The lightening

The load of the estate sale, 0f emptying the storage unit, and of distributing the leftover detritus of the sale is nearly over.  I feel a spring in my step, a bounce.  Now I can turn to other matters.  BUT...I had one thing yet to figure out.  My curiosity wouldn't let it go. Following my stop at the local jewelry store to determine what of mom's stuff was valuable and what wasn't, I was left with odds and ends, including a nearly one inch square ID tag, almost like a dogtag.  It read, "Geo. Mason. Hants County. N.S."  I figured this was something Mom must've picked up in a box at an auction.  The piece was very worn, the background design nearly obliterated with age. Where had this come from?

I typed "Geo. Mason. Hants County. N.S." into Google and came up with genealogy sites, one from Nova Scotia.  It listed a "George Mason" from Hants County.  So on a whim I emailed the site administrator and indicated I had this ID tag.  The site manager (Dick Terfry) wrote back that George Mason was one of his ancestors and that his own grandson, in fact, is named "George Mason."  So I sent a photo of the tag to Dick and tomorrow will send off the ID tag to Canada--to Nova Scotia.  Feel curiously thrilled over this.  Connecting with the past and those who've walked before us...an amazing warmth as my load lightens and I navigate ahead.

And back again...

After clearing out mom's apartment, filling the storage unit, and integrating some of her things into our household, my trip to Greece was a much welcomed and fabulous event.  (See jwkjohnson3.wordpress.com).    Now back and feeling rested, Mom seems content with things.  Though we've shared with her that we all are enjoying some of her material possessions in our homes, I'm not sure she understands the enormity of this, or at least the implications--i.e. she's giving up these things, relinquishing them to us. One thing I noticed when I once again visited mom after my return, was that the room of the woman down the hall (who had eaten at mom's table) was now occupied by another person.  Good grief, I wondered, what had happened to Irene?  She seemed a gentle soul whose narrow, aging face appeared to hang, looking as if it were melting.  One benefit of this was few wrinkles--so interesting how our faces age so differently.  And though Irene couldn't talk much, I could tell by the light in her eyes that she recognized me as I'd greet her in the hallways. I wondered if she'd been transferred to a station for more "needy" residents.

My answer to Irene's disappearance came two days after I'd returned from Greece.  I didn't recognize Irene from her obituary photo in the Albert Lea Tribune.  This photo showed a plump Irene--one filled with spunk.  I wondered what had happened in the weeks I'd been gone that led to her dying, for she'd seemed stable and relatively healthy when I'd left.

And now obituary notices of two more residents Mom and I have had coffee with have stared back at me from the paper.  These two had convalesced in the rehab unit, yet in black and white were their death notices.  They'd seemed quite capable of living for a long time--what had happened?  How had these seemingly "healthy" souls suddenly died?

In contrast, mom seems robust, despite the fact she might weight a mere 90 lbs. or so.  And with her easy-to-care-for hair naturally becoming, she looks great most days (at least when she hasn't dribbled food on her clothes).  Her nails are trimmed and often polished, and we try hard to dress her in attractive clothes.  I found some size 2 petite slacks for her the other day and just knew I had to get them--something only a 93-year-old nursing home resident could get away with.  Think they're smashing on her!  And yet I wonder, what will be her story?  What events will lead to her obituary?

The last...

The last box: After what seemed like months of clearing out Mom's apartment, I was down to one last box sitting on the top left shelf of the coat closet.  Though I'd scoped out that area sometime ago, I couldn't remember what was in that last white box sporting a snow boot logo.

All about me were strewn totes, bits of paper, bags of Mom's things to move to her new room, the storage unit, or the Salvation Army.  I wondered where this box would go. Lifting it from the wire shelf, I found it rather light and wondered if it indeed contained anything at all.  But it did, and I found myself taken aback, remembering...

As I slid the two side tabs out and lifted the lid, Dad's over-the-boot rubbers jiggled in the movement, seeming to laugh and smile.  The thin, black material had protected Dad's Red Wing lace-up work boots for years, their style covering most of the footbed and keeping all dry and debris-free.

I instantly flashed back to Dad snapping on those overshoe rubbers before he left the house.  He'd lean against the radiator in the kitchen, cross one foot over the opposite knee, insert the toe of his boot into the thing, and pull. Snap! on it went, snuggly hugging the boot.

And here before me were what must've been the newest of the lot he'd needed over the years.  These didn't appear dirt streaked or manure stained, rather they wanted a walk on the lake road or a trip to the store.

That last box brought back Dad to me and I nearly crumpled with remembering.

The last visit:

Though Mom now lives in one room in the care center, I like to call it her new apartment, thinking the term will create for her a vision of something larger.  It IS a nice room, as rooms go, but it's not the former apartment with all her dearest possessions.  So as we sought to enjoy the possessions Mom and Dad had accumulated over the years (by sharing them with family), I wasn't quite sure how Mom would react to actually seeing the old apartment now devoid of her furniture, artwork, all things "Hazel."  But it came down to raspberries...

I like to bring Mom raspberries or strawberries to accompany afternoon coffee, but last Saturday as we rolled down the hall to the rehab dining area, I realized the container of fruit I'd washed was still stashed in the refrigerator of the old apartment.  I'd placed it there while working on sorting and packing Mom's remaining things.  All furniture was gone, but so much was yet left to deal with.

My first thought was to bring Mom to the old apartment's dining room, fetch the raspberries from the fridge in the apartment myself, and bring them to the dining room for her to enjoy with one last cup of coffee at Bancroft Creek Estates. Yet I wondered if Mom herself would want to see the apartment, now littered with debris as if a strong wind had sucked out all her possessions.  So I asked, "Should we go see the old apartment? Want one last visit?"

"Well, I don't know," she answered.  "What do you think?" She often does that these days--asks my opinion, her indecision clear.

A bit nervous about her possible reaction to seeing her former home of nearly ten years, I decided we should try it--we should wheel across the parking lot to her former home, greet any residents there, see the apartment, grab those raspberries, have coffee, and then wheel on back to the new apartment.  What would Mom's emotions be, I wondered...well, I'd find out.

As we entered the complex, I asked, "Anything look familiar here?"  She nodded a bit hesitantly.  Moving onto the faux wooden floor of the dining room, we heard a group of ladies in the corner chatting over coffee.

"Well, there she is!" chortled Dorothy, throwing up her hands. "So good to see you, Hazel!"

I told the gals we had to grab raspberries from the fridge in the old apartment and that we'd join them in a moment; then we moved down the hall to apartment 304.  "Anything look familiar now?" I asked.

"Well, I think my apartment was over here?" she said, indicating the right side of the hall. But we eventually turned left into 304 and I wheeled Mom from room to room, reminding her of where each piece of furniture had been.  I shared who was enjoying what now in his/her home or apartment, and emphasized how pleased we were that her lovely things now gave other family members so much joy in their homes.

Her reaction?  Actually quite unemotional, and that surprised me.  Mom nodded, seeming to remember all, and then was ready for coffee.  We grabbed the raspberries, scooted to the dining room, bellied up to the table, and Mom asked the gals, "What's new?"

My last visit...

That transport dolly my friends had loaned me saved my life--well, maybe my sanity at least. The apartment is now cleared out and scrubbed, but first the myriad boxes, bags, totes had to be hauled out to the van.  I love that the van holds so much, making it perfect for moving.

I really thought I'd be done with this whole moving thing once the kids were out of college, but...hadn't figured on Mom's 93 years requiring her to move from place to place.  Not far--just across the parking lot--but it was the final big move requiring planning, packing, hauling.

So this transition has consumed me, and now it's nearly over.  What's left is a stocked storage unit poised for a sale in the fall, and Hazel-items to incorporate into our homes.  We've loved that apartment and the complex for all the care and kindness given Mom and Dad.  And now it's time to move on.

CA-lunk

CA-lunk, CA-lunk.  The nearly empty dumpster echoed as I tossed each travel photo album into its cavernous void. These weren't just any travel albums--they were remembrances of Mom and Dad's joyful journeys together across the globe.  Australia, New Zealand, South America, Western Europe, Alaska...such adventures.  I'd looked through the photos before deciding to toss them, and what I saw on Mom's and Dad's faces time and again was curiosity, delight, happiness. The captured images had brought them back to their yearly get-aways, but for me and my siblings, we figured the photos held little significance.  Time to toss, time to be thankful for the chance our folks had to embrace the world, and then let go. This tossing is double-edged.  It feels cleansing (in the sense of it's gone!), but also poignant, in the sense of it's over. Even as I dumped in the expired health and beauty products, the fact Mom and Dad had been vibrant and quite healthy when they'd used this lotion or that shampoo left me pondering things...

It's been a mostly solitary journey in this apartment's clearing-out process. For nearly a month I've worked physically, but also mentally--sorting, removing, storing, transporting--the items of Mom and Dad's past daily lives. Some days I'm overwhelmed by fatigue, caused by my inability to sleep through the night without awaking with a jerk and mulling over my next step, planning my next day's schedule.  But other times I've stopped midway through an opened box, removed an item, fingered it, marveled at it, pondered its origin or significance.  And I'd shake my head at some things whose function was confusing,  undefinable.

