Guilt, guilt, guilt.

I leave today for San Diego. One of my sons is expecting a baby in April, so I'm going to be a grandma, for the first time! The baby shower is Sunday. I leave today, come back Tuesday. Quick trip.

This morning I'm packing and getting ready to go. I go for my morning walk. When I come back to the house I can hear Mom crying in the living room.

She's sitting in her chair, choking back tears. I say, "What's the matter Mom?"

She says, still crying, "I......don't......know." Which is what she usually says. But this time, she follows with, "I don't want......you.....to goooooo. I just hate...... to see.....you goooooo."

I reassure her that the care giver will be in every day, twice a day to check on them, and get them anything they might need. I remind her that she has her Lifeline button around her neck. I tell her I'll be back Tuesday afternoon. Doesn't help. She keeps crying.

Guilt takes over--do I cancel my trip? And why? To be here in case..... in case what? Will my staying here guarantee that a crisis won't happen? On an intellectual level, I know that canceling the trip and deciding to stay here to appease my mother's stress is not the sensible thing to do. But on an emotional level, the mother who always made me feel like I couldn't make a sensible decision about anything is still affecting me. Guilt.

I'm sitting here typing this blog and I can hear my mom crying in the next room. Guilt.

I need to shower and pack and leave. Guilt.

Bananyas and Jane Austen

I'm 56 years old and I live with my 89 and 93 year old parents. A lot of people comment on my living situation with "How do you do it?" or "You must have the patience of a saint!" or "How can you always be so upbeat?" For the record, I am not always upbeat, I am far from sainthood (or superhero-dom), and some days, I honestly don't "do it" very well. Granted, I'm pretty good at staying perky most of the time, in the face of a lot of adversity and stress. But I definitely have my days. A couple of earlier blogs describe those days. Here's one that snuck up on me last week....

Morning. I walk into the kitchen, take one look at the fruit bowl and suddenly realize that, horror of horrors, there are only two bananas (or as Dad would say it, "bananyas") left in the fruitta bowl. Without missing a beat, I grab my keys and my bag, jump in the car and head for Safeway. Quick glance at the clock. I'd easily have a full bowl of bananas by the time Mom and Dad got up.

Lately, and I'm not sure why (well, wait, I probably DO know why, on some level...but that's a whole other therapy session), I've been a little obsessed with Jane Austen. I drive a lot, as I think I've mentioned, so I use the time to listen to music, various podcasts, and my newest driving pastime--classic literary audiobooks. About a week ago, I downloaded an unabridged version of Pride and Prejudice, my personal favorite of Austen's classics. Honestly, if you were to ask me today, my idea of nirvana would be several uninterrupted days of watching every film version of Pride and Prejudice ever made, over and over again. (Or Jane Eyre............or even both! Oh my goodness now THAT would be ecstasy!)

Anyway, so I'm heading to Safeway and the first thing I do is turn on my iPod to pick up P&P where I left off last time I drove. I'm somewhere in the final chapter. Chapter 60.

I arrive at Safeway. Elizabeth and her father begin their discussion about the proposed marriage between Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.

I pull into the Safeway parking lot. I turn the car off just as Mr. Bennett is asking Elizabeth why she wants to marry a man for whom she had previously declared such distaste. I run in, go straight to the produce section, grab the biggest bunch of bananas I can find, head for the self-checkout, and return to the car.

Back in the car, bananas in my lap, P&P back on.

I pull out of the Safeway parking lot. Mr. Bennett is still questioning Elizabeth about her seemingly sudden change of heart toward Mr. Darcy. I love how his love for his favorite daughter is so apparent in his words.

I pass the big cow herd on Hendrickson Road. Elizabeth is describing, so eloquently, so articulately, Mr. Darcy's many noble and admirable qualities.

I cross the Dungeness Bridge (and the "Poor Ole Horse" that's really a cow.....see the earlier blog, "Poor Ole Horse"). Mr. Bennett inquires of Elizabeth if she really and truly loves Mr. Darcy, loves him enough to spend the rest of her life with a man who she previously had declared to be so detestably proud and arrogant.

I pull into the driveway. Home. Elizabeth is now pouring out her heart and soul to her father, explaining with such intensity, such heartfelt sincerity, such gut-wrenching honesty, the deep and comprehensive love she feels for Mr. Darcy.

I put the car in park. Bananas in my lap. Mr. Bennett gives his final approval to his beloved Lizzy, completely satisfied after his daughter's persuasive and convincing declaration of undying love for Mr. Darcy.

And...............I can't move. Shit, my cheeks are wet. I don't remember feeling like I was going to cry. Don't remember my tear ducts filling up, or my eyes spilling over. But my cheeks are wet with fresh, salty tears. Tears of relief for Lizzy Bennett for finding and realizing her life partner. Tears of appreciation for great literature and beautiful timeless stories. And yeah, I suppose tears of regret and self-pity for myself. For what I'm fairly certain I will never have. (This is what is commonly known as a Pity Party. They really suck.)

So yeah............I have my days every now and then.

The tears flow, I dry them up, grab my bananas, and get back to the morning.

Pumice and Drilled Tomatoes

Scene: Dinnertime; kitchen. Preparing meal of grilled salmon and salad. I have just opened a bag of Multigrain Chips and opened a new tub of Hummus with Dried Tomatoes. My brother and I are busy getting food ready, setting the table, munching on chips and hummus. Dad enters. He immediately spots and homes in on the bag of chips. Dad has built-in radar for food. He is a superior forager.

Dad: Hey! What's this?!

Nobody answers. There's no point. He'll help himself anyway and figure it out. Next, Dad spots the tub of hummus.

Dad: Hey! What's THIS?!

Me: Hummus.

Dad: Pumice??! (Dad is shouting. It's the hearing loss. He frequently shouts when he gets excited.......which is usually over food.) This can't be pumice! Come on! It's pumice???

Me (not shouting): Hummus.

Dad: That's what I said, Pumice!

Me: No. H-H-Hummus. (I exaggerate the H sound.)

Dad (carefully repeating): H-H-Hummus? What's that? (As he scoops a chip into the tub. Again....no point in answering.) Oh mmmmm! That's good! What is this again? (He picks up the tub, pulls his visor down, reads the label. My brother and I just watch.

This is exactly how he reads the label:

"Humus ("Hyoo-mus"...... as in dirt) With Drilled Tomatoes"

Then he corrects himself.

Dad: Oh no wait, Dried, not Drilled. Dried Tomatoes. "Hyoo-mus" huh? Hmmmm, that's good! "Hyoo-mus!" Oh yah!

He kept scooping and rescooping, each time repeating with such gusto, "HYOO-MUS, MMM-MM! HYOO-MUS, MMM-MM!

Pat and Dick: Part Two

You can't write this stuff. Seriously.

Here's a follow-up to the Thank-you note (which I DID mail) to Pat and Dick.

There's always some background. This background begins the day after I finally mailed Mom's note to Pat and Dick. Their daughter, Debbie, who follows the blog, had sent me a photo of her with her mom, Pat. The thought was that Mom would enjoy seeing it, which she did. (By the way......Thank you Debbie! Who knew a simple photo could create so much confusion?). Printed the photo out in the morning and set it on Mom's place at the dining room table. Mom got up that morning, saw the photo during breakfast and promptly called me in to explain who the people were in the photo. This was not a surprise. I expected she'd need to have the people in the photo identified. I pointed to each person and slowly explained, "It's a photo of Pat and Debbie. Debbie thought you'd enjoy seeing the photo so she sent it to me to share with you."

"Ohhhh!" Mom replied with her characteristic oh-how-nice tone.

I don't know why, but I always forget how the short-term-memory-loss thing works (I know, I know......who's the one with the memory problem here anyway?!). You'd think I'd have it down by now. But no. So though I thought we were done with the whole Pat and Dick note/Pat and Debbie photo issue, clearly we were not.

Later that afternoon, Mom toddled into the office, sat down on her walker and said, "Where's.......... the letter............ your brother wrote?"

Huh? My brother? Letter?

That's the other thing Mom does a lot--randomly says stuff that makes absolutely no sense. Sometimes I do that seven-degrees-of-separation thing and try to figure out how she comes up with some of her comments. It rarely works. Like one day we were in the car, on our way to a doc appointment, and she, out of the blue, breaks the silence with a heartfelt "Ohhhhh that's niiiiice."

Huh?

I looked everywhere--side mirrors, rear view mirror, inside the car, on the car. I assumed I'd missed something but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary anywhere. Finally, I asked, "What? What's nice?"

"WHAT?!" she barked right back at me. (She does that a lot too--doesn't just calmly say, "What?" when you don't understand what she's just said. It's always an abrupt "WHAT?!" Kind of scares you, for a moment.

Then I asked her, "What's so nice?"

She paused. Processing. Slowly.

Then, "Ohhhh...........I don't know". And that was it. Who knows what she saw, or heard, or.....whatever. It was just another Mom-Moment.

But back to Mom's question...about when my brother (the one in California) sent me "the letter."

I said, "Wh.....letter? He didn't write me a letter."

But Mom was relentless, "Well, how did he send you the photo?"

Huh?

Okay, so I'm not sure how Mom connected the photo of Pat and Debbie to my brother, but she did. I don't think either of my brothers even knows Pat and Dick so we're talking at least twenty-degrees-of-separation there!

Soooooo, once again, I explained it all to Mom--I mailed the thank you note to Pat and Dick that she had written, I emailed Debbie that the note was mailed, Debbie sent the photo, the photo is of Debbie and Pat, I printed it out, etc.

She wheeled out of the office, seemingly satisfied, sort of.

Again......I really thought we were done with the photo this time.

Wrong again.

Now flash forward to this afternoon. Mom's in the dining room. My other brother is visiting for a few days. (I have two older brothers. This one lives in Hawaii. The one who lives in California is the one who Mom thinks wrote me "the letter" with the photo) Oh and one more thing you should know about my brother from Hawaii--he has a wicked sense of humor.

So my brother (who is visiting from Hawaii) and I are in the dining room with Mom, and Mom picks up the photo of Pat and Dick and blurts out, "Denise, who IS this in this photo?" My brother looks at me, half-smiling. It's a devious smile, like his wicked wheels are suddenly starting to turn. I've briefed him about this whole Pat and Dick note/photo thing so he's up to speed. He says nothing. Just observes.

I sigh, then explain to Mom again,"That's Pat and Debbie."

"Ohhhh."

For emphasis, I add their last names. This seems to register.

"Oh yeeees." Mom appears to finally understand. I thought.

She pauses. Then she adds, "Well I don't remember having this picture taken of us!"

My brother breaks into a quiet chuckle. Still, he says nothing and chooses instead to merely watch what happens next.

I continue, "No.......Mom........(I point to the photo.) THIS is Pat, and THIS is Debbie."

"Ohhhh."

Another pause.

Now I'm thinking maybe we're really done this time. She genuinely seems to understand who is in the photo. I turn and walk toward the kitchen area.

"Well I don't understand why her hair is so gray!" Mom blurts out before I get three steps away.

And truly.........I was going to respond. I started to respond. But I thought better of it. I mean, what was the point? Sometimes it's just not worth the effort. I look at my brother for guidance. He offers none. Just smiles and shakes his head.

About this time Dad wheels in. "Hey what's going on in here?!" he bellows (he hates not knowing what's going on......it's a control thing. Ninety-three and still insists on knowing everything about everything).

Before anyone can answer, he spots the photo in Mom's hands, "Hey lemme see that!" He snatches the photo away from Mom, and the next two things, which you really need to understand, happen in one lightning-flash, split-second movement: 1. Dad flips down the jeweler's visor (that he always wears.....so he can read); 2. He pulls his high-intensity pocket halogen flashlight out of his back pocket. The photo in his hands is instantly illuminated. Dad does this whole quick-draw thing all the time. It's kind of his trademark. At least one of them. It's the only way he can read small print, or make out tiny details of anything. And although we're all used to the Quick-Draw move, it's kind of funny to see the momentary fear that passes over a stranger's face when, for example while perusing the wine section at CostCo, Dad's visor suddenly snaps down over his eyes and a little Derringer-sized flashlight suddenly appears out of his back pocket. Yeah. Subtlety is not Dad's strongpoint.

But back to the photo that Dad is now scrutinizing like a grid--across the top from left to right, down and back from right to left, and across again....until the entire picture has been duly analyzed.

"Who's this?" Apparently the analysis came up with nothing.

"That's Pat!" answers Mom.

"Oh! Well............" Dad again, "..........your hair isn't gray!"

This time Mom corrects him, "No, That's not me! That's Pat and Debbie!"

But Dad didn't hear this. He cuts Mom off with, "I don't recognize this location!" (Cuz he assumes he should......since, remember, he knows everything about everything.)

Mom again, "Well that wasn't taken here, it's in South Carolina."

But Dad didn't hear that part either. "Which one is Pat?"

Mom shows him.

"Then who's this?" he says pointing to Debbie, Pat's daughter.

And Mom, who really cannot hold any kind of stride in a conversation says, "That's Pat!"

Dad, pointing at the real Pat, "I thought THIS was Pat!" (Are YOU confused yet?)

It's at this point that my brother can't stand it any longer. He chooses his opportunities oh so carefully. His timing with this one was perfect.

He walks over, interjects himself between Mom and Dad, and points to the photo, "No, no, no...... that's Abbott, and that's Costello."

Which sends my mother's confusion into the stratosphere, "Whaaaaaat?!" she cries, almost painfully. She was having a hard enough time with Pat and Debbie!

But, as I said, my brother is a wicked, wicked tease, "No, no, no wait, that's Laurel, and that's Hardy."

My head is buried in my hands. I am no longer part of this conversation, thank goodness. I'm laughing--something I don't do nearly enough.

Dad puts an end to the hilarity, "No, now wait just a minute. Who IS this?"

That's my cue. I approach the photo, still in Dad's hands, I point, precisely, for the LAST TIME, "THAT is Pat. And THAT is Debbie."

Lonnnnng pause. We all wait while Dad studies the photo again with his visor-flashlight.

"Hmmm." He turns off the flashlight. He flips up the visor. "Your brother sent you this?"

I give up.

Mouth-Breathers

Did you ever see that Twilight Zone about the guy who lives with his emotionally abusive elderly mother. And then the mother dies, and after the funeral the guy keeps hearing his mother's voice calling to him, barking out orders, yelling insults at him? It's been years since I saw that episode. But I think about it frequently. Not that my parents are abusive. Not at all. But just that whole concept of how sounds and noises become part of our daily routine, even after the source of the sound is gone.

After we put Dad's beloved German Shepard, Zeus, down, I kept hearing him pant in the middle of night. The poor dog was so old, so tired, and his kidneys were failing so he had to go outside multiple times every night. And since Dad is completely deaf at night, and Mom is oblivious, I ended up being the one to let Zeus in and out whenever he had to relieve himself in the wee hours of the night and morning. There's a long hardwood hall leading from the living room to my bedroom, and Zeus weighed almost 100 pounds so when he walked down the hall, it sounded exactly like a person was walking toward my room. Kind of a creepy in the middle of the night, especially with the panting. I mean, imagine it. You're sound asleep when some tiny part of your brain hears heavy panting and "foot" steps in the hall. Coming toward you! Creeped me out every single time! Even when I knew it was just Zeus! At the end, right before we finally put him out of his misery, Zeus was having to go outside six and seven times every single night. I wasn't sleeping much. Each time I let Zeus back in the house from peeing, he would slowly walk back to his bed in Dad's room, I would slowly nestle back down into my bed and would just start to fall back asleep, when back came Zeus down the hall--walking, panting, walking panting. And that's the same sound I kept hearing, for a couple of weeks, after we put him down. Weird.

I wonder a lot about what sounds I'll hear, or things I'll see, after Mom and Dad are gone. One thing I'd bet good money on that I'll keep hearing is Mom's squeak-whimper breathing. She's a mouth-breather. For some reason we haven't been able to figure out, Mom started breathing out of her mouth after her first back surgery. But it's not just that she breathes through her mouth. When my mouth is open I can't hear anything. So it's not just that her mouth is open, it's the sound she makes when she breathes. You know that sound a dog makes right before it starts to cry? That sort of high-pitched whimper that eventually works its way into a full-fledged dog-cry? That's the sound. Mom makes that sound all the time. Breathing in; breathing out. It's like a squeaky-whimper sound, and it is always in the background. Always. So I can't help but think that I'll probably be hearing that sound long after Mom is gone.

Anyway, that's not the point of today's blog. Today's inspiration happened about two hours ago, driving Mom to a doc appointment. As usual, all was quiet in the Cherokee (it generally is anyway; I'm not much of a talker) except for Mom's squeaky-whimper.

Suddenly, Mom says, "What IS that noise?" She seemed slightly stunned. "What IS that?" she repeated.

"What noise?" I thought maybe she meant the sound of her walker rolling around in the back.

That wasn't it.

"That squeak. It's a squeaky noise."

The walker rolls and creaks but it doesn't really squeak. Still......"You mean your walker? It's rolling around in the back."

"No. That squeak." She paused a bit to form her next thought. "It's from my throat. I can hear it when I breathe."

I said the obvious thing, "That's your breathing Mom. You always make that sound." (I mean, she does. That was okay that I said that, right?)

"Well I've never heard it before. Why do I do that?" she seemed completely baffled by this weird "new" sound coming from her own body.

"Uhhh.......well.......I don't really know why you do that Mom. Maybe because you breathe with your mouth open?"

"oh."

And that was it. She said, "oh" and that was it. We drove the rest of the way in silence, except for the squeaky-whimper.

Thank You Note

I'm going to ask readers to weigh in on a current dilemma. Feel free to leave your comments after you've read this. There's a lot of background so please be patient. I'd appreciate any input. I'm truly in a quandary here.

Dementia's a bitch, first and foremost. Most of the time, my mother cannot finished a sentence. In fact, she can barely start one. On the lighter side, this makes for some very entertaining conversations between my parents--my dad who can barely hear, and my mom who can barely put together a coherent thought let alone a sentence. But on the less lighter side, it's incredibly frustrating, for her, for Dad, for everybody.

The background. Last year, Mom announced one day she wanted a laptop of her own, so she could write emails, stay in touch with old friends, family, etc. My brothers and I knew this was probably not a great idea. Even ten years ago, when the dementia was just beginning, and Mom was still able to use a computer to check email, she was constantly calling one of us up to remind her how to get to her Inbox, how to write and send an email, how to close the Inbox, even how to turn the computer on and off. We ended up having to make her little Post-It lists that we stuck to the computer monitor. And sometimes that worked, but you know how computers are. One little mis-click and you're suddenly looking at your Control Panel instead of Outlook Express. That happened a lot.

Eventually Mom stopped using the computer, then she stopped doing the household accounting (Dad took that on until I moved in and relieved him of that duty, which he absolutely hated. Which reminds me--I really need to blog about Dad and Math one of these days...), then she stopped cooking (Her last attempt, a meatloaf, was....well,.....inedible.), then she stopped writing, anything. Now she spends most of every day in front of a television, watching CNN. Pretty sad.

So anyway, we nixed the laptop idea. But then Mom brought it up again about four months ago.

"I want a laptop" she announced out of the blue one afternoon. And I had to really think about how to respond to her. Sometimes I feel like the evil parent who doesn't let her children have or do anything fun anymore. It killed me when I had to tell them both they could no longer drive. Dad took it better than Mom. He could see....so to speak.......that having a totally blind right side is a major accident waiting to happen. But Mom still occasionally spouts off with "My kids won't let me drive anymore and I don't understand why. I don't see why I can't drive!" (And it's really funny how she can say these kinds of statements without a hitch.)

You know what I think? I really think that when we become elderly, there's a part of our brain that thinks we're still thirty. It doesn't even "think" we're still thirty. It firmly, totally, undeniably BELIEVES we're still thirty.

For example......Every holiday season, my mom ALWAYS says, "I'd better get busy with the Christmas cookies." And I'm thinking ("thinking" mind you, NOT "saying") "Mom! Do you remember the meatloaf???" but what I really end up saying is, "Okay Mom. That would be fun" because I know she'll forget she ever said it....until next holiday season.

Here's another one...........Every time one of my brothers rides his motorcycle up here to visit, Dad says, "You know, I'd like to take that out for a spin" and my brother and I are like, "Dad! You're freakin' blind on your right side! You use a walker for cryin' out loud!"

Or, whenever family comes to visit, a few days before they arrive, Mom always makes the comment, "Well I'd better go make up the beds for our guests." And I just shake my head because: 1. I've already done it; and 2. Really Mom? You're gonna go get the sheets? Make up the bed? Put on the pillowcases? All by yourself? Really?

So anyway.......Mom made this statement, this grand announcement that she wanted a laptop of her very own. And I had to take a moment to think about how to respond to her. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity trying to think of the best, the most effective, the most tactful way of denying my mother a laptop, this new "toy" she wanted so badly. And here's what I came up with....

First I used the money issue (always an effective deterrent with elderly parents on a fixed income): "Mom that's going to be at least $1000." She answered simply with a deflated, "oh."

Second, I thought of an alternative (And at the time, I really thought this was so, so clever of me. Silly me.): "I have an idea Mom. How about we get you a portable electric typewriter? We'll put it on the dining room table, plug it in, and you can just hunt and peck the keys and write your letters and notes that way!"

She liked that idea. It was still a new toy that was just for her. But it wasn't going to cost $1000. More like $100. And I figured if she ended up not using it, it's always nice to have an electric typewriter around the house, right?

So I ordered the typewriter. It came. I set it up in the dining room. Loaded the paper. Mom was so excited. She went in, sat down.....and sat, and sat, and sat. She must have sat and stared at that typewriter for a good thirty minutes. I finally asked her, "Mom what are you waiting for?"

And she meekly replied, "I don't know what to do." So I gave her a typewriter tