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...

 

You SHOULD...

OK, so as the daughter living in the same town as her parents, I'm increasingly aware of those who feel the daughter SHOULD do various things for her parents.  When Dad was still alive and driving, I received a letter (unsigned) that implored me to keep my dad from driving.  The writer even included an article of an older gentleman who'd caused an accident as if to say, don't let this happen to your dad.  What that anonymous person didn't realize is that I had no influence over my dad and his driving, mostly because my mother wouldn't allow meddling in such matters. Then there was the comment made to me about my cousin.  An older woman wondered aloud to me why my cousin wasn't moving in with her folks and taking care of them.  Daughter duty, you know.  As if a daughter's life goal should be care for her parents.  Good grief...that a daughter would have a life of her own?    Unthinkable. Many seem to feel what a daughter SHOULD be doing is...

And just today...a friend stopped by to return something I'd loaned her.  She remarked how nice it was to see my mom at church and how "wonderful it would be in these last years of your mom's life to see you sitting next to her in church."  Well, let's just tighten the guilt knot a bit more.  The last thing I want is to be in charge of her at church, too.

So I guess there are those who want to toss the SHOULD noose.  I'm still avoiding it.

Christmas Card Craziness

OK, so last year at this time Mom was recovering from a broken sacrum.  She was in pain and gutting through each day in rehab.  Hence, no Christmas letters were sent out as I'd helped her do in the past. However this year...well, let's just say we're trying.  First compose the letter ("I don't really know what to say...") and then review the recipient list ("Hmmm.  I can't say I remember who that is...").  What was easy to do was find a few photos, jot down a few facts about the family, and send it all to the printer.  Then compose address labels, affix stamps, and voila! I've repaired a few addresses and recipients' names (removing those who've passed away that I knew of). We'll see how many of these 60 or so letters are returned.

What's interesting is that Mom looks so much spunkier in the photos than she actually is.  Sort of like chatting with her on the phone...she sounds pretty peppy and active, when in reality that's not the case.

Wondering if this will be Mom's last Christmas letter.  Wondering if her name will soon be removed from some Christmas address labels.  Tough thoughts, tender times.

All things brown

That time from mid-November to Thanksgiving is always a time of anticipation, organizing, scheduling for me.  Throughout my career, I'd had to be extremely on-task and vigilant for any moment or two when I could accomplish any chore or complete anything under my responsibility.  And though now retired, it seems my schedule continues to be hectic.  So I make lists. And because I abhor crowds and all the commercialism of the holiday season, I like to do my shopping before Thanksgiving.  I'm more mindful and enjoy it more. So when the day blossomed bright with sunshine yesterday, I took off for the cities after fitness class, list in hand.  I had over six stops to make and a pretty good idea of my route, both TO the stores and within them.  Call it compulsive...I call it survival.  In and out, quick and efficient.  Home by 4 to visit Mom; home by 5 to prepare dinner for Pete and engage him in a game of cribbage, our only "together" time we seem to be able to share these days.

Successful trip.  Most things on the list were found, most crowds were avoided, craziness averted.  Or so I thought.

I've never been attracted to brown, though I can't say I dislike it.  But given a choice in clothing or decorating colors, brown isn't at the top of the list.

Brown, however, IS the color of chocolate.  And when I finally walked into Mom's apartment just after 4 pm, just after experiencing the joy that being on the road brings, I heard her call, "I'm in here!" from her bathroom.

I have to say I can resist some things, but the big Hershey bar Mom had on her counter tempted me, and I gave in.  I was relishing the flavor a melting morsel in my mouth when Mom called again, "I think I need some help in here."  OK, help in the bathroom.  I shored up my courage.

I found Mom standing facing the toilet with her black knit pants haphazardly pulled up around her hips.  "I'm not sure what happened here," she admitted, staring at the toilet...and then I saw it--brown poo on the toilet seat and on the floor.  The bit of chocolate I was enjoying suddenly reminded me of something else...the something I was looking at.  Ugh.