So at this point the furniture is gone to kids' or grandkids' homes/apartments (or the storage unit for our future estate sale), and what remains is now in piles, strategically placed with my mental label of Salvation Army, storage unit, home, shred.  In 48 hours it should be over, this journey into my parents' lives.  I feel strangely responsible to protect what they loved, value what they valued, have joy in their past delight.

My dedication to this project has been a journey, as most marathons are.  I've grown in having accomplished it, and I have a deep respect and admiration for the lives Mom and Dad lived and the roads they traveled. And I feel fortunate to have touched the past.  Now time to let it go.

Crazy Making

It didn’t start out as one of the crazy days--well, at least I hadn’t anticipated anything really chaotic, overly stressful, mind-numbing. But it turned out that way. This morning after a fitful night’s sleep, I had no idea if I’d actually put the dog in the laundry room or done the evening dishes last night. I had no memory of it. But both had been done; I’m guessing I was on autopilot. So what makes for crazy? A Rochester clinic appointment, clearing out an apartment (deadline looming), and looking after the needs of two dear, but needy people. So this is how it went: Though our goal was to leave for Pete’s appointment in Rochester at 7:15, we didn’t pull onto the freeway until 7:35. The previous evening I’d made sure Pete’s ramp was in place, the clinic itinerary (and supplies) handy for quick pick up as we exited the house.  

Uneventful drive, but pulling into the dropoff area of the famous Mayo Clinic, we encountered a massive bottleneck. No place to pull in, drop Pete off and zoom to the parking garage. I simply had to stop in the middle of the 3-lane area, get out, jog to an available wheelchair, zoom it back to the car, unfold it, and get Pete into it (not forgetting his crutches). Mercifully an attendant saw my plight and came to assist. He took Pete into the clinic proper and promised to find an escort to wheel him to his first appointment. Then he explained the newly available “valet” parking option was creating logistical chaos. He just shook his head.   Found a parking spot using my parking ramp method: Ascend up to level 5 and then scoot out the turn toward the exit, thus coming down the ramp on the other side. Have not yet failed to find a parking spot quickly, often near the elevators.

Pete was waiting for me at the Hilton building--the blood sucker area, he calls it. Quick blood draw, then over to the next appointment. We had an hour wait there, so I ran to get Pete coffee. Medium sized medium roast. Even with the additional cup holder, it was nearly too warm to carry.   Back to Pete. Found he’d already gotten in for his test and was already finished! So on to the next appointment, which was scheduled for 3.5 hours hence. Ah...waiting in the waiting room.

We checked in early on the 18th floor of the Gonda building, again hoping we’d somehow entice Pete’s doctor to see us early. Dr. Nelson is a favorite of ours, and her seeing Pete yesterday was due to her making room in the schedule. She was to be called from the hospital when we arrived. So as they were calling her, and we were waiting for blood test results, Pete and I decided to acquaint him with his new iPhone, my old one.   Coffee. Where to position Pete and his wheelchair in the waiting room so he could set his coffee on an end table as he sat in his wheelchair and we worked with the iPhone. I resorted to moving benches and chairs and finally got Pete set up. I began showing him how to call up “Siri” to help him with iPhone tasks, and as we started setting that option up, Pete’s hands began to shake, his speech began to halt, and I suspected he was getting the “dropsies”--our term for the condition that arises now and then. His entire muscular system jerks, fails, and his hands drop what they’re holding. If he’s standing, his legs collapse and he falls.   We began to set up Siri. It actually was humorous, then sad and he tried to say the words required for Siri to recognize his voice. “Say, ‘Hey, Siri,’” the screen said. “Heeyyy Sirrriiii,” Pete responded. Of course he needed to repeat, and repeat, and try another phrase, and try again. He just couldn’t get the drift of speaking the required words to set up Siri.  

Oh well. I busied myself with checking my mail, etc. on my phone and “clunk!” Pete had grasped his coffee, brought it up to his mouth, then jerked and dropped the entire thing, spilling coffee down his shirt and all over the waiting room carpet. Egads. I grabbed Kleenex, and we blotted up as much as we could. Now Pete was a mess, the floor was a mess. The day was going south…

Yet a shining ray of hope--Dr. Nelson would see us. The blood test results were in...so off to her cramped exam room we went.

This gal is thorough, has done her preparation each time she sees us. No need to refresh her memory about stuff. She’s ready to talk about what’s going on and today we wanted to discuss Pete’s water retention and shortness of breath. But that turned out to be a secondary concern.

Pete began slurring his words, had trouble tracking the conversation, and Dr. Nelson was able to see what the “dropsies” looked like. Pete’s skin took on a yellow hue, he presented a clearly confused guy--not able to explain himself. 

Eventually we decided on courses of action--requiring medication changes and return visits. Pete indicated he needed to use the bathroom, and because of the “dropsies,” Dr. Nelson recommended I accompany Pete into the private bathroom down the hall. Sounded reasonable. But as Pete stood in front of the toilet with me holding him up via a patient cloth “belt,” (the wheelchair strategically parked just in back of him in case of a fall), Pete couldn’t pee. We stood. Waited. Stood. Waited. Pete began bouncing a bit to entice action. The toilet began automatically flushing, responding to the movement. Wait-Bounce-Flush. Wait-Bounce-Flush. Again and again the toilet flushed and I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.

Back in the clinic’s waiting room adorned with artwork from around the world, a tastefully chosen decor with soft classical music, we waited for an itinerary of Pete’s upcoming visits. Suddenly Pete blurted, “I need a wastebasket!” What? What for? I wondered. “I’m going to throw up!” Pete croaked. I surveyed the entire waiting room. Not a wastebasket in sight. My eyes met those of the gal behind the counter and she swung into action--eventually handing us a large, grey wastebasket, mercifully blessed with a plastic liner. Pete cradled the wastebasket in his lap as he began to wretch, big blahhhhh sounds coming deep from his gut. Again and again he wretched and I asked the gal if we should scoot into the hall behind the door--this was actually not a pretty sight. “No, don’t worry,” she said. “He’s fine here.” Several minutes passed and Pete’s episode eventually abated. I wiped his chin and face, pulled the liner from the wastebasket, returned it to the gal, and deposited the liner in another wastebasket we eventually found near the bathrooms on our way out. The classical music still playing, we strode to the elevators and down to the entrance. Whew!

I deposited Pete outside the main doors and went to find the car--struck by the beauty of the Chihuly glass hanging in the atrium. All the ugliness of illness and pain pales when one appreciates the work. The drive home was uneventful, Pete mercifully falling asleep. And with his scooter waiting for him in the garage when we returned home, he putted up the ramp and into the house. A tough morning, but we were home 3 hours before I thought we’d be--time to do some moving! I texted my moving partner Will and he could assist. When he arrived at our house, we hauled the old couch from the basement out to his truck (couch to be replaced by Mom’s cool iron bed/couch we’d eventually bring from her apartment). We took the van filled with plastic bags from the apartment and the couch to the Salvation Army. I love that they welcome our “stuff” with open arms, and I heard, “Oh what a nice couch!” even with dog hair stuck to the seams. On to the storage place rental office. We decided that given the amount of things to store, a 10 x 10 foot space would suffice. $50/month, 19 rules, waivers to sign, credit card to be processed, #933. Instructions on door operation, emphasis on cleanliness, especially when eventually vacating the unit. Done. On to Mom’s apartment.

We began with loading the heaviest piece to move for transfer to the storage unit: Grandpa’s desk. Removing all the drawers, we slid the desk onto Will’s 2-4 wheeled dolly, tipped it up, walked it out the door to the pickup, tipped it onto the bed of the truck and slid it in. Drawers replaced, Like clockwork. Back to the apartment for the next load. Will and I work well together, knowing after years of cooperation how the dance works.  

We additionally loaded and carted the following to the storage unit: 4 caned armless chairs, 2 armed chairs, drop-leap table and “leaf,” ice cream table, various lamps and a round marble table top. Then we decided to break for a bit--I needed to see Mom at the care center.  

Since I was pretty sure Pete was in no shape to have dinner, I figured I’d work on the apartment after I had supper. Will’s wife was out of town on business, so I asked him to meet me at the house around 6, gave him $20, and asked him to grab a Jake’s pizza for us both to eat--his choice of toppings. Agreed. Then we’d continue to move stuff after dinner.

I walked the short distance to the care center, swung through the doors, down the hall to mom’s room. Liz, the efficient nurse, was just opening Mom’s door to give her the 4 pm. calcium “chewy.” But the door wouldn’t open. Mom’s wheelchair was blocking it. I heard Liz call, “Dell, Hazel’s on the floor and her wheelchair is blocking the door.” Dell, Station 3’s head nurse, and several other aids scurried to Mom’s room. I witnessed all this activity and with numbed emotion, simply sat in a recliner outside Mom’s door in a sitting area and played games on my phone. No worry, No “OMG!” Just sat and lalalala played Candy Crush while I heard muffled, “OK, Hazel, just relax. Let us do the work…” from behind the door. I guess it takes a lot to get me riled these days.

