The "Spell" 9/13/15

Raising the roman shades this morning, I was met with a glorious scene before me--bright blue sky, glassy lake and fresh green.  My favorite type of day, a perfect setting for reading the Sunday papers while drinking a cup of coffee and nibbling on berries. Later, as I headed out to grab a few things from the market, my phone rang and a friend said, "Jane, I'm at church and you're mom's not doing so good,"  Apparently she was weak in the knees, rather short of breath and seemed likely to faint. I detoured my trip and stopped in at the church where mom, still in the pew and surrounded by caring people, knew me instantly as I knelt beside her.  "What's going on?" I asked.  "A bit weak in the knees?"  But Mom's spell seemed to be over and she accepted a ride in a wheelchair to my car and I whisked her back to her apartment.

Driving through the crisp morning back to Good Sam, I heard a sudden, "Damn!" and turned to see Mom shaking her head.  "What do you suppose happened to me?" she wondered aloud. I reminded her that occasionally she got weak, especially if she'd gotten a UTI, and assured her we'd have the nurse check to see if she had one.

Though the trip was glacial, Mom walked back to her apartment, breathing heavily as she grabbed by forearm.  No wheelchair needed now. "I think I'll nap," she said, and we headed straight for the bedroom, removed her jacket and shoes.  She lay down, I covered her with her blanket, ("Make sure my feet are covered,") and set off to grab her lunch plate from the dining room and put it in the fridge for later.

The entire ordeal didn't upset or startle me, and I suspect those at church were more concerned than I.  Was it just that I'd seen this before?  Am I becoming hardened or resigned to the inevitable? How will I react when Mom weakens for the last time?

Later, around 3;45, I returned to check on Mom.  She was in bed as before, but it looked like she (or someone) had gotten food out of the fridge for her to eat, though it was the plate from the previous day and looked pretty unappetizing.  Mom must've gotten to the table, had a bite or two and then retreated back to the bedroom.

But by this time in the afternoon Mom suggested we head to the dining room for coffee, and that's just what we did--again the slow, careful walk.  Sitting in her favorite chair at the corner table, Mom was content to sip coffee and eat a cookie.  Marge, who'd been with Mom at church, wheeled her walker and our direction, a Diet Pepsi and bagged mocha cake balancing on the seat.  "I'm soooo happy to see you sitting there!" she gushed in her unique high-pitched falsetto.  "I was sooo worried about you at church!  I like you so much and don't want you to die!"  Oh my, I thought--what honest, unfiltered words came from her mouth.  Mom just smiled and said, "I'm glad I'm sitting here, too!"  Marge then offered the Diet Pepsi and mocha cake, which Mom graciously declined.  She wasn't really hungry anymore and soda just wasn't her thing.  There's really no one I know who has Marge's voice, one that a person could so easily mimic, but her earnest concern was heartwarming. Marge wheeled off to bring another church member, Eileen, a bulletin  from the morning service.

As I left Mom sitting in the sun-filled dining room, I wondered how many more days she would be able to enjoy the sun, sit there in her favorite spot, and be able to blurt out "Damn!" when something puzzled her.

Basking in the sun 9/11/15

The cooler weather had me folding mom's shorts and stuffing them in the bottom drawer of her dresser.  Don't know if she'll wear shorts again--time for long pants. I laid out pants, longer-sleeved top and sweater for tomorrow.  As we walked from her apartment to the dining room, she asked what day is was, and I reminded her it was 9/11.  She paused and asked what had happened on that day--she knew it was something significant. We discussed briefly and Mom had a dim memory of the events that had transpired 14 years ago.  Sort of wish my memory of those events were as dim. As we walked into the dining room, Mom said what she does many times as we enter: "It's so cold in here."  And I suppose for someone who's barely 100 lbs. and is still wearing sandals, it is cold.  As we sipped hot coffee and nibbled on a cookie, I read the Courier Sentinel to her--she always asks if there's any news in there about my cousin Cindy.  We filled out her menu choices for the coming week (I X'd out many desserts, since those usually remain untouched).  Since I'd gotten her mail with her key, I laid it back on the table for her and she picked it up, studied it, and said, "What is this for?"  Another tug at my heart.  First time the keys on that neon pink wristlet had puzzled her.

The cloudy sky gave way to a ray of sunshine that spread throughout the room and Mom visibly purred as it fell upon her. She closed her eyes, seemed to sigh, and I knew the joys of that caress warmed and delighted her.  Enjoying the small pleasures of life.