I quickly realized Mom wasn't wearing underwear, which is pretty curious, because she always wears underwear.  She had no idea what had happened to it and I had no idea the extent of the poo issue--was her butt clean?  Had she again traipsed through the stuff and did I need to clean off her shoes? Where were those undies?

We finally found them in the wicker trash basket next to the toilet.  Apparently she'd reacted to poo on her undies by tossing them there.  And of course our next steps were to clean Mom's butt, put on new undies and then...oh then...clean up the poo on the toilet and floor.  Clean up the brown.

I was pretty darn thankful for those rubber gloves I'd bought and left at Mom's, and in about 15 minutes, we were in business again.  Bathroom was clean, washcloths and undies were in the washer, all was well.

On to the kitchen.  I usually find a pile of dishes in the sink and know that if I just leave them there, the staff will eventually put them in the dishwasher, but then by the time the dishwasher is full, most of Mom's dishes will be missing from the shelves.  So I just do those in the sink each day, cleaning out the left-over food and washing plates/containers from the fridge.

I was pleased to see the staff had brought a pot of coffee in for Mom (some coffee was still in the pot), but apparently they'd not brought it before she'd tried to make herself coffee, for again the microwave was speckled with brown mist from exploding coffee crystals.  More brown to clean up.

Things were pretty much in order when I left.  Pete and I played our cribbage game, I fed the animals, we had dinner, I washed another load of clothes...and then I heard it--the dog retching.  Super.  Dog puke.  And you guessed the color--brown.

O bus, where art thou?

The first snow fell on southern Minnesota on Friday, Nov. 20.  It didn't really fall, but rather "sifted" as flour might--beautiful, light. When all was over, we received about 2 inches, though Iowa got dumped on--9 inches in Mason City, 12 inches in Sioux Falls.  I was happy with 2 inches. But two inches is two inches and I shoveled the driveway, noticing that as I drove on the newly opened Lakeview Boulevard (!) that the roads hadn't been salted.  They were slick.  Apparently as the snow came down, it melted initially and then as the temp dropped, things turned icy.

So my visit to Mom yesterday had me driving VERY slowly on the country roads and finally shuffling from the parking lot into the apartment complex.

Our visit yesterday wasn't anything out of the ordinary--a bit of cleanup, making sure TV was set for later, setting out dinner, and .... what to wear today, Sunday?  Mom wondered what the weather would be like, and I told her of the snow and ice and cold temps, and she decided she's rather skip church than tackle the elements.

I could tell she was at odds about how to notify the van driver that she shouldn't be picked up, so I volunteered to call him.  Mom seemed relieved, and I just hoped I'd remember to do it!

I found the phone number of the van driver, Marlon, in the church directory and called it--oops...disconnected.  He must be like many who were just using cell phones.  What to do?  That same number was in the regular phone book, so I called it again, thinking perhaps I'd misdialed.  But no...same recording.

Good grief.  How to notify Marlon Mom wouldn't be riding with him?  I decided to call the church and leave a message on the answering machine.  Marlon had to get the van from the church before heading out to fetch people, so I hoped he'd get the message from someone.

But when I dialed the church, Pastor Dwight answered, and I asked him to notify Marlon Mom wouldn't need a ride.  Good. Done.  I'd remembered to call. All was well.

Ten minutes later Marlon called me.  "Did you want something?" he asked.  I was a bit frustrated that he hadn't just gotten the drift not to pick up Mom.  When I explained Mom's reluctance to go to church because of the weather, Marlon assured me they'd put Mom in a wheelchair, take her to the van, then when they got to church, they'd again fetch a wheelchair and wheel her into the church.  It was almost as if he was arguing with me that Mom could handle the transfer from the apartment to the church.

Well, I held my ground and just told him Mom had asked me to call and cancel transportation to church.  Ok.  Done.  Finally.

When I got the the apartment today, Mom said no one had come to get her for church.  She'd sat out there and waited.  Two separate people approached me saying how concerned they were that my poor Mom wasn't taken to church.

So...I'm frustrated.  Without a memory, there's no hope of keeping things straight for Mom.  She asked me a dozen times what I was fixing for dinner.  I explained we'd be having an eye recheck this coming week and she had no clue about eye issues, where the clinic was, etc.

I'm thinking I need at least $100/wk to stay sane.  I need to be compensated, paid, salaried.  Think I'm giving and not being appreciated like I need to be for my sanity.  Good grief.

Doing Wheelies and blowing up things…

Yesterday, the last day of “perfect fall weather bliss,” Mom and I trekked the ½ block to visit Aunt Marge, my mom’s sister-in-law.  Margie has been in the rehab area for about a month, and things aren’t progressing as we’d hoped.  Margie’s journey seems to be becoming even more daunting. For the first time, Mom agreed to ride in the wheelchair the short distance.  Initially she'd balked, but then I'd brought her to the small chair sitting in the hall, and actually “introduced” her to it.  (Here is where you sit, your feet go here…) So for the first time since her own rehab recovery, Mom climbed into a wheelchair and I  pushed her--felt as if we were zipping through the parking lot at warp speed to the rehab unit. Oh, the freedom of movement, the energy of speed!...I wanted to do wheelies.

Margie’s rehab room was transformed into a party room.  Not only were cousin Carol and Uncle Bill present, but Carol’s daughter Natalee and friend Sophie were visiting, and eventually good ol’ Kirk showed up as well.  That made eight of us in the tiny room visiting Margie.  And she rose to the occasion.  Mom, in all her frailty, looked robust and invigorated next to Margie.  We laughed that Mom can’t see well, but can hear perfectly, and Margie can’t hear well but can see perfectly--the perfect setup!  It was an especially tender time for the two gals, now 90+, to chat, to reconnect, possibly for the last time.

Back at Mom’s apartment, I was disappointed to see that yes, again, the microwave had been nearly blown apart by flying coffee debris.  We’d asked that the staff bring mom a pot of coffee each morning so she didn’t make her own.  Previously she’d heat water in the microwave and pour that hot water into a mug to which she’d added instant (ugh!) coffee crystals.  She’d been doing this for years--like over 60 years.  But now she must be heating the mug with its water and coffee already added, for the microwave’s interior was again a battlefield to be reckoned with.

I found administrator Kate and actually dragged her into Mom’s apartment to show her the featured mess.  We initially thought about unplugging the microwave, but then realized there would be no method to quickly heat Mom’s evening meal.  We decided to AGAIN ask the staff to bring in a morning pot of coffee and I set out the white thermal pot and attached a note to that end.  So...we’ll see.  I’ve also explained to Mom (to deaf ears or declining memory, to be sure) that she should NOT make herself coffee anymore, but rather use the pot the gals bring in.  Next step is possibly removing all mugs, instant coffee and container for heating coffee water from the counter.  Oh my.  The pain of not being able to make a cup of coffee for oneself.  It’s something I hope never happens to me.  So bummed for Mom.

Trick or Treat at 93

I remember 24 years ago and the ice storm that froze us, the drive with Pete to Mpls. for a scheduled surgery the next day, and the days that followed of living sans electricity.  So this year's Halloween is lovely in comparison--50 degrees, a bit damp, but a night trick and treaters won't freeze or slip on ice. Yesterday (Friday) Bancroft Creek held a 3 pm. Halloween "party," complete with Kate providing a history of the day and a German meal.  I'm sure Mom had been prepped about the event, but she seemed totally clueless that the festivities were happening.

One thing Mom did remember was that she'd need treats to hand out for Halloween. When I got to the apartment yesterday, she had the contents of her pantry on the kitchen table--trying to find something appropriate to hand out.  I told her I'd go to the store for her, since Halloween wasn't until Saturday, but then I looked at her weekly calendar, and there on Friday, Oct. 30 were the words, "trick or treat, 3-5 pm."  We quickly found some rather ancient coffee-flavored hard candies that would work, but I wished the trick or treat event were on its regular day, Sat., Oct. 31, so I could find more appropriate candies for Mom to give out.

Well today as I walked into the complex, there were oodles of kids and residents in the dining room--apparently the weekly calendar was incorrect--as "treat or treat 3-5 pm" was definitely being held TODAY, Sat., Oct. 31.  Residents sat at tables with their treats in front of them to hand out, and children of staff members and the community paraded around as residents filled kids' baskets.

What to do?  Either ignore the gathering in the dining room and have coffee in Mom's apartment, or join the merriment with the ancient coffee candies.  We chose the second idea.  Poor kids are going to wonder what hit them when they suck on those candies.

After about 45 minutes of treat handouts, we shuffled back to Mom's apartment to do two things: change her clocks to "fall" time (no more daylight savings time) and to tweeze the chin hairs that were sprouting all over from her lips to her neck.  We do that about once a month--hack away at those unsightly bristles.  I want Mom to look decent, though wearing nice clothes but having chin hairs defeats all efforts, I think.

As far as the clock-changing business was concerned, I didn't even tell Mom about the time change.  It would only have confused her, especially since Sunday she's picked up for church and always wonders what time to get up.  So I was able to tell her "just be ready by 9:15" even though the 9:15 is really 10:15.  I just hope she sleeps a bit longer and transitions well into the time difference.

So that's about it for trick or treat this year.  Coffee-flavored candies.  Well, maybe kids will acquire a taste!

October 10--Keys

Today we drove up to Cindy´s urban cabin to enjoy the company of her two sons and their wives and children, as well as our cousin Susan and her granddaughter, so now I know who Queen Elsa is. And on the way home, I dreamed of living in Minneapolis and being able to see all those incredible members of my extended family more often – a LOT more often. A stop at TJ Maxx on the way home for old times’ sake. We had fun looking at the spike heels and Mom felt the clothes and pushed the cart – getting our daily walk in. The evening sky on the way home wowed us, red and blue with streaked clouds as the sun set, and all was well until I made what was supposed to be a quick stop at Target in Owatonna for a computer cable. Mom stayed in the car (so I left the radio on), and when I came out, the car wouldn´t start. My brief panic quickly subsided as two young women working at Target came to my aid. One fetched her BMW SUV and jumper cables, and within the hour, we were on our way again. Thank God for Minnesota women . . .

Mom chuckled several times on the way home about our adventure.

We swung by Jane´s house to check on Pete and grabbed Jane´s key to Mom´s apartment, as we had not taken ours along, never imagining we would arrive after 8pm when the doors are locked. Once back at Bancroft Creek Estates and through the main entrance, the following conversation ensued:       Mom: Will Janie need her key to get in? Anne: Jane is in Europe. Mom: Oh, right (chuckle). . . . I´m surprised we were able to get in. Anne: Why?  Mom: Because we didn´t have a key.

October 9--Two flights of stairs at 93

Anne writes: When I hugged Mom as she emerged from her room this morning and said “Happy birthday!” she grinned and responded, “Oh for crying out loud, it is my birthday, isn´t it.” I repeated at least 15 times in the course of the next few hours (interspersed with even more frequent updates on the time) that my cousin Cindy would come to her apartment and that we would all go together to Green Lea Gulf Course for lunch. Lunch with Cindy was the highlight of our day. What a joy to be in the company of two such classy women and share with Cindy our love and honor of Hazel Wittman Kepple. As Cindy drove on up to her urban cabin in Minneapolis, Mom and I went for a drive to Myre-Big Island Park to absorb the fall.     

Once back at the apartment, the repeated questions turned to our evening plans to go to the ACT play in the evening. All went smoothly – once in the Marion Ross Performing Arts Center, Mom preferred the stairs to the elevator, so at the age of 93, she ascended two flights of stairs, and then descended another flight to get down to our third row seats. Following the play without being able to see it was understandably almost impossible, and the idea of middle-to-older aged women posing nude for a church calendar was hard for her to grasp, so as we left afterwards, Mom characterized it as one of the least good plays she had seen. Oh well. The German chocolate cake when we arrived home was a hit, however. 

Seven Years

Anne writes: Today we walked all the way around Good Sam! Stopping at every bench along the way, but not for long. Not an undertaking for the hurried, but surprisingly doable. I think both of us were surprised. The delicious fall weather of course lured us on. This was after another morning spent much of the time lying in bed, and repeated comments, “I just don´t know why I don´t have any steam.”

After our walk, we had coffee and cookies in the dining room looking out the window at the corn fields ready to be harvested and I fetched a plastic bag full of cards I was curious about that I had found in the closet. They turned out to be all Christmas and birthday cards from 2008. As I went through them and read some names and some of the messages, I suggested maybe they could be disposed of, but ended up agreeing with Mom that “maybe we should keep them”.

My favorite was actually an envelope stamped “Return to Sender” – a Christmas letter written by Mom, dated January 2009, that never made it to Bea Abraham. After all the family news (it was an especially wonderful Christmas because Scott had “completed his army enlistment”), Mom wrote “And now our thoughts turn to the inauguration of our first Black president and, of course, improvement to the serious problems our country faces.” Yes, a lot has happened in seven years.

Stepping In

OK, so this is Anne, stepping in for Jane for a few weeks, trying to carry the baton while she is recharging her battery on an incredible river trip from Amsterdam to Budapest – here´s to ya, Janie!! All is well here – my minor duties at Jane´s house are a cinch so far. Pete´s the best and the critters are cooperating nicely. It strikes me how I feel so much a part of a network here – just contributing a tiny bit to the greater network that keeps my sister, and Pete, and my mom going. Janie, you have built an amazing structure in the midst of full catastrophe living. I love your friends. I love the fact that you are on this trip, laughing and drinking with Jane H. And I love having Albert Lea to come home to. My first few days here I was feeling lost in the face of a mother who is lost. But I am growing accustomed, learning the ropes, finding my stride. It’s just that Mom was always the one who defied expectations, always way above average, so much better than Dad, Dona Mira (my husband’s mother of the same age), Marion . . . She still is, but it’s hard to witness her vital force dwindling. I feel blessed that I am able to be here and grateful that Mom is comfortable, tranquil, and well cared for.   I was especially touched the other night when I got home (from Jane's house) after Mom was already asleep and she had turned my bed covers down for me. A motherly gesture. She still has it in her.  

The dryer sheet

Wasn't able to see Mom until after a 4 pm meeting, so she was having dinner at 4:45 when I showed up.  "I didn't think you were coming," she said, her voice seeming to share some relief.  She sat at the table and I warmed up her plate, seeing the microwave had again taken a hit, probably from splattered coffee.  I set Mom's warmed plate in front of  her and she asked what was on it.  I explained there was lazagna, cooked vegies and garlic bread.  I'd cut up the lazagna and as she poked at the food and tasted a bit of it, again asked what was on the plate.  In fact in the few minutes I was with her in the kitchen cleaning up as she ate, she asked me 4-5 times what the plate in front of her contained,  and I wondered if that was an indication that it all didn't contain much flavor. She blew her nose and I turned to see she was using a dryer sheet for a kleenex.  Goodness.  As I exchanged it for an acutal kleenex, I said,  "Here, use this instead."  "Well what have I been using?" she wondered.  "Somehow you grabbed a dryer sheet," I explained. That fact didn't seem to bother her, but I thought...taste sensation is going...sense of touch is going...  I felt sorry Mom's life has become narrower and narrower, her life fading, her awareness vanishing.

Best laid plans...

So I thought Mom might like to join me in creating a list of clothes, etc. to bring on my trip.  I mentioned how she'd traveled extensively and was a master at packing, etc.  I figured she'd suggest practical things like an umbrella and remind me to pack my passport.  A little "girl time" around the table in the dining room planning a life adventure. Instead, after Mom's initial question as to what the weather would be like, a merry-go-round of questions ensued:  with whom was I traveling? When did I leave? What day was it now? What weather did I expect, With whom was I traveling.... These questions repeatedly surfaced in a 90 second cycle.  Each time I'd give an answer--a short one--and I repeated these so many times that I got as dizzy as if the merry-go-round had sped up and nearly tossed me off.

I was happy to see the dishwasher had worked--yesterday it had seemed to chug on and on without water spraying, but I'd left it to see if it wasn't just "warming up," and that must've been the case, as the dishes were clean today and water sat atop some glasses.  However the microwave took a hit.  Beef stroganoff, baked on and crispy, had blown all over the interior, and after scrubbing a bit, I finally gave in to a cup or two of water in the beast--heat on high for 5 min. to create steam to more easily clean debris.  It worked to some extent.

I was pleased Mom's pants were dry, as yesterday after coffee in the dining room, she'd wondered, "Why do you suppose my pants are wet?"  I asked her if she thought she'd wet herself a bit, and she couldn't remember doing that, but neither could she remember spilling anything.  We simply changed undies and slacks and I tossed the damp stuff into the laundry.

So after safely depositing Mom back to her apartment, laying out clothes for tomorrow, setting the TV to PBS and making sure to remind her to COVER HER PLATE before heating it in the microwave, I escaped to the hall and out the door.  My mission tonight after dinner:  make a list of things to bring on my trip--something I'll do alone.

One of those days

Since I'm leaving soon, I'm madly getting chores done--like balancing the budget, painting the porch, making lists, planning to utilize each second I have.  So after fitness, I was planning to paint, but instead played hostess to Pete's brother and wife whom I hadn't seen in years.  They were here briefly, yet, made coffee, found a sweet in the freezer, etc. etc.  I ended up beginning on the porch far later than I'd hoped and ended up painting the porch until late in the afternoon.  A quick shower and off to see Mom.   Maryann was in the dining room with Mom. I could see Mom looked rather "zombie-like" today--distant, eyes not really focusing.  I asked her how the Civic Music concert was  yesterday and she stared blankly off into space, her brain trying to bring up that concert, but it wasn't working.  Mayrann asked me a question and my response solicited questions from Mom and comments like, "I didn't know that. When did this all happen?"   Somehow all those questions and her not understanding things really bothered me and I could tell I ended up several times raising my voice.   I felt exasperated and frustrated.  The SLOW walk back to the apartment and the chores, which today included running the dishwasher also frustrated me and it didn't seem the dishwater was working.  Will have to check that out.

...and back again

Paul and I drove up today to see Mom outside.  Waiting.  Waiting.  It WAS pleasant out--in the sun it was over 80 degrees, and though the leaves were falling and the air smelled like fall, the temps belied that. It's always fun to see Mom's face when she recognizes one of the grandkids.  Her entire visage changes--it's as if she can again see, and perhaps she can--she can see the kids in her mind.  But as PJ and I suggested we go inside and have coffee, Mom hesitated and said, "but Onee's here, isn't she?  Who's here?  Someone's here. Isn't she sleeping upstairs?"  Both Paul and I thought Mom had a screw loose, for we knew her sister Onee lived in Sioux City.

But eventually it came out.  Onee had called her sometime last week and had said her class reunion was meeting for lunch on Sat. (today) and that if she came, she'd like to stay overnight with Mom.  Mom of course forgot all about it and didn't relate any of that to me. Well, Onee drove up this morning, had lunch with her classmates, and stopped in--suitcase in hand--for an overnight.  She'd been tired from getting up early and she WAS, in fact, having a bit of a nap when PJ and I arrived.

But as we sat in the dining room, a fog descended over Mom.  She could barely hold a conversation, and she seemed to stare into the distance.  But then I went into Mom's apartment to grab her key for the postbox, and there was Onee.  She came to the dining room to share coffee and talk--and talk and talk.  Such a fun person to chat with and the comparison between Mom and her younger sister was quite startling.  Onee still drives, can see, can read, can embrace most of life's blessings.  They plan to go to Applebees for dinner.  I hope Onee knows what challenges await her and what patience is required!