Eventually all was put back into order. Mom was unhurt and “hoyered” back into her wheelchair. She apparently had just returned minutes earlier from having her hair done, needed to use the bathroom, attempted to walk to the commode, (I’m supposed to push a button for help? What button?) and fell. It wasn’t clearly apparent, but I think pee/poo were involved in the clean up and I thought two things: thank GOD she’s in this care center (and not the apartment) and over $300/day? No problem. It’s worth it. 

I got a text from Carole B. who wanted to pop in quick for a glass of wine before her 6:30 meeting, but I texted back that about the care center chaos. Another time? I wondered.

When Mom was ready to greet the world again, I entered her room and kidded her about “taking a dive.” She seemed a bit confused, but just fine, and nurse Liz came in several times to check vitals, finally announcing Hazel could go to dinner. I escorted her to the dining room, greeted the other women at the table, kissed Mom good-bye, told her I loved her, and escaped. Noticing it was only 5:15, I texted Carole. PLEASE come for a glass of wine. She responded that she was on her way. Woohoo! As I pulled into the driveway, cousin Carol pulled in behind me. Since she and I were working on her father’s obituary, she wanted to review some materials she’d given me in preparation for the article. Then Carole B. drove in, and we had a party. Wine, Proscecco, nuts, laughter--what a relief, a pressure valve release.  

Eventually Will came, pizza in hand, and grabbing a beer, he joined the group. Carole left for her meeting, Carol joined us for pizza, and though Pete didn’t feel like eating, I saved him some of Jake’s good Hawaiian pizza.

Obituary plan--I’d write it up and send it to Carol by 10 the next morning for review. This needed to be in Sunday’s paper and we had a deadline. I’d work on it when Will and I finished moving Mom’s later in the evening.

Carol left, we tossed the dishes into the sink, and we made our way back to the apartment. I felt good knowing the staff at the care center was looking in on Mom. So Will and I put together a plan of action, moved more things to the storage unit, negotiated a time to work the next day (recycling day for electronic stuff--so Mom’s keyboard, printer, computer tower were going there) and after Will dropped me off, I dragged myself into the house to look in on Pete and start the obituary.  

Pete was still shaking from the “tingles” he gets, making him very, very uncomfortable. Poor guy, but there’s not much I can do to help--only apply China Gel or Biofreeze to his back.

I drafted the obituary, sent it to Carol for review, and sort of dazed, found my way to my bed...quite a day. Quite a day.  Makes me crazy, and if I don't jot this all down, I'll never remember the chaos I survived.  Thankfully that's what Wittman women do.

The shouts, the yelps, the quiet

I've always been sensitive to noise--I'm easily startled.  And when alarmed by sound, my muscles contract and electricity runs through me, actually causing pain. My classroom had  always needed to be relatively quiet, elementary students (and their voices) made me crazy, and loud music sends shutters through me.  Give me soft violin music anytime. That I find calming, relaxing. So one would think I'd have welcomed Mom's relative quiet yesterday.  When I dashed through the door of the care center, I found Mom and her good pal Maryann already at the table sipping coffee.  I scooted up to the table, deposited my things, and grabbed a coffee for myself. It's so entertaining to chat with Maryann, and we carried on for awhile until I realized Mom really wasn't saying anything.  In fact, she seemed to be staring off into space much of the time, her face lax and eyes dim.

"So you're not saying much today," I teased Mom.

"Oh, really?" she asked, seemingly unaware of her nearly wordless presence.  I assessed things:  her face was a bit flushed, and she was wearing...not one but TWO knit tops under her sweater.

"You have two shirts on under your sweater," I noted.  "I wonder why."  Good grief, I thought.  I laid out one white knit shirt and yet she has two on under that sweater?  Oh well--at least she was clothed and actually didn't look too bad.  The bright pink shirt layered atop the white one gave Mom color.  Yet that quietness...it concerned me.

After Maryann left, we wheeled back into Mom's room, and after grabbing the dirty clothes to take home and wash, I solved the mystery of the extra shirt.  Apparently the pink shirt had been taken off the night before but not dropped into the dirty clothes bin with her slacks and sweater.  It must've remained draped over the chair with the other clothes for the coming day.  When the morning staff came, they probably thought I'd laid out two shirts, one long sleeved and one short sleeved.  I laughed at what they must've been wondering...

I drove home, my mouth already tasting the glass of wine I'd enjoy as I played a game of cribbage with Pete.  I turned onto our street, approached the driveway, turned to back into the garage, slowly...slowly... and YELP!  My god!  The dog!  I'd run over the dog!  She occasionally  lies outside on the driveway sunning herself, but...really Pete?  How could you let her out and forget her?  I had no way to see her.  Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!!!

After springing out of the car, I relaxed as I saw Gracie walking normally toward me, head lowered as if she (not I ) had performed the heinous act.  Apparently I'd surprised this nearly deaf mongrel as my bumper grazed her.  Whew.  I was shaking as I let her into the house, that yelp still resonating.

Cribbage was postponed until after the news.  For some reason the evening news has become a staple in Pete's life, and from 5:30-6 pm, ABC World News is his focus.  Well, I thought, I'd enjoy a glass of wine and watch the news as well--in Sarah's room on the opposite side of the house not far from the kitchen.

I enjoyed my wine, multi-tasking with the paper and the on-screen news when I heard Pete shouting from the kitchen, "Jane!  I need help!"  It was the cry of panic, and consequently I panicked and dashed into the kitchen wondering if he's cut himself, if the dog were now puking up blood or...?!  "My TV is screwed up!" Pete shrieked. "I dropped the remote and now I can't get the news! Can you fix it?"

Oh my god, I thought again to myself.  Really?  It's just your TV?  Not a giant sink hole in the back yard?  Not a tree falling through the roof?  Just a blank TV?!!!  Relieved, I scurried into his room, grabbed the remote, spent five minutes pushing buttons until finally...picture and sound. Now the two of us had missed a bit of news.

Still shaking from Pete's shouting, I walked back to the kitchen, past the now peaceful, snoring dog, back to my wine and the type of quiet I so desperately seek.

10.9.22

Appointments with medical personnel seem to be my "dates" with both my husband and Mom. Our outings entail leaving the house/care center via van (either the care center's or ours) for an eye, back, dental, hip, lung--or whatever--appointment/consult. Each adventure requires time, planning, and coordination. For Pete it's verifying the portable ramp is in place, the van starts (yesterday I had to jump it), and the wheelchair and cushion accompany us and are accessible.  For Mom, it's ensuring I'm actually aware of the appointment, coordinating an outfit she'd be proud of  (I lay out her clothes the previous day), meeting Mom at the clinic so she's not simply dropped off, and then calling the van to fetch her after the appointment. The care center's van and driver are boons to both Mom and me; I'm grateful they're so caring and thoughtful when assisting her.

Yesterday we had three appointments--two for hubby, one for Mom.  When the appointments pile up like that, I have to breathe deeply.  I've recently realized I'm not really retired--I've simply switched careers, though I have to admit this caregiving career does have more flexibility at times.

Mom's appointment was after lunch at 1:15.  Reason for seeing this doctor, her regular internist?  Who knew...I'd been too preoccupied with other things to question the appointment's purpose, I guess.  I simply acquiesced and met Mom at the clinic just before 1 pm.  I found her a bit confused as her wheelchair was lowered from the van (she never remembers when she has an appointment, even though I prep her days in advance). She grasped an envelope containing the care center's record of recent weight, blood pressure, etc.

I whisked Mom into the lobby, through the hall, up the elevator to second floor, and then to the registration desk.   The staff beckoned us and asked, "Date of birth?"

Instead of answering for Mom, I turned to her and said, "Birthdate?"

Pausing momentarily, Mom responded, "10.9.22," her eyes aware, clearly confident and engaged. No doubts there, I thought.  She still remembers.

We didn't wait long for Nurse Chris to find us, but I had just enough time to peruse the info. in Mom's envelope.  Blood pressure seemed fine, but weight--in the past few months it had gone from 98-100 pounds to 89-90.  Hmmm.  A 10% weight loss.  Ten pounds I'd gladly give her.

Chris took us to an exam room, and we settled in.  Jacket off, blood pressure taken, questions answered ("How are things going?" "Pretty good, I guess."  "Any pain?" "Not that I'm aware of....") 

I mentioned I was concerned about the weight loss, as well as that with the disposable underwear Mom was wearing, she was probably more prone to UTIs.  "I can usually tell when Mom's got a UTI," I said.  "She's a bit dingy."  Hazel simply nodded in agreement.

The nurse laughed.  "Man, if I'd said that about my mom," she admitted, "she wouldn't have liked that one bit.  You just nodded, Hazel.  Good for you."

Looking at me, she asked, "And are you going back to work after this appointment?"  I told her I'd retired--in fact I was in my second year of retiring from teaching.  We chatted briefly about my career in education, culminating a 39-year stint in the classroom with being asked to speak at graduation, an honor.  I mentioned I'd brought Mom and introduced her to the students and crowd, because she'd been the valedictorian of  that school 75 years hence.

Mom didn't react to this memory, but rather said, "You know, I don't remember that." She seemed sleepy and unattached to the conversation. The previous liveliness was waning.

Eventually the doctor saw us, announced that beginning in May, he'd be coming to the care center because he had a fair number of patients there (now that makes sense, I thought).  We discussed weight loss (I'd check with dining room staff to see if Mom's not eating, but if she is, the doctor implied he wasn't terribly concerned, though we'd monitor the weight). And low and behold...he suggested we have a urine test to see if Mom had a UTI, though I hadn't asked for one.  I guess I'd somehow conveyed its need.

The consult ended with the doctor saying, "I'll see you in a month, Hazel--out at the care center.  You don't need to come to the clinic anymore.  I'll see you there."

"You will?" Mom replied, having missed or forgotten the doctor's previous statement.

After retracing our steps back to the lobby, I asked the desk staff to call the care center's van for transport, and we waited the 15-20 minutes required for the van to reach the clinic. Mom was visibly sleepy and I suggested she nap when she returned to the apartment.  I'd come later for coffee after she'd rested.  Eventually the van arrived and Mom was shuttled back home.

Coffee time seemed to arrive too soon, and I had to quickly curtail my raking and clean up to see Mom.  The staff was helping her when I arrived, and I waited outside her room until all was completed, whatever she'd needed.

"Well," I said, entering her room, "did you have a nice nap?"

"Had a nap and pooped," she said, startling me with her bluntness.

"I guess that means we're ready for coffee."

As we sipped our coffee and munched on a cookie, Mom suddenly admitted, "You know, it's really hard to not remember things."  Her gaze was distant, nearly searching.

"Well, let's be thankful for the memories we have," I suggested.  At least she knows me, recognizes my voice.  And remembers her birthdate.  A comforting thought to be sure.

And so it goes...

The care center is beginning to feel like home, I think--at least Mom's not complaining or requesting to return to her apartment.  Her room IS nice, homey, and the four bird feeders are a boon.  An avid birdwatcher, Mom can't see each chipping, chirping feathered soul, but she can see the movement and shadows they cast. I like to think they give her solace, joy. And the staff and we have begun to bond, each becoming accustomed to the other's routine, strengths, and weaknesses.  I like to call each by name as I see them, and they seem to respond positively in kind--making a point to greet me when they see me each day.  Mom is a compliant client/resident, and though she has needs, she's not demanding. Her gratitude is apparent, even to the point of uttering a word or two of thanks for the help she receives when needing to use the bathroom or be given assistance.

Mom's cold and cough seem to be improving, yet her being in the "present" varies day to day.  Some days she's drifty and repeats her questions every 5 seconds.  Other times she asks insightful questions and seems "normal," something I wish would happen more often.

Last week we were having our coffee and Mom was nibbling on the fruit I like to bring her daily--either strawberries or raspberries.  I bring them in a small, easily transportable lidded dish.  Mom and I were chatting, and Mom's good friend Maryann joined us.  Maryann and I chatted, and Mom tossed in a few "now what are you talking about's?"  It was difficult for her to track our conversation, and soon I saw her dip her hand NOT into the berry dish for another morsel, but rather into her coffee.  She quickly withdrew it when she felt the heat on her fingers was coffee, not berries.  Oh dear, I thought, this gal is really losing it. Yet the incident didn't seem to bother mom--she didn't bat an eye. But I bemoaned her inability to distinguish between berries and coffee, heat and cool.

This morning at the breakfast table I was engrossed in the Sunday paper, reading two articles in close detail of places I'd been, events I'd experienced.  My morning coffee and a bowl of berries sat at my right.  I'd opted for fingering the berries rather than using a utensil, and you can guess what happened...so focused was I on the articles that my hand went from grasping the coffee cup and sipping, to dipping my fingers into the mug for berries.  Dang!  I thought.  My smile was immediate.  Like mother, like daughter.

And so it goes...

Phone home, or not?

My first phone number, the one that was "ours," was Franklin 3-2623, or FR3-2623 as it became known.  How does that translate into today's world?  Basically, you punch in 373-2623 and all's well.  I recall party lines, where several households spoke on the same line, and if you wanted to use the line, you had to wait your turn. So this number has belonged to the Paul Kepple family since...well, I guess since 1948, and suddenly I found myself this morning calling Century Link (previously Qwest) to discontinue it.  I can't recall all the phone companies that have come and gone, but Northwestern Bell is one.

Since Mom isn't using the phone much at all (in fact, I'm not sure she can manipulate the buttons anymore), I wanted to call and see about either disconnecting the line altogether, or "temporarily" disconnecting it.

I got Joe on the line who explained the intricacies of the plans.  I could simply discontinue the line all together (eliminate the number--it would probably be reassigned to another customer in the future), or temporarily disconnect (the number would be reserved for Mom) at a rate reduction of 50% per month.   What to do?

In reality, Mom doesn't need a phone or the number, but it seems I do.  I couldn't give up 507-373-2623, I suddenly realized.  I couldn't sever the connection to my past; I couldn't toss that magic number into the new-customer pot and allow a stranger to use it.  It's the Paul Kepple number.  OUR number.

So in the end, I asked for a temporary disconnect--temporary, that is, until I can come to terms with giving up that part of me, of "us."  Such a surprise that I identify myself so with a crazy phone number.  A poignant moment and realization.

The Party's Over

The next step after finding a sunny room in long-term care for Mom was naturally furnishing it.  She'd overnighted in the new place on Thursday, and Friday afternoon at 2, the team I had gathered invaded the sparsely furnished space, determined to make this room seem as much Hazel's own space as possible.  I'd hired Hunter and Will for their muscle, and Carol joined us for her "designer" eye to help with hanging art and arranging the room. The first thing we did was to survey her room, tossing out all existing dorm-like furniture, bulletin board, etc. We did keep the bed provided, as it is lower to the ground, just in case Mom decides to tumble out of it.  We then strode across the parking lot to Mom's apartment and perused it--looking for smaller pieces to create a seating area and dining area.

Carol chose wall decor, Will and Hunter moved two comfy chairs, the TV and stand, drop-leaf table, two dining chairs, and a round table and lamps.  After arranging the furniture in Mom's room to provide comfort, yet enough space to move, we hooked up the TV, hung pictures and a tapestry from Ecuador.  We moved in plants, debated whether to add curtains to soften the roller-shade, and made plans on how to incorporate more storage space in the bathroom.

After three hours, we were nearly finished and I was excited about the transformation the room was going through.  My jubilation, however, was not mirrored in Hazel.  "This is my new apartment?" she asked.  "It is!" I answered, feigning energy and enthusiasm.  "Well, why did I have to move?" she wondered.  I again explained the need to stay off her left leg for two weeks and that this smaller room would help her navigate better as she recovered.  The old Kepple scowl was her only reply.

Saturday was another gorgeous day--another 60 sunny degrees, so very rare for March 12 in Minnesota.  But how thankful I was that in all the moving, we had been freshened by a breeze as we crossed the parking lot, instead of frozen by the windchill.

Uncle Bill's 96th birthday celebration was scheduled for 3 pm. in the GSam cafeteria, and I got to Mom's room about 1, hung a few more pictures, tidied up a bit, and got Mom ready for the party.

We decided earrings were a must, and as Mom hadn't worn earring for months, it took some doing to find the holes in her ear lobes.  But once they were in, it was clear the hassle was worth it.  Nice shiny dangling metal gave Mom a needed "umpf."

Needing to use the bathroom before the party, we pushed the call button for an aid to help Mom, since that dang left leg was now unusable and I wasn't able to help her into the bathroom.  We waited.  Pushed the button.  Pushed it again. Finally I tramped out to the nurses' desk and asked for some help.  "Here comes your aid right now," was the answer, and a tired looking waif sauntered past into Mom's room.  We'd waiting nearly 5 minutes.  The recommended toileting method was using a bed pan, so....

Afterwards, I helped pull up Mom's pants more snugly and was about to have her stand and pivot on her right foot to get into the wheelchair, when the nurse popped in and announced Mom had to use the "Hoyer"  and be lifted from the bed into the wheelchair.  Following the doctor's orders was prudent and necessary.  Since Mom weighs less than 100 lbs., in 30 seconds I'd have had her in the chair and zooming down the hall to Bill's party, but....

Another 5 minutes passed before the Hoyer, a nurse and an assistant had Mom enveloped in a sling.  After crossing her arms in front of her, Mom was lifted off the bed, swung toward the wheelchair, and deposited there.  Well done.  It struck me Mom hadn't even washed her hands after using the bedpan, but maybe hand washing wasn't needed, since Mom had been aided in that endeavor?  Oh my.  So many questions I had.

Uncle Bill's party was joyful--about 20 well-wishers, cake, ice cream and balloons.  Mom seemed to enjoy herself, as many of her friends were present.  As we left, she had a special moment where she grasped Bill's hand and said, "And many more..."  Bill smiled back.

Reaching Hazel's room was like navigating a river filled with floating detritus.  Wheelchairs and carts lined the halls.  Accordion music blasted out one door, a moan came from another.  Nurses in scrubs (most of them obese--sorry, but it's true) worked in their stations and when we reached Hazel's room, I quickly shut the door--shut out the noise pollution from the hall and other rooms.  Whew.

Because it was getting late in the day of a very long week, I wasn't as patient as I wanted to be with Mom's question about "Well, where's a refrigerator?  I can't not have a refrigerator.  What about butter?  What about milk?" I tried to explain she really didn't need either of those items since she was being given three meals a day.  "Well how do I pay for that?"  she wondered.  I explained it was included in the price of the room, a real deal.

But the question that really got to me was, "Did I REALLY have to leave my apartment?"  Her voice was nearly child-like, filled with wonder and a bit of a whine.  But actually, I was wondering the exact thing.  After two weeks of doctor's orders and staying off that leg, what WAS the advantage of living in such a place?  At least the old apartment afforded Mom loving care.  Oh my.  Time to re-think all this.

Another Beginning

I fell into bed last night just after 9, and so naturally awoke at 3 am and dozed until 6.  I meditate and pray before setting my feet on the floor and welcoming the day, and today I prayed for patience and flexibility.  But as it turns out, I should’ve asked for wisdom as well. I dressed and ran up to the hospital to check on Mom--she was surprisingly lucid and told me she’d been a model patient.  The nurse was ordering breakfast for her (oatmeal with brown sugar, milk, orange juice and coffee), and we told Mom she’d be treated to breakfast in bed before being discharged at 11 for the rehab unit.

After a moment I noticed the room’s white information board. Penned in the “family contact” spot was my name, Jane Johnson, and the notation “Sister, Hidden Creek,” as well as Mom’s phone number.  Hmmm...I’d become Mom’s sister and lived at Hidden Creek--assisted living.  Actually the idea of it didn’t sound that bad, but I felt compelled to change the info to “daughter” and supply my own cell number.  I had to smile, for occasionally when Pete and I visit one of his healthcare providers, it isn't uncommon for a doctor, nurse or staff person to mistake me for Pete’s daughter instead of his wife.  My, my...Mom’s sister, Pete’s daughter--I’m losing my identity, I guess.

A case facilitator stopped by to discuss Mom’s “observation” status and her eventual move to rehab.  She indicated that because Mom had left rehab a mere three weeks ago, she might be admitted under a status that would allow Medicare to continue paying for her care.  I thought that was an interesting “return policy” the government had.  But alas, the situation changed and dramatically so.

When I reached home, Pete was about ready to hop onto his scooter for a trip down the ramp to the van and his second cataract surgery.  I returned a call to Janelle at Good Sam and was told physical therapy really couldn’t work with Mom in rehab, since she has a non-weight-bearing status on that left leg. Janelle proffered the idea of moving Mom into a “long-term care” room, in other words, into a regular nursing home room.  She added a room had become available, one that was “one of our bigger rooms,” as if that were a major selling point.  Maybe it is for some people, but I was in a vortex of possibilities and had to make a decision pronto.  It was 9:30.  Pete needed to be at same-day surgery by 10, and Mom was being moved out of her hospital room at 11, but where to?

I quickly decided to drop Pete at the hospital, zoom to GSam to see the available room and perhaps sign Mom in as a long-term resident and then return to Pete in the hospital.   What a decision for Mom, and it was I who had to make it.  As I navigated the curves of the newly constructed Lakeview Blvd., I prayed aloud for guidance, for wisdom, for “the answer.”  And it did come, it did.

The first room I was shown faced an inner courtyard and had a northern exposure. As I looked over the room with my eagle eye, I noticed the floor’s molding was loose and even missing in places.  The walls were light grey...not bad, but oh my--one wall was vivid purple.  My god, purple!  “Can we repaint?” I asked.  “Well, we can certainly talk about that,” was the answer, “but let me show you another room,” the gal suggested.

Just across the hall--but the room appeared to be across the world, as it was draped in sunlight and overlooked the creek Mom had come to love.  The exposure and view from the large window of this room were identical to those of her apartment, and suddenly I knew without a doubt that this room, this very room, would do nicely.  The walls were neutral; two bird feeders stood tall and inviting, and I knew Mom would be able to enjoy the flitting critters. This room was perfect. I completed the required paperwork, sent a prayer Mom’s way that she wouldn’t be too traumatized by the sudden shift in my promise that she’d be going to “rehab.” Instead a “new apartment” awaited her. I wouldn’t be present when Mom arrived, rather I’d be with Pete and his cataract surgery. I knew I just had to allow Mom to meet the new place on her own.  

Whirlwind Days

Some days care giving breezes along--it’s continual, but gentle, allowing for me to keep my head and purposefully direct my days. Other days, like today, care giving is a whirlwind and I react, rather than act. These days are hard and I tend to need wine with my whine. Yesterday was glorious--March 8 and a nearly record high temp of 68 degrees. I’d accompanied Pete to Rochester for an appointment with his hip doctor, but was home in time to visit Mom at our usual coffee time. The sun shone, the wind gusted, and as I pushed Mom’s wheelchair around the Good Sam grounds, we decided to let the wind tousle our hair instead of wearing hats. The wind and sun felt good, and the earth smelled so deliciously “earthy” as it does in the early spring.

We visited Uncle Bill, who still resided in the rehab unit following his hip fracture. His clarity was cloudy--more so in the rehab setting than at home. He asked about “Margie,” and I figured he meant the Margie who visits occasionally--a younger, vibrant gal whom Bill adores. But it turns out he meant Margie, his wife. I was a bit startled he hadn’t remembered her passing away in December, and I gently said, “Margie passed away, Bill.” And without much emotion he responded, “Oh, that’s right,” and our conversation continued on...not missing a beat.

Then on to Jane’s for a glass of wine, home to prepare dinner, and then the usual evening rituals of dishes, reading, etc., putting the animals and Pete to bed, and then lights out. Good Sam had called around dinner time to say mom’s pager had gone off and they'd found her sitting on the floor--but she seemed fine and they’d helped her into bed. Before sleep I realized I’d completed a “breezy” day. It had gently flowed from one event to another. The stepping stones of day's path were unencumbered--one person to care for at a time.  I felt like Madam In-charge.

Today Mom was scheduled for a dental appointment, and as I gathered my wits about me with a 6 am cup of coffee, I realized I was pleased that the snow was gone, allowing for me to use the newly purchased wheelchair to transport her from her apartment to the car, then to the dental office, then back to the car and then home to the apartment.

After readying the house for the cleaning gal, I went to fitness, then showered, dressed, and prepped Pete for his shower. Suddenly my cell rang--my phone identifying that “Staff at Good Sam” was calling. Alexa was concerned that Mom was quite confused, was dragging her right foot, complaining of back pain, and nearly falling. They felt a trip to the ER was in order. OK--I thought to myself, another ER visit. My plans of cleaning the house with Lola and putzing outside were out the window. Well...I was determined to finish helping Pete shower and then I figured I’d meet Mom at the ER. The stepping stones of the day were mounting, one atop the other. I steadied myself for the climb.

Pete cannot shower without help, and we’ve created a dance of moving the hall rug, positioning his walker by the bathroom door (which he grabs after driving the electric wheelchair to the too narrow bathroom door), heating the bathroom to a warmth his body can tolerate, and preparing the shower with grab bars, a stool, and fully charged razor. He enters the bathroom, we remove his clothes, weigh him, and then he backs into the shower, delicately placing each foot into the shower and making sure his balance is good. We cut his hair, trim his beard, then I set the water nozzle and temp just “so,” and give him time to wash himself off. It takes a coordinated effort for the poor guy to feel clean! Then after a precarious shuffle from the shower to the walker, I dry him off, get his pants and t-shirt on him, and he navigates with the walker back to the electric wheelchair, then backs down the hall back into his room. Voila. No wonder he showers only once a week. It’s an ordeal!

But after Pete was back in his room, I called and canceled Mom’s dental appointment. I then grabbed my regular “ER supplies” consisting of water, an apple, something to read, and my iPad and phone. I made sure my clothes were comfy (usually dress in something knit) and took off for my reliable parking lot just west of the ER entrance.

Sending out a quick text to friends that I would yet again be at the ER with Mom, I smiled as I received texts back: Let me know if I can help! one wrote. Another texted, Want me to stop by? And yet another quipped, And so it goes… Needlesstosay, she’s “been” there. Love these supportive friends.

After 15 minutes, Mom was wheeled into the ER waiting room by the trusty Good Sam chauffeur who’d transported her in a wheelchair via the van. Completely unaware of why she was at the ER, Mom seemed a bit lost. I recognized the registration gal as the one who’d registered Pete last Thursday for his first cataract surgery. This time I registered Mom, repeating what Alexa had shared earlier, but with no paperwork having accompanied Mom, I was sort of shooting in the dark. Mom could remember no fall, no unsteadiness, no dragging of her right foot. Oh well...we’d probably just take a look at everything.

I wheeled mom into an open room and the nurse (Megan) smiled, realizing she’d seen the pair of us a time or two before. We undressed Mom, slipped her into a hospital gown, and laid her on a bed/gurney. Megan deftly prepared Mom for examination, taking Mom’s temp, winding a blood pressure cuff onto her right upper arm, inserting an IV, clamping an oxygen monitor onto one of Mom’s left fingers.

Eventually the ER doctor appeared, ordered X-rays, an EKG, and blood/urine work. After each was performed, the big “wait” came. Mom slept and awoke now and then, wondering where she was, and asking continually why it was all taking so long. Well..it just was. Cousin Carol stopped by, seeming just as at home in the ER as I--frequent flyers there, we were! The two of us walked to a nearby conference room and discussed the tough job of care giving--the uncertain futures shared by our parents. She doesn’t live her own life anymore--she lives her life AND her dad’s, and I suspect some would say I’m living three lives--those of Pete and Mom and my own as well. Makes for a whirlwind, a whirlwind. The exam room in the ER spins with it.

As unusual as it is, after four hours, Mom began to complain, to become agitated, to ask again and again and again what she was wearing (a hospital gown), what that thing on her arm was (a blood pressure cuff) why she was here (you fell and complained about your back hurting). She continually asked the time, wondered when it’s “our turn,” and fidgeted with the covers, the wires, the tabs attached to her chest. Her oxygen level fluctuated, lowered to the point of the machine screeching, when her agitation caused the level to drop into the lower 80s. Poor lamb. She was confused and anxious and made me crazy, crazy, crazy. The wind whirled, my head hurt, and my heart ached for mom. She blurted a breathy, “I’m having a terrible day. Shit.” I nodded in agreement.

After five hours the doctor arrived with the news that after reviewing Mom’s X-rays, the orthopedist felt the left hip had loosened a bit. Consequently, Mom needed to be off her left foot (no weight whatsoever) for two weeks. Soooo what to do? No question--back to rehab. Apartment living was out for the time being. Mom’s disappointment was evident, and yet she became concerned about my having been with her for so long and said, “I’m such a pain in the ass!” Very unusual for her to speak so, yet I had to agree--she’s PITA2 (Pain in the Ass #2). Pete, naturally, is #1 (!)

Because it was nearly 5 pm, a transfer to Good Sam rehab had to happen tomorrow. Mom seemed to understand the need to overnight in the hospital and that she’d transfer to rehab Thurs. Yet after a moment, she asked again and again for clarification. She was more concerned about where her nightgown was than anything else, and I assured her I’d go to her apartment and bring her her nightgown to wear tonight, yet she insisted what she had on was fine.  Confusion reigns. Wind whirls. I’m off to find wine before anything else.

After two hours of waiting for a room, I needed to leave--to feed all Johnson animals, which included Pete. I reluctantly left Mom, left her in the care of the hospital staff. Could only send prayers to her night nurse.

The two care giving paths crossed again today and I feel like Sophie who has a make a choice.  My heart aches for both my loves as the whirlwind tries to tear me in two.  How humbling to be so needed.

Thumbs up!

Looking at the Bancroft Creek calendar, it seems 7 residents have March birthdays--it's a popular month!  Arlene's 90th birthday celebration was held in the communal dining hall from 2:30-4:30 yesterday afternoon, and I figured Mom and I shouldn't miss it.  I found a card, signed our names, and was on my way, hoping the dreary, cloudy day wouldn't keep people away. Arriving about 3, I noticed the 20 or so parking spaces were nearly  filled, and as I walked through the front door, I saw a traffic jam of walkers poised there to assist their owners as they navigated to and from their vehicles.  Mom was actually en route to the party under the watchful eye of a staff member, and she seemed so relieved to know I had a card to convey our good wishes to the birthday girl.

Mom was handed over to me and we entered the "party" room, greeted the lively looking 90-year-old, and marveled over a set of photos chronicling Arlene's life from toddler-hood, through her high school and Luther graduations, and her eventual position as an educator in the Albert Lea schools.

Cake, ice cream, Swedish goodies, and fruit. What a great celebration menu.  We greeted residents and guests as we navigated Mom's walker through the food line and found a table for the two of us. Haphazardly parked four-wheeled walkers  made the path a bit challenging, but with an "Excuse us," here and a "Can I move this just a bit?" there, we settled ourselves at a table, moving Mom's walker to the side.

It was not a good day to have forgone Mom's usual apron.  Though I'd seated her belly-up to the table, after a few bites, cake and frosting, then melting ice cream and a few crumbs dribbled onto Mom's shirt, her pants, and even her cardigan.  I dabbed a napkin, wiping her mouth, and felt as if I had one of my kids with me at the table when they were toddlers.

Eventually more residents arrived, navigated their way to tables, and I felt pressed to assist those with walkers and food haphazardly balanced in their hands.  As usual Marge cooed her thank you and I obliged Lois's request (how could I ignore her waving arms and "Jane! Jane!"?) for silverware her table mate had forgotten.  Suddenly I felt very much a part of the logistical dance of the gathering.

Our table filled when Helen in a lovely bright jacket and Elwood with his suspenders joined us.  Helen (moved in from Hollandale three years ago) comes from a family and teachers, and we chatted about the changes in the teacher-student-parent relationship over the years.  Elwood was a bit quiet at first as I helped him position his walker and set his coffee in front of him.   Then I noticed his right hand--it was missing his four fingers, and suddenly I couldn't help myself.

"Elwood," I said.  "I see you're missing four fingers.  My grandfather was also missing four fingers.  He was an implement dealer in Kiester and…"

"George Wittman?" he interrupted?  "You talking about George Wittman?"

A bit surprised, I admitted, "Yes, George was my grandfather and Hazel here (I indicated Mom) is his daughter."

"Well, George Wittman, Leonard Stevermer, and I all lost the four fingers of our right hands," he said.  "I lost mine on a bad day picking corn.  The darn picker kept clogging up and so I reached in to unclog it and…"  His voice drifted off with the memory.

"So you lived around Kiester?"  I asked.

"Right there on the Bricelyn corner," he shared, certain I knew where that was.  "Right there on the corner with Highway 16."  Aha--I did know that corner.  Funny that….

Somehow our conversation led to discussing my implement-dealer father in addition to my grandfather. Elwood had bought New Holland parts from him and Helen's husband dealt with him, too.  We were a table with commonalities.

Soon Elwood stood and moved through the maze of tables.  I removed paper plates and cups, bringing Mom a damp paper towel to clean off her fingers as well as the table itself.

Suddenly the notes from the piano broke through the din.  A bit difficult to decipher the melody at first, we all soon realized Elwood was at the keyboard playing "Happy Birthday to You."  As the notes became louder and the player more confident, we all sang Happy Birthday to Arlene, followed by applause. Such a sweet thing to do!

But then I recognized Elwood had played with a mere six fingers.  And as he got up from the piano bench and limped away with his walker, I saw the sun had peeked through the clouds, sunshine now flooding the room.   A thumbs-up day.

5:42 a.m.

I hadn't realized that life with an aging parent whose life is so precarious, makes MY life so unsettled.  Ups and Downs, ups and downs.  Yesterday, after a third day of witnessing Mom's confusion (even about navigating a coffee cup), I plopped down at my own kitchen table, so disappointed that the mom who'd seemed to be recovering remarkably well, had suddenly backtracked; she appeared mystified by simple daily life. The previous hour when I'd visited Mom at her apartment, she'd announced the need to use the bathroom.  After coaching her and the walker into the bathroom, she lingered in the middle of the room and asked, "Now what?"  Ugh.

Silence at the kitchen table.  My husband and the cribbage board in front of me, I don't focus on the hand dealt.  Silence as my mom's life overtakes my own.  Silence.  I don't want noise or commotion of any kind.  I've already separated the dog and cat after their raucous behavior has unnerved me.  I've poured myself a glass of wine.  I've accepted my husband's bid to a card game.  But I'm not present.  I'm off in "now what?" land, thinking about Mom.

After nearly 37 years of marriage, my husband knows when to ask questions and when not to.  He lets me contemplate things a bit as we play one of our twice daily (sometimes thrice daily) cribbage games.  His initial 28 points in the first hand gives him a jump start.  I lag behind with 6.  But this doesn't faze me.  I'm losing another battle right now--one with my mom's clarity.

As is often the case, I eventually put words to my silence and apparent travail, and I share how my mood's plummeted following evidence of Mom's abrupt confusion. I tell my husband how the staff has told me Mom's even has issues feeding herself. I explain that if this lack of clarity continues or intensifies, she's going to need another facility to handle her.  More decisions.  More upheaval.  A heavy burden.

Whether it's the wine or simply sharing my issues, my mood begins to lift, and it lifts further as I perform a surprise come-form-behind attack and usurp victory from my husband's grasp.  I win the cribbage game as he's poised in the "stink hole," one more point giving him a victory.  I prevail.  My ruminating over Mom's situation takes a back seat, and I'm able to prepare dinner, clean the kitchen, read, then watch a Danish crime show on TV.

Sleep comes easily, but the early hours find me waking, find me praying for Mom and for her confusion to end.

BAM!  The answer jolts me.  Why hadn't I thought of it earlier?  I'm so excited I nearly call the nurse on the spot.  How silly of me not to have recognized it immediately!  I think of the obvious confusion, but then attach the two bathroom visits in an hour to the mix and voila--badder infection!!!

In the past Mom has suffered from these infections that curiously affect her orientation.  After returning to the apartment, I'd suggested she wear disposable underwear, but now with no accidents, we'd just returned to regular nylon underwear.  However…the effect of the Depends might now be revealing itself.

I look at my clock as I lie in bed.  5:42 am.   All sleep is gone.  Time for coffee.  Time to text the staff at Mom's apartment. They need to collect morning urine for analysis.   Time to notify the nurse, the world--Just a bladder infection!

90, 91, 92….

Well, Mom's back--back to the sunny apartment and the staff that dotes on her with such loving care and kindness.  This time she's using the two-wheeled walker more than last year when she arrived back following a sacrum fracture.  She's more frail, slower, and the left leg is "giving [her] a fit!"  When I mention that I'm not surprised--that the left hip is the one she broke, she says, "I broke my hip?"  So sweet, so very innocent of the ravages to her brain and body that the nearly 94 years has plagued her with.  Yet maybe "plagued" isn't the right word.  Those 94 years have been a gift, and from what I can detect from other residents at the apartment complex (albeit a mostly assisted-living complex), their old age is something they're proud of. We sit in the communal dining room. "Oh you're baaaack!" Marge chortles in her high-pitched voice, hugging Mom's shoulders as she coos.  "It's soooo good to seeeee youuuuuuu!"  Funny to see how Mom's demeanor changes and she stiffens at the attention--especially from Marge.  Marge goes on to sing-song about her own upcoming birthday on March 14.  "And I'll be 98!" she announces, a gleam in her eye, her shoulders straight.  "Isn't that somethingggg?" she asks.

Five minutes later another resident, Arlene, sits down next to Mom and me.  I'd seen a blurb in the local paper announcing Arlene's birthday March 3--90 years young, yet she appears to have an amazingly  healthy body and nearly wrinkle-free skin.  "So you're celebrating soon?" I ask.  "Yes, next week, " she replies.  "My good friends will be out of town and I didn't really want to big to-do, so we'll have a gathering with all the residents here."  She smiles and her eyes twinkle.

Then resident Dorothy rolls up with her 4-wheeled walker on which she's balanced her coffee.  She sits down and announces that she herself is nearly 96.  "Isn't that something?" she asks as her wide, toothy grin dominates her plump face and her eyes sparkle.

"How old am I?" Mom asks.  "Well, you'll be 94 in October," I say.  "Is that right?" she replies, sort of shaking her head as she ponders the info.

Clearly the gals aren't shy about divulging their ages.  One notices their pride in their advanced ages, evident in their body language and their faces.  These women are survivors; they've lived through the Depression, through several wars, through the loss of loved ones, and they've come out on top.

Good company to be around, Mom--good company.

The Doctor is in...

It's been about 8 weeks since Mom's surgery and last week we were to see Mom's regular doctor at the local clinic for a routine followup.  Usually the rehab unit transports patients to such visits.  But the day before Mom's appointment, the area was hit by a significant amount of snow and wind (i.e. blizzard) and I called the clinic to re-schedule the appointment.  The new date was to have been today, February 11, at 1 pm.  I called the rehab unit, just to let them know of the change. When I entered Mom's room earlier in the week, I saw a note attached to the refrigerator: Hazel: Dr. Shelhamer, 1 pm, 2/11/16.  Good, I thought, we're all on the same page here.  So  I began mentioning to Mom that she had an upcoming checkup with her local doctor.  "What for?" she asked each time I mentioned the appointment, and I assured her each time that it was merely a checkup following her surgery.  "Surgery?" she'd inquire.  And then I'd remind her that she'd broken a hip, was healing, but just needed a checkup to see all was well.

Yesterday when I confirmed that Mom would be transported to the clinic by the rehab van, I was told that Mom's appointment had been changed.  Changed?  Again? Changed to…when?  To next Tues., the 16th.  Looking at my phone's calendar I soon realized I needed to accompany my husband to Rochester for a medical appointment that day and couldn't be with Mom at her appointment.  "When and why was the appointment changed?" I asked.  No one seemed to know the reason.

Accessing Mom's clinic patient account online, I saw that indeed her appointment had been changed to the 16th.  I called the clinic, asked why the appointment might have been changed, got a "I have no idea" from the scheduler, and decided to change Mom's appointment back to today.  They had a 3:45 opening.  Super!  I suggested that my number be added to Mom's contact list from the clinic, should appointments ever be changed again.  I needed to be kept in the loop.

I called rehab, notified them of Mom's new appointment day (actually the same day now, just different time) and was told…."Oh, we figured out why your Mom's appointment was changed. We don't have any transportation tomorrow, so we changed her appointment.  We should have notified you of the change--that was an oversight on our part. Sorry about that."  So now Mom had a 3:45 appointment for something that had already been changed twice, and had no transportation.  Great.  This was going well.  But  transportation was something I figured I could do myself, right?

As I thought about the upcoming appointment overnight, I decided Mom didn't really have to see the doctor this week and decided to change the appointment to next week, this time allowing the van to transport Mom.  I called the appointment desk again (for the third time--was relieved it wasn't the same scheduler I'd had previously).  New appointment date and time:  Thursday, February 18, 1:15 pm.  Super.  Set in stone.  I called the rehab unit to notify them that Mom would NOT be going to the doctor today with me transporting her.  Instead--next Thurs.  There WAS a van available, right?  Indeed there was.

So today I was tying up loose ends--feeling all was in order--when my phone rang, a number I didn't recognize.  "Hello, this is Jane," my standard response to an unfamiliar number.

"Hello, this is the scheduler from Dr. Cross's office just checking too see why Hazel missed an appointment today,"  the gal said.

What?  I wondered.  "Who is Dr. Cross? What appointment.  I afraid don't know anything about this," I tried to explain my confusion.

"Your Mom was scheduled to have her femur x-rayed and then meet with endocrinology today in Rochester."

"In Rochester?  Sorry, but I have no information about this appointment," I explained.  "I'm sorry we missed it, but Mom's going to see her regular doctor here locally next week."

"Oh, I see.  Well I'll let Dr. Cross know.  When your mom was here with a broken hip, she agreed to be part of a study, and the appointment today was made as a follow-up for that study."

"OK. Well, my mom's 93 and I guess she forgot to mention anything about the study, and obviously the appointment today as well."

"I'll let Dr. Cross know your  mom will be following up with her regular doctor and I assume she won't be part of the study?"

"No, I don't think she'll be part of the study," I agreed.  I again thanked the scheduler, rolled my eyes, hung up, and turned to my husband.

"Mom had an appointment today in Rochester," I said.  "She'd agreed to be part of a study and she was supposed to have an x-ray and consult today."

"She'd agreed to be part of a study?" he asked, just as incredulous as I.

"Yep," I said.  "A study.  Of COURSE she'd agreed to be in a study."  We both smiled and shook our heads.

Stepping out...

It's been nearly two months since Mom's fall and resulting hip surgery.  Ups and downs, coughs and exhaustion, now an emerging voice and walking, albeit with a walker.  "Unimaginable" is how I classify my previous feelings of Mom perhaps returning to her apartment.  Earlier she'd seemed on the brink of moving on... and now she seems nearly on the brink of moving back across the parking lot to her apartment. So how has she changed from her pre-fall state?  I'm not sure she's any less clear--seems to be sharp one minute, totally forgetting what's just been said the next--as before. Perhaps the biggest change is in her walking--now with a walker, at least in the rehab unit.  And the speed of her gait--now deliberate, careful.

So focused was I that Mom would be relinquishing her apartment, that we've cleared out much of the detritus accumulated in the nine years of living in one place.  Out with the ragged linens, used and empty envelopes, folded paper shopping bags, outdated canned goods and personal care items.  All used dime store vases are now in a box in the closet. All trinkets and baubles are in the give-away box.  So the place is less cluttered, more organized, but definitely retains all her things and everything essential to Mom's living again in the apartment.

I struggle with the thought of Mom back in her apartment and falling again or being in need of assistance, yet forgetting she has an alert button strapped to her wrist.  All she need do is press it.  If only that brain clicked "on" more!

No matter where Mom ends up, it's clear a transitional period will ensue once she's moved--she'll need to get used to the routine and rhythm of wherever she goes.  So to that end--to the possibility that she'll move back to her apartment--we set off on an adventure yesterday.

Since we were in between "blizzard warnings," I took the opportunity to bundle Mom up, scoot the wheelchair across the parking lot, and visit the apartment.  Mom seemed up for the adventure--as she always is.

As we approached the main door, I asked, "Any of this look familiar?"  Mom assured me it did.  We pushed the handicapped door entry buttons, easily slipped into the lobby area and through the dining room to the hall.  "Now, let's see if you can find your apartment," I said.

"It's down here, isn't it," she asked?  I pushed the chair and Mom attentively checked the doors on the south side of the hall.  As we approached her door, she said, "I think this is it."

"You're right," I said, unlocking the door.  We entered the cool apartment (temp lowered, I'm sure, since no one's currently living there) and I said, "OK, greet your apartment!  Say 'Hi" to the stove; now tell the living room you're back for a visit..."  We kept this up for awhile as I wheeled Mom from the main area to her bedroom and bath, and then to the TV area.  Following our re-orientation greeting, we set off for the complex's dining hall.

Many people gather in the dining hall in the afternoon for coffee and a sweet--and yesterday the sweet was VERY sweet--banana cake with a cream-cheese frosting. Delicious.  Mom was greeted with, "Oh, Hazel's here!" from several of the residents who patted her hand in welcome as we entered.  I parked Mom at her favorite spot in the well-lit corner, grabbed her some UNthickened coffee and a piece of cake.  I was curious to see if she could cut the cake with her fork and eat it.

Turns out she had no problem cutting and eating the cake, drinking the coffee without coughing.  NO coughing whatsoever.  And Edna rolled up with her walker, cake and coffee, and joined us for conversation.  We heard about all the new residents who'd moved in during the past two months (though who they actually were was cloudy). We chatted about the possible date of Mom's return, about WIG (Edna formerly drove Mom to the meetings), and remembering to push the damn alert button if needing assistance.

"I never remember to do that," Edna admitted.

"Well, what if we practice," I said.  "OK, you're in a chair and suddenly your knee's hurting, and you don't think you can stand.  What do you do, Edna?" I asked.  "You..."

"...push the button," she responded.

"Good! And Mom, if you feel like you might topple over.  What do you do?"

"Push the button," she said, trying to locate the nonexistent band on her wrist with the button.

"Great!  I think we'll practice remembering that every day.  You don't have the button on your wrist right now, since you're at rehab and it doesn't work there, but we'll get it and practice, OK?"  Mom nodded, but I'm sure it was simply reflex.

Before all was said and done, Edna admitted she thought practice would go a lot better if we accompanied it with a Manhattan.  Maybe so...

Back to Mom's apartment.  I wanted Mom to actually walk through her apartment and touch her things.  After digging Daddy's old walker out of the closet and with security belt around her waist, we toured the place once again.  Though her steps were slow, Mom admitted things looked quite familiar, yet I suspect she now and then wondered, where the hell am I?

Time to return to the rehab unit for a nap.  On with the coat, hat, gloves, scarf.  When she was again secure in the wheelchair, I rolled Mom out of the apartment, pausing at the door to lock it behind us.  Before doing so, however, I said, "OK, Mom...tell your apartment you'll be back."

She smiled and called out, "I'll be back."  And then she paused, took a breath and said, "Soon!"

Our Phoenix

Mom seems to have overcome the hip fracture and is now walking quite well (with walker when she remembers it) and pain free.  Her pneumonia appears to have abated after three rounds of increasing strength levels of antibiotics. Consequently the coughing is less and lordy be...the voice is emerging.  No more whispering for Hazel.  Though the words occasionally croak out, conversing with Mom is easier, and it must be less frustrating for her as well. Swallowing is improving, too. The swallowing therapist observed Mom and me at coffee yesterday as Mom sipped the thickened coffee, ate raspberries, and drank UNthickened water--a test of the swallowing/coughing connection.  Though Mom coughed with the unthickened water, she was able to keep it under control.  This morning the two will be eating a "regular" breakfast together (eggs and a bit of toast?) and if she observes improvement, the therapist will perhaps move Mom's food texture and drink consistency back into the "normal" range.

PT?  Well, after meeting with the head gal, it appears that Mom's goals are less daunting than I'd anticipated:

• bathroom use without assistance
• ability to dress with assistance
• be more independent--rise and use walker to move at will
• remember to push off with arms when standing from bed or chair
• move into and out of chair with ease
• carry things (as in coffee cup)
• move to bath room and shower with assistance

So there it is...most of these Mom's nearly mastered.  When she does, she'll be cleared to move.  And that leads to our next question--move where?

Were Mom's head clearer, no doubt she'd be back at her apartment.  Yet she's immersed in such a routine of care at rehab that yesterday as she looked across the parking lot at the apartment complex, she pointed and asked," What's that over there?"

I was a bit puzzled, since the building in question had previously been so obvious to her as the one that held her apartment. "Well, that's Bancroft Creek," I said, intentionally leaving out where your apartment is located.

 "Oh?" she said.

"Yes," I answered, "They're apartments."

"Well," she responded, "where am I?"

"Right now you're in rehab."

"I am?" she asked.

"Yep, you broke your hip and are learning to walk here."  She looked at me a bit incredulous.

The sunny apartment at Bancroft Creek is a favorite spot for all of us.  Its south-facing windows overlook a creek, deer often wander about, and an open window can allow the breeze (a breath of fresh air) into the apartment.  Move out of that space?  Seriously?

I think we all know that, were Mom to return to the apartment, the environment would be comforting with Mom's furniture about her, though a degree of adjustment would be needed for that comfort to return.  But what we fear is that it isn't the safest place for her--"well-checks" occur only several times a day.  Were Mom to need assistance, she would not remember to push the help button located on her wrist.

And it's becoming more obvious to me that a regular room with Mom's own furniture in it within the care facility would eventually feel comforting as well.  A routine would be established, Mom would be surrounded by a caring staff, etc.  BUT what gnaws at me is the light, the view, the very breath within the room.

I plan to speak with the staff today or next week about possibilities.  I want to see what a room is like, understand specifically what type of care, PT, etc. might be available.

There are still times when the old Hazel emerges.  One minute she's amazed that she's not in her apartment (but rather at rehab), and the next she's in the role of mother, giving advice:

As usual, Mom's and my conversations during our afternoons together often end up concerning what's for dinner at the Johnson's.  Yesterday was no different, and when I mentioned I was preparing a pot roast, Mom asked, "What time is it?"  "Nearly 4:00," I said.  She looked at me and urged, "Well, you'd better get to it then."!!!  Had to laugh as I shook my head and scooted out the door.

The ER and beyond

Last Monday the snow was just beginning to fall as I entered the ER and found Mom already transported there by GSam.  I couldn't help but notice that nearly every one of the 30+ chairs there was full--that it would be a LONG wait until an xray could determine whether Mom had a bit of pneumonia. I helped her out of her hat, down coat and gloves and registered her.  We found a quiet corner...well, as quiet a corner as one might find in a crowded ER. Moms held feverish babies with flushed cheeks.  A younger man in basketball shorts paced the room, and myriad others stared blankly as the CNBC newscast droned.

Mom looked by far to be the oldest of those hoping to be seen, and that fact must've allowed her to be quickly triaged into a curtained off area to have her vitals taken.  Quick, efficient, done.

It was about another 45 minutes before a room opened up for Mom to be wheeled into.  I was glad she wasn't in pain, and though we did put a gown on her, she remained in the wheelchair; there was no need to transfer her to a cot.  In time she was hooked up to a finger monitor, and eventually was taken down to xray for a chest film.

Diagnosis--some pneumonia in the lower left (??) lobe.  Some zithormax was prescribed, and GSam was called to come and fetch her in their wheelchair-friendly van.

Since then there have been good days and not-so-good days.  Coughing is an issue and it tires Mom to cough so.  Anne has been an ever-present caregiver and has taken over washing Mom's clothes and seeing to her personal needs.

A care conference convened and we asked for a hospice assessment, which was done the very next day.  Though Mom didn't really "qualify" yet, her name and information are in the files and should things change, they'll be a good resource.

Hardest now is the uncertainty of the days to come.  What if she plateaus and needs more care?  Restorative nursing or 24-hr. care in her apartment.  What if she DOES improve?  She's still a disaster waiting to happen, and all seems quite murky right now.

But Anne and I are going to begin looking through Mom's things--tossing freezer-burned food and unwanted accumulated items.  We spent New Year's Eve looking through old photos while drinking a bit of Prosecco, and I so appreciate a level-headed sister who drops everything to help out.

Christmas 2015

Since the advent of Mom's fall, and subsequent surgery and move to a rehab unit, life has naturally been different this holiday season. Last year we dealt with her breaking her sacrum, and the pain she endured in the recovery was difficult to witness.  This year the pain seems less (Mom can sit in a wheelchair quite well), but the mental confusion and helplessness I'm sensing makes my heart ache for her. There was the poignant scene a few days ago when Mom commented that she hadn’t done any Christmas shopping. I suggested she do what she’d done in the past--give the grandchildren money in a card. So we found cards, a pen, and with my coaching, Mom signed her name on the card for each grandchild. “Oma,” she wrote, or if she found it within herself to make the hand move, “With love, Oma.” “Write here?” she’d ask, trying to hold the pen and touch the card in the proper spot. Her sight nearly gone, the pen would jump from the table to the card to the script of the card’s message. Somehow the letters materialized and I wondered if those would be the last words she’d ever write.

Though the rehab staff didn't recommend it, we decided to bundle Mom up and whisk her to the house to experience Christmas with us.  It felt a bit like we were kidnapping her, and that devious behavior was enough to make the visit even more special.  Mom ate surprisingly well--though it's difficult for her with her sight to assure there's food on her fork or spoon before it reaches her mouth.  And she endured the gift exchange and even seemed to comprehend the goings on--the general discussion and joy we all felt being together.  This is probably Mom's last Christmas with us, and it feels so good to know we celebrated it together. The afterglow of the Christmas of 2015 shines on...