in when her interest is seduced. It also surprises me how hard it is for me to determine what might do this. Her interests become less predictable the older she gets. There's also a great deal more interspersing of interests than there used to be: Something that catches her eye one week may have absolutely no glitter the next. I used to think this was a sign that her attention span was shortening but there are some activities, like her crossword puzzles and gossip magazines, that remain attractive under all circumstances except when she's ill.
    I'm feeling unusually content this evening. I'm not sure why and I don't care. It's just nice to feel this way, every once in awhile.

...and reawoke a bit before 0300 to the hall light blazing. Mom had awakened and was in the living room, sitting in her chair with her TV table in front of her, doing crosswords, a cup of water beside her magazines and pens. She had plugged the Christmas tree in, turned on the kitchen lights and the living room lamp by her chair. She seemed perfectly happy; surprised, too, that I awoke.
    "I got up to go to the bathroom and couldn't get back to sleep."
    I stayed up for a bit, questioned her gently to make sure nothing was wrong, briefly disturbed her reverie for an underwear change, reminded her to "turn off lights, put on oxygen" when she finally retired, made sure the concentrator was on and went back to bed around 0330.
    I have no idea when she went to bed but I noticed this morning that her nail grooming stuff was on her TV table so I imagine she was up for awhile. When I looked in on her she was sleeping 'the sleep of the dead' (cannula securely in place) versus a light sleep that tells me it's safe to awaken her. I let her sleep.
    In 'the old days' a couple of years ago this was one of her typical patterns. She used to enjoy the peace of awakening in the deep of the night and spending a few hours alone with her busywork and her thoughts. My feeling of contentment continues, especially in the wake of the revival of one of her former habits. Seeing her sitting as if from a tableau of her history last night took me back to the days of childhood when I'd awaken in the middle of the night and she'd be sitting alone in the kitchen with a bowl of ice cream or a small glass of gin grading papers; a very secure feeling.
    I'm heading in to see if she's any closer to consciousness. Somehow, even though I expect a slow day, I also expect a good day.
    Later.

    I scanned backward a ways to see if I'd mentioned this before, couldn't find mention of it, so I'll outline the entire problem and final solution (which I've been suspecting for a couple of days and confirmed, today).
    I've been having lots of trouble with Oxygen Conservation Devices and my mother for some months now. It began around the time that we transferred from our Phoenix supplier to a Prescott supplier. This was also soon after my mother stopped smoking and wasn't using oxygen that much and, as well, was moving around a bit more.
    This was the problem: It didn't matter what type of regulator we tried (several) or what type of cannulae (also tried several) or how often I changed the cannulae, my mother's natural breathing wasn't pulling adequate oxygen from a tank. Since I know that her breathing capacity has improved by leaps and bounds since she quit smoking this glitch has been very frustrating. The company insisted that the problem was her mouth breathing but she's always mouth breathed and it's not been a problem before although I vowed to work on getting her to stop this. If you've ever taken care of a mouth breather on oxygen you know two things: With the right regulator it doesn't matter and it's impossible to get a mouth breather who is also senile to stop. In order to make sure she was getting one to two liters I'd have to dial the regulator up to 5 or 6 (typically regulators don't go any higher than this). Still I had to keep my ear trained on the puffing of the regulator, which becomes quickly tiresome, in order to either remind her to breathe through her nose or take another stab at figuring what might be the problem.
    A couple of nights ago it occurred to me that the problem might lie somewhere besides the equipment. I became aware of how often she was wiping her nose whether or not she was using oxygen. I began concentrated observation and discovered that her nose wiping wasn't being caused by a runny nose. The tissues she was using (she can go through a large box a day) were mostly not wet a stuck-together dry. Since I'd installed the humidifier a couple of weeks ago she has no longer been waking up with a stuffy, slightly bloody nose. She has been amazingly free of allergic reactions lately (bless mountain air). I began to wonder if maybe she had replaced smoking with the habit of obsessively wiping her nose. This wouldn't ordinarily cause a problem. But, I thought, it might cause a huge problem when using oxygen because at least once a minute, sometimes more often, she was up there fiddling with the cannula, accidentally displacing it and either holding her breath or breathing through her mouth. I briefly tried KY jelly but this only aggravated the problem because, with that stuff in her nose, her nasal passages not only felt wet, they were wet.
    This morning while I had her on oxygen (I put her on oxygen right after bathing her, usually through breakfast, just to give her a lift) I explained it all to her including my guess that her nose wiping was habitual and not necessary, that it was interfering with her intake of oxygen and that I was getting really tired of having to keep an even closer eye on her than normal when she was on oxygen just to make sure she was getting some.
    "Mom, when you're on oxygen, I'm banning all Kleenex and other paper products that can be used as nose wipers from your vicinity. Beginning now."
    I invaded her house coat pockets and divested them of Kleenex. I took away her napkin, got rid of my napkin and hid the rest. I gathered all the Kleenex boxes littered throughout the house and hid them. I made sure all used Kleenexes (which she drops where ever she is) were picked up and thrown away. I told her that the oxygen, itself, should dry up any "running" that was actually occurring (although none was, but the principle is true). Then I dialed her back to 2/lpm and waited. Sure enough, she immediately and autonomically stopped mouth breathing and the regulator puffed away just as it had several months ago. I could have danced all day. In fact, I believe I'm still dancing.
    The oxygen guy was due to show up today. I had been assigned a "special" one with lots of experience because, well, I'm sure it's because I was considered a troublesome client with my continual complaining about regulators. Today he was due perform the 90 day check on the concentrator. I followed him into my mother's room and told him I was no longer going to be a pain in the ass about regulators and explained exactly what the problem was and how I solved it.
    He was astounded. He'd never "heard such a thing". As I explained what I believed had been happening he confirmed it with his engineering perspective on how OCDs work. He went on to tell me that he was very pleased to know this because he thought the information might help him solve problems with current and future clients who were also touchy about regulators.
    I expect it will take awhile to get Mom to stop looking for Kleenex. When she's not on oxygen, if she begins to display agitation from not being able to wipe her nose she can have all the Kleenex she wants. She just can't have any when she's on oxygen.
    Another obscure caregiver problem solved by SuperCaregiver Gail.

    We both decided not to bother with the seven footer. Although we've got the ceiling for it we don't have the space for it this year, with all the stuff piled around the house (and in the storage shed). I think we both like the thirty two inch fiber optic tree well enough anyway. It doesn't require loads of cords since it has built in lights and the quality of light is magical. It doesn't take long to decorate, either. Mom can sit in her rocking chair with the tree on its platform in front of her and help decorate it. My mother likes it so much that last year we kept it up until April, I believe. Who knows how long it will stay up this year.
    Since I've been living with my mother my attitude toward the holidays often goes through a quick, dramatic metamorphosis in the weeks immediately before Christmas. I don't think it will this year. Amazingly, although I haven't been grousing about the holidays here at home (it hasn't been necessary, the holidays haven't been noticeable in the house this year) Mom mentioned tonight that she "expects [I'll] get the spirit, soon", like I usually do. I didn't respond, just continued decorating the tree with her. If it happens, fine. I, too, expect the transformation every year, look forward to it, but I don't think it's going to happen this year.
    Mom's been pretty lively, today. I decided to get her started "informally" on her exercises; so informally that I didn't print a list and record the effort. We only did a few, all of them sitting ones, the minimum number of reps (5 or 10, depending on the exercise), one set each. I didn't morph into "Sgt. Ms. Trainer". That'll come later. I just wanted to see where we were, how much ground we have to make up. I was pleased at how much she accomplished with surprisingly little effort. I was also taken aback (although I shouldn't have been), at how reluctant she was to do anything. Instead of handling the weights she let them handle her, for instance, and constantly complained about how heavy they were (she's using one pounders). So I think we'll probably do them "informally" for a couple of days until exercises reestablishes itself as a routine. Her muscles remember how to do the exercises I think but her mind is going, "God damnit, I wish that daughter of mine would just let me sit quietly through the rest of my life!" The abbreviated, resisted session made no difference in her blood pressure. I discuss this in my dinner stats post for today in the Tests & Meds section. She was somewhat brighter eyed and bushier tailed than I've seen her lately.
    Mr. Smith Goes to Washington arrived today. I was positive, since I ordered it at her request, that she would be thrilled but she's become possessed with the Deep Space 9 episodes, thus decided she wanted to watch the movie "later". She watched 3 episodes today or maybe 4, I'm not sure. I tried to keep up because she insisted on discussing every episode but I had stuff to do, too, and had to rewind a lot to keep up with her. At one point I apologized to her for doing this and she said, "I don't mind at all, rewind as much as you want. Gives me a chance to see it again." I think I've created a Deep Space 9 monster! I insisted that we not watch while trimming the tree or doing exercises but only barely gained either ground. I briefly considered banning them during dinner but gave up before trying. On the one hand I am thrilled that something has captured her interest. On the other I wonder how I'm ever going to get her interested in anything else!
    She went to bed early for her tonight, almost immediately after dinner, a little after 2200. I was surprised but considered that today had been an unusually stimulating day for her and she uses sleep, as do I, to process stimulation.
    Did I mention here that I'm beginning to suspect that the older we get, the less likely our peer group is to have any realistic "norm" and the more likely each of us, as individuals, is to diverge from a hypothetical peer norm? I wonder if this is only true of Ancients when Ancienthood is reached by very few people within a particular generation. I wonder if my generation, the frog in the belly of the snake generation, the baby boomers, will foster so many Ancients that for us an Ancienthood peer norm will be more reliable. Did you know that at the time of the birth of our nation, the late 1700's, the population (the European immigrant population) was exactly as it is now, primarily over 45 and aging, and a fairly high percentage of that population not only expected to reach Ancienthood but did? Amazing. Maybe it has nothing to do with medical science, maybe it's a generation's Zeitgeist that determines its ability to forge into The Valley of the Ancients. It would be interesting to look into the social literature of the late 1700s and see whether an Ancienthood peer norm was established that was reliable.
    Good Day. Sunshine. And Deep Space 9.
    Later.

    Today began last week, Thursday, to be exact, when I called the pharmacy and registered a refill on my mother's lisinopril through their auto-refill service. I drove through to retrieve it on Friday and discovered (which I'd not checked the last time I refilled it) that it wasn't "due" for a refill because some idiot somewhere had written the instructions wrong; they were probably mistyped. They were supposed to be 1/2 a 5 mg tab twice a day. Instead, the last time it was refilled the instructions had been re-written for 1/4 a 5 mg tab twice a day. The pharmacy wouldn't cop to the error and said they'd have to call the doctor to straighten it out. Unfortunately, the last prescription the doctor wrote for my mother, at my request, was for 1/2 a 2.5 mg tab twice a day. I have never turned in this prescription because her blood pressure's been spiking. I've been keeping her on the old one and saving the "new" one, which was written in September, for the days when my mother is moving again (who knows when that will be) and her blood pressure regulates itself into its lower range. But since that's the last prescription on her doctor's computer I knew that if I didn't call the office, they wouldn't correct the old prescription, they'd simply compare the misprint with the new prescription and say, "Nope, don't refill it until December 24th."
    I called the doctor's office Friday, hoping against hope that they'd be open. They weren't (they usually close at 2 p.m. on Friday). I called first thing in the morning yesterday. Come to find out my mother's doctor left the clinic some time in November so there was heightened confusion in regard to this problem. I did, though, manage to talk to someone who was able to get into the computer, confirm that the second to the last prescription written, on June 8, 2004, was indeed for 5 mg tabs to be administered half a tab twice a day, and who, further, believed me when I told her that I'd never had the second prescription filled so the refusal to refill on Thursday had to be the result of a pharmacy printing error. I had the last prescription, which was computerized with a unique number identification and was able to confirm that it had never been filled (how else would I know the ID number). The final problem, though, was laid out by the woman I spoke with; since my mother's current doctor was no longer current with them and we had yet to be seen by the physician to whom I immediately had her reassigned, the new PCP might not "feel comfortable" okaying the prescription. I didn't argue or beg. I sighed and said, well, okay, I'm sure my mother would live until the 24th if this was the case but she's been pretty immobile lately and, although she doesn't take the lisinopril, classically for blood pressure management, she needs it for that, right now.
    We ran out of lisinopril yesterday morning. As of yesterday evening the pharmacy hadn't received instructions from the doctor's office. Then, through early afternoon, after having been off the lisinopril for over 24 hours, I began to suspect that her very low level of energy was somehow connected with the break in her lisinopril dosage. I wasn't sure what I was going to do if the refill was refused until December 24th but I figured it would have something to do with getting out the mental whip and forcing her to move so that we could get her blood pressure closer to her normal range, which is: Systolic=105-125/Diastolic=55/65. I still need to do this but the medication was keeping her in an acceptable systolic range of 130-160 with only slight blips above this. It was keeping her diastolic in the mid 60s to high 70s. Not stroke range. Or I'd have to initiate yet another battle with two prongs of the medical establishment.
    Needless to say, it was with great trepidation that I approached the drive-thru window at the pharmacy today but, thank the gods, the office in Mesa came through and her prescription was there, mistake corrected. Hallelujah! This one smooth outcome completely reversed my dour mood this morning, which was a reflection of what was going on with my mother.
    I'm not sure how I'm going to get her moving again except rudely. I feel responsible for her current lethargy because of my lack of get-up-and-go on her behalf in October which I followed with My Month of Me in November. I have high hopes, though, despite a niggling incident yesterday in which I sat her out in the bright, sunny, warm yard to watch me do yardwork, bundled up against any cool breeze, assumed that she'd take an interest and wander a little, which she did 10 minutes later: She wandered into the house and refused to come out.
    I scored another video triumph today. For a couple of months she's been having me scout episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I haven't minded. She introduced me to Star Trek: Next Generation when I moved in with her, then Deep Space Nine of which I also became a devoted fan. The episodes have become harder and harder to locate in syndication. It looked as though, starting this fall, one of the cable channels was going to air the entire series in the mid-evening. After a couple of weeks they cut back to one episode at unpredictable afternoon times spotted throughout the week. My mother was usually napping when it showed. Today, when I went to Costco for our usual 2 boxes of paper underwear and the jumbo bag of salad greens, in order to avoid a cart jam I veered through the clothes section and just grazed the video section. There, as I passed the end of one of the tables, were copies of the entire Deep Space Nine series. I had earlier last week, while feeling my mother's and my frustration, looked it up on Amazon.com and choked at the price. Costco had it for $136 less. Even though it seemed expensive we can afford it and it seems as though it would be worth it, since she becomes deeply involved in the episodes and loves to discuss them, much like she reacts to Pee Wee's Playhouse. I bought it despite my hesitancy, figuring I'd tell Mom what the price was and if she wanted me to return it I would. She was so hyped that she wouldn't hear of returning it. We watched the first and second episodes of the first year tonight and she announced,afterward, that we will be watching at least one episode every day until we get through the entire 7 years.
    "What then?" I asked.
    "We'll start all over again!"
    On a hunch I asked her if she wanted the Next Generation series. She only wants some of the episodes from the later years, the ones featuring The Traveler, some of the denser episodes involving Q, "the one where the ship turns into a swamp", "the one about the town that's a holograph", "the one where a whole bunch of copies of the Enterprise show up" (she and I have a cherished history with this episode, actually), "the one with Mark Twain" (I think that is two episodes) and "any of the episodes about the crystal sphere". I wrote them down in my ever constant companion, my notebook-that-contains-my-life, so I'd remember them. I was really surprised that she even came up with a list but I guess dedicated fan-dom trumps short term memory loss. She'll be around for awhile, I can tell.
    So, bad to good to even better, all in one day. Maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this.

...a set of quotes from beliefnet.com. I read them or not, depending on whether the titles perk my interest. This morning's "Inspirational" subject line contained the words "Old age", so I opened the e to the following:

Old age, to the unlearned, is winter; to the learned, it’s harvest time.
--Yiddish saying

    Although I don't consider that my mother is "wintering", despite how closely I observe and live with her Ancienthood, I have no idea if she considers this period her "harvest time" nor what she would consider the contents of her harvest. I live with her. I am so familiar with her I sometimes smell her when I'm away from her. I know a myriad of details about what she likes and doesn't like, what allows her to feel safe and comfortable and loved (although, in tribute to my mother, even when these details aren't present she feels safe and comfortable and loved) but I have not cracked through, and, as I realized this morning, probably won't (until I'm Ancient, if I am), to the essential mystery of Ancienthood. I think everyone who has yet to embark on Ancienthood is one of the "unlearned" and we do not become "learned" until we find ourselves in Ancienthood.
    Thus, I have to assume that this saying was proposed by an Ancient One. If it wasn't, then those of us who tend to and love our Ancients from outside their experience still have no idea where the key to their mystery lies.
    I'll ask my mother what she thinks of this quote. I'll report back if I remember (eventually I will). I may not understand what she has to say.
    Which reminds me, yesterday morning I read her the "You've Got to Give a Little..." More. I wasn't sure what her reaction would be, whether she would even pay attention, but she did, she nodded throughout, smiled at some parts. When I finished she said, "Very good! You know, only caregivers will recognize themselves. No one else will."
    I hadn't thought about it but I'm sure she's right.
    Oh well. And another one rides the bus.
    Later.

...a song, really. It's a song my mother and I sing at least once every day and it's always our first song of the day. When you view it, you may find it intimidating, but it's been haunting me every day for a couple of months and I finally decided it's time to post it. It's my way of honoring one of the most important events that takes place in the relationship between an intensely involved caregiver and her recipient.

...and the period from last night through, well, all of today that has occurred is such a time, when I wish that this journal wasn't a therapeutic necessity for me; that any therapy I needed happened as a result of my mother having several family care avenues active and available.
    Whew! Holidays. Bad, bad holidays. Go to your room and stay there until January 2nd.
    Later.

...wasn't a problem for me because I lived alone. I'm reluctant to swear that, today, it created a problem. I was aware, as each minute past 1100 ticked by, that I should be awakening my mother. I refused, though, to pull myself away from finishing my essay.
    It's a curious position in which to be: On the one hand, my creativity is enhanced by taking care of my mother. Quite a bit of it is focused through my caregiving to her. On the other hand, my personal urge to produce creatively has, traditionally, dispersed through more than a couple types of activity/media. I've practiced creativity through the act of writing in several forms. While taking care of my mother, especially in these last four years, I've been able to practice only writing and only a few forms, those which best suit my creativity as focused through my care of my mother. It can be frustrating because it's impossible for me to ignore my need to create through all the mediums and forms I've explored. Thus, there is much I'm not able to do but this doesn't keep the ideas and their development from rumbling about in my head. On some days, like today, I have to make a choice...write or take care of my mother. This morning I chose to write. I would not ignore my mother if, while I was writing, her needs became urgent. I sometimes wonder, though, if in small ways, when I make a choice for my writing I am simultaneously making a choice against my mother; I am sacrificing her well being for mine. The fact that my writing is at this time focusing on my mother adds an acute irony to the situation. If it weren't for me taking care of my mother much of what I've created in the last couple of years would not have been possible. I am ambivalently grateful for this.

    I want to report a conversation between my mother and me that continued throughout yesterday involving Martelle, teaching, etc. It began in the morning when she, once again, mentioned that she'd definitely decided to teach in Martelle next year. I participated, as usual, by entering into her world until the conversation took a confusing turn for both of us.
    She, once again, conditionally accepted that we don't live close to Martelle, we don't live in Iowa, so it would be necessary for "us" to move in order for her to accomplish her goals.
    "You don't need to move," she said. "Dad (her father), took me to school and brought me home last year. He can do that again."
    I don't know exactly why but, at this point, I decided maybe some reality should be injected into the discussion. "Mom," I corrected, "that wasn't last year. You're 87 and you taught in Martelle when you were 25 (approximately) so that was 63 years ago."
    She stared at me as though I'd just gone over the edge and only the ghost of me remained in her vicinity.
    I continued, "And, your dad is dead. He's been dead for a long time. He wouldn't be able to take you to and from school."
    Her eyes dilated and her brow crinkled as she worked hard to either recall or incorporate this information. "Yes," she said carefully, "now I remember. Well, Mother can take me, then."
    "Your mother is dead, too, Mom."
    For some reason this was harder for her to absorb. She did, though, conclude, "Well, then, I guess you can drive me."
    This did not make me feel completely confident that she wanted me to do this.
    "I'll need some way to get to school, and we don't live very far from there," she added.
    The interesting aspect of this part of the conversation is that in reality she didn't learn to drive until after she was married and pregnant with her first child. So, in her mind, she was neither married, nor my mother. I didn't waste time wondering who I was, I just absorbed that I hadn't yet been born. She hadn't met her husband. She hadn't even thought about joining the Navy, which is where she met my father. I began to make a connection to her not driving now. It seems to me as though this one fact is somehow (maybe only currently) the key to her flight back into her years of teaching in Iowa.
    It appeared as though she had settled everything in her mind but again, for some reason I can't explain, I felt as though, yesterday, with this conversation, maybe it was time for me to insistently insert reality. "Mom," I began, "there's no way we can commute from here to there. Martelle is about 2000 miles from here. If you decide to teach in Martelle next year we'll have to move to Iowa."
    This hit her like a ton of bricks. She literally reeled. She began to argue. So, I opened our trusty Rand McNalley Road Atlas, which has served me well in the maintenance of each and both our realities in the past few years. As it turns out we are more like 1600 miles from Martelle. I showed her graphically exactly where we are, exactly where Martelle is and how we'd have to traverse, twice a day, close to two thirds of the U.S. if we were to follow her strategy.
    She never quite got it. She came close a couple of times: I'd watch her eyes race over the country map; she'd flip between the Arizona map and the Iowa map looking for Prescott in Iowa and Martelle in Arizona. It was not only torture for me, I suspected it was torture for her.
    I stopped it. "Mom," I said, "it's time for a dose of reality. You're 87. There's very little chance that the Martelle school district would hire you. Mom, normally it doesn't bother me when you phase back and forth between now and years ago but, I have to tell you, this time it's getting out of hand and I think each day that I indulge you it's worse for you, not better.
    "We've been having these conversations about you teaching in Martelle next year, you going into the Navy and you having a baby for more than a few days. Up to this point it's seemed harmless for me to enter into the world of your past and respond from there. I don't think it's harmless, anymore, at least not for this conversation. So, I'm telling you, we live in Prescott, Arizona, I take care of you.
    "I take care of your entire life and there is absolutely no way I'm moving us to Iowa, especially since the Iowa you want to move to is an Iowa that no longer exists and the you who wants to move there and teach is a you who exists in memory, not in reality. All the things you want to do you already did. You taught in Martelle. You joined the Navy. You had that baby, you had four and I'm one of them.
    "We're going to go forward, not back, from here. There are going to be times when your 'here' is different than my 'here'. But, Mom, I know where we both are, I know we're together, and I hope you trust that my perception of our reality is the one we need to follow."
    I don't know if she understood most of what I said but she understood the last sentence. Her entire demeanor relaxed while I invited her to trust me, even though it was clear she wasn't sure I was 'right'. "Oh," she said, "I do trust you. I'm glad you're here. Just make sure you don't launch any plans without talking them over with me, first."
    "I haven't, Mom, and I won't. I promise."
    I won't.

    One last insertion: Earlier last week we were watching a current episode of Judging Amy. She likes the show for several reasons, not the least of which is that Tyne Daly is in it and my mother knew, from a distance of two years, her father, Jim Daly, in college. The episode we watched involved a story line which strongly suggests that Daly's character is about to die. Her character was in the hospital in this episode for some sort of blacking out spell, something to do with her heart I think (although I can't be sure, I wasn't watching that closely).
    A conversation ensued with her mother's spirit about her mother's death which granted her clues as to how to approach and move through her own death. As the scenario continued her mother revealed that the one aspect of her own death she would have changed is that she would not have remained in the hospital. As the scenario developed throughout the program my eye was trained on my mother, observing her reaction because she was deeply involved in this plot, hunched forward in her chair, studying every gesture, catching every word.
    At the end of the episode as Tyne Daly's character decides, against doctor's orders, to refuse further treatment, walk out of the hospital and return home, I broke in during Daly's character's triumphant walk through the hall to the door and said, "Mom, I want you to know, I will not let you die in a hospital if I can help it. One way or another, if it's humanly possible, I'll see to it that you're home when you're ready to die."
    Mom relaxed against the back of her rocking chair and took a couple settling sways. "Good," she said. "If you can help it, I don't want to die in a hospital."
    Luckily, I now have enough confidence in myself in the face of the medical establishment and am so little intimidated by it on my mother's behalf that I think if hospitals are at all involved in her approach to death, I'll be able to shove them out of the way and get her home when the time comes so she can leave from her port of choice. I hope so, anyway. Assuming, of course, that my other fantasy of her death doesn't occur, which is that by some quirk of fate we dance through the Great Divide together, maybe with The Little Girl. That would work, too.

    Strange night, tonight. Not unsettling, but definitely strange.

...so I could complete a holiday caregiving essay I've been working on over the last twenty-four hours. It could be considered a decidedly Grinchy essay but an important one. You can click through to it on the link provided in the immediately previous sentence or through its listing in the link section to your right.
    Happy Holidays, everyone.
    Later.