Sleeping 9/5/15

I could see three residents were lounging outside today as I drove in--two of them, including Mom, were dozing. Though the day was warm and humid, most residents don't seem to mind the heat and if possible, like to be outside.  Some, like Mom, like to walk if they can.  A year ago she'd been walking around the healthcare complex.  Her goal was four times around, and she figured that was about a mile.  With her ever-present CD player and headset, sunglasses, and hat, Mom was a fixture in the late afternoon as she navigated the winding sidewalk. But that was before the fall, before the aging process began overtaking her more rapidly. Her fall last November broke her sacrum, and she spent around 10 days in the hospital and 8 weeks in rehab.  She remembers little of that time, and I'm so thankful, since those weeks were painful weeks--extremely painful.  Initially just lying with her head raised in the hospital bed was excruciating, and because the biggest fear was the onset of pneumonia, Mom was forced to sit upright in a chair.  I had to leave the room as Mom pleaded, "Oh please, oh please," indicating she wanted to be flat on her back again in bed.  It seemed cruel to place her in that chair, and to listen to her cries was nearly more than I could take.  But our daughter Sarah, a PA who deals with issues such as Mom was having, said, "Mom, Oma won't remember any of this anyway.  She needs to be upright a bit and she won't remember the pain."

How right Sarah was.  As Mom and I drank coffee today, the memory of having had that pain is gone.  Though she does remember being in rehab, she's forgotten some of the tougher days, and for that, I'm so thankful.  As I looked at her today at the table with coffee cup in hand, I reminded her of the day at rehab when I rejoiced in the fact she was sitting with one knee over the other--a position that was painfree, one that indicated she was healing. For a 92-year-old to bounce back from such a fall was quite an accomplishment--one that personifies her feistiness.

But now the fog of aging is overtaking her with increasing density.  To be sure, her memory is failing, but now her physicality is taking a rather dramatic nosedive.   The slow gait, the panting breaths, the long naps...the aging. Yet, how wonderful it's painfree.

One of the staff took me aside today and shared that Mom had been in bed asleep at 7:30 last night.  I told her that didn't surprise me and that I thought she'd gone to bed in the past without even eating dinner.  The staff member seemed rather surprised I wasn't more startled, I think,  but I told her I thought Mom was following aging's natural process and sleeping more.  "How nice you're able to be on this journey with her," the gal said.  And I guess that's what this is--a journey.  I hope when I'm on that journey, I have someone nearby to hold my hand, as I hold Mom's.

Smiles 9/3/15

Yes, I smiled when I saw Mom wasn't sleeping this afternoon.  She was up, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, which confused me a bit.  Then I realized the clothes I'd laid out for her to wear today were still lying on her bed--figure she must've taken off her clothes yesterday, laid them next to those I'd selected, then just put those she'd taken off back on today--all was fine.  I saw no stains or spills.  Somehow I want her to look fabulous each day--free from those stains and spills that mark the clothes of those whose eyesight is waning. Because my time with Mom was tight today (needed to help a friend with a massive household cleanup), I whizzed through the to-do checklist in her apartment.  I again smiled that it appeared she'd eaten dinner last night--did those dishes.  Found her PBS station's nightly repertoire and set the channel, and saw she had food for dinner.   A quick cup of coffee in the dining room--but again the slow, labored walk there.  So good for her to walk, so tough for me to see how much time and effort it takes her now to do so.

Fun to talk with Anne via Skype while we drank our coffee there, and Mom and I reminisced that during my year in Germany, we'd sent cassette tapes back and forth via mail--took weeks to carry on any sort of conversation or answer questions.  Now--presto--we chatted and laughed and plotted, all in real time.  Amazing.  Both Mom and I love the technology, and I love that she appreciates and is in awe of it.  I remember Grandma Elsie commenting in 1969 that she was driven about in a horse and buggy as a kid and now there was a man on the moon.  Amazing wonderment.  Smiles all around.

Dinner? 9/2/15

Mom was again sleeping when I entered her apartment at 4 pm.  Though she didn't seem as weary as the day before, I was still concerned about her lack of energy--especially when I saw she hadn't touched her dinner from the night before.  All was still in her fridge.  "Did you eat last night?" I asked.  And by this time I wasn't surprised she didn't remember.  "Why would I not eat dinner?" she asked, looking bewildered.  I'm guessing she fell asleep as soon as she was back in her apartment after our coffee yesterday, and she possibly lay down and snoozed the night away.  No dinner. I grabbed the most recent container of food left over from lunch, moved it to a plate for Mom's dinner and noticed the rather yummy-looking chicken breast was a solid chunk of meat.  No way could Mom cut that into smaller bits.  She doesn't use two hands--knife in one, fork in the other--anymore. I cut the meat up, placed a piece of waxed paper over the plate and set it on the counter where she would hopefully see it--and then eat it!

My email to the nurse this morning had asked about Mom's weight and the nurse responded she would check it--we don't want it to drop more.  She's hovering around 100 lbs.  The nurse also suggested Mom's weariness could be due to her coming off the Aricept, now that we've stopped giving it to her--the loose bowels were just too much.

When Mom began taking Aricept several weeks ago, we were warned that loose bowels was a side effect. Last week I'd detected an "odor" as I walked into the apartment.  Mom, sleeping, rolled over and said, "Janie, there's something I wanted to tell you, but I can't remember what it was."  I told her I thought I knew what it was--that she'd had a bit of an issue with her bowels.  Poo smeared the toilet and was tracked on the carpet into the bedroom.  Mom had changed clothes, but I noticed she'd put on pants right over her soiled legs and feet.

The apartment cleanup I left to housekeeping, but Mom's cleanup I took care of.  We stripped her down and hosed her off, and I tossed her clothes into the washer.  Then as if nothing had happened, we left the apartment for the dining room and coffee--that was the only "normal" part of the visit that day.  I have to say I'm so thankful I don't know what awaits me when I visit Mom, or I might not have the energy to get there.  I just react and do what's needed, grimacing later as I recall it all.

But now with Aricept off her medication list, we'll see if the recent weariness dissipates as well--eventually.  Perhaps all this sleeping is just preparation for her eternal rest. When I leave her each day, I always kiss her lips, say "I love you," and wonder if those will be the last words we say to one another.  If so, how very wonderful.

Just so tired--9/1/15

As I pulled into the parking lot, Mom was just rising from an outside  lounge chair and gathering cushions to bring inside, lest it rain.  She's been doing that lately--awaiting my daily visit outside on a patio chair near the parking lot.  It tugs at my heart to see her prepare, to anticipate my visit so.  Puts pressure on me.  What about those days I've not been able to visit? Despite my having told her so, did she forget and wait outside, eventually giving up?  I'll never know. Slowly walking inside with her, I noticed her weariness--and a suggestion to stop and have coffee in the dining room was met with only mild acquiescence.  Curiously she no longer wants a sweet, only coffee.  Previously she'd have munched on several cookies, yet not lately. We chatted about my day, news about the kids, etc.  Eventually I noticed she was closing her eyes.  "I'm just so tired," she said. "So tired."

We slowly made our way back to Mom's apartment, the panting of her breathing becoming even stronger.  "Just another door to go," I encouraged--just one more apartment and then we'd be at 304.  She wobbled into the place and I guided her to the bedroom where she found her way to her twin bed and lay down.  She groaned audibly as she did so.  "Cover my feet, would you?" she asked, and I tucked her fleece throw over her shoulder and around her feet.

I took care of my normal duties and as I did so, saw Mom had a bowl filled with cereal sitting there.  Had she not eaten breakfast?  And the food she had in the fridge for dinner (leftovers from lunch) seemed to be the complete meal.  Had she eaten anything?  Anything all day?

Her weariness overtaking her, I gave Mom a quick kiss, and an "I love you--see you tomorrow," and was on my way.  I would not be shocked to hear one day soon, that she did not awaken, but just slept on.

No Steam, 8/31/2015

My quiet knock didn't awaken Mom when I entered her apartment today at 4 pm.  I think she'd been sleeping nearly all afternoon and she looked tired, depressed?--different from yesterday's classy gal.  Today her sweater hung on her shoulders and her eyes revealed a tiredness beyond physical exhaustion.  I wonder about her emotional health. I looked over some clothes and laid them out for tomorrow--taking a damp cloth and rubbing out spots, little caked-on matter that could easily be cleaned off.  So want Mom to be fresh looking, free from stains and food on her clothes.  She can't see these and I'm hoping my vigilance is paying off.

At my suggestion of  coffee in the dining room, Mom was up for it--quite enthusiastic actually, but her gait, her speed has changed dramatically in the past month.  She shuffles and audibly pants as we walk down the hall, her right hand cupped around my left forearm.  She can't really chat and walk at the same time and her fragility is startling.

We called my cousin who was celebrating a birthday and Mom had a difficult time understanding what facetiming was--I told her it was like Skype and she understood. Shortly before Mom and I called, my cousin Cindy had been facetiming with her son and his new bride, now honeymooning in Paris.  Computers and such communication would have intrigued my Mom, were macular degeneration not an issue.  Had she had her sight, I can imagine her composing long emails to us kids (and grandkids), doing intricate internet searches, and basking in the information that would satisfy her nearly insatiable curiosity about things.

During our coffee time in the dining room, it was obvious Hazel has lacking the "steam" she so wished for.  No steam today.  No steam.  Hope tomorrow's better.

Sunday, July 30

I could tell something was happening at the apartment complex as I drove in--all but one parking spot was taken, and that usually means a celebration of some sort is happening in the dining room.   Entering the apartment complex, I saw how right I was. Several dozen people of all ages occupied the territory Mom and I usually enjoy for coffee.  Probably a birthday celebration for a resident. I knew Plan B was in order--so I grabbed Mom's coffee carafe, and after filling it amidst the hoopla in the dining room, retreated to Mom's apartment for a quiet cuppa with her. Still dressed in her church clothes (which I'd chosen yesterday and laid out for her), she looked more fit and able than she actually is.  Given Mom's near blindness from macular degeneration, I chose several articles from the Star Tribune to read to her--some of those I'd enjoyed this morning on the porch. One focused on the diary of a MN Civil War drummer boy.  We appreciated his rhetoric--such word choice  for a kid in those days not yet 20.  I can imagine few at that age who now would possess such eloquent speech.  And we both laughed as I read Gail Rosenblum's column about the new female pill to enhance sexual desire.  Gail wrote, "It's hard to put a number on how many American women suffer from a sexual 'disorder,' and how many of us are just damn tired." Gail's outlook had us chortling.  Fun to see Mom "get" it.

As we drank coffee, Mom wondered aloud if one of her friends hadn't called to announce a "Casa" event for evening--"Casa" being half-century tradition with her group of having drinks and then eating at their favorite haunt in town, Casa Zamora.  Because Mom's memory is so cloudy, I called to verify that yes, Casa was on, and Mom would be picked up.  This type of information is so hard for Mom to retrieve.  She ruminates on it, wondering aloud time and again whether Casa will be held.

Then of course after establishing the event was "on," the question of "cash in my wallet" came up.  In the past I've put cash in her wallet, only to have it suddenly disappear when she needed it.  Where those dollars went is still in question, but suffice it to say, today I encouraged her to use her credit card at the restaurant. But for the first time, she didn't know what I meant by "credit card."  I found her purse, brought the wallet to her and showed Mom her Mastercard.  "Here it is," I told her.  "Just use it tonight."  She took the card in her hand and asked how to use it, what it was for.  Another step, I thought to myself--another step back.  Just a month ago she'd used the card at the market.  Now she didn't know what it was for.  Heartbreak.

I attended to my usual chores for the day at Mom's--washing up the breakfast dishes, checking to see she had food for dinner (in the fridge--left-overs from her communal noontime meal), setting the TV to her favorite PBS channel for her evening viewing, and laying out an outfit for the coming day.

Then because fall is coming, we decided to begin going through Mom's closet to weed out clothes too big, too worn, too out-of-date.  As Mom lay on her bed resting, I whipped through items in the closet--taking some off hangers and folding those for Goodwill and the consignment shop.  Several tops still had tags, and Mom's inquiry, "Where did that come from?" made me smile.  

I swapped over all the wire hangers for plastic ones and after kissing her good-bye, reminding her of Casa and who would pick her up (and when), left it to chance that Mom would be ready and waiting for Casa.  Her group, her people, still care for her so generously.

The realization

I love reading the Sunday paper--especially as today when sitting on the porch, enjoying a strong cup of coffee and the lake before me.   I delight in good journalism--interesting stories and news from good writers, and I always look forward to the Variety section what highlights new books. Today I glimpsed an article profiling a book of poems written by a daughter about the death of her mother.  At that moment I knew I needed to write about my mother, too--but my mom isn't dead...yet.  She's dying and I'm supporting her as she does so. So much has happened to  92-year-old mom and me in the past year.  She lives in her own apartment minutes from my home here in southern Minnesota.  Within the past year our relationship has changed, and I'm now more of a constant in her daily life.

November 2014, Mom fell and broke her sacrum.  From hospital to rehab and back to her apartment months later, she now has full "assisted-living" services, and she has me.  I visit her daily in the afternoon--at coffee time between 3:30 and 4, just as the day is ebbing into evening.

My retiring from 39 years of teaching allows me to do this, and with my household reduced to a patient husband, a cat and a dog, I plan my day around my visits to Mom.  I've found these daily visits at times frustrating, fulfilling, fragile.  And profiling my visits with her, sharing my joys and irritations is the goal of this blog. I hope to bring into focus the trials and tribulations, enjoyment and joie de vivre of time spent with a dynamo gal as she journeys through her final days, weeks, months.  We're both in unchartered territory and I anticipate we'll both continue to learn, life-long learners that we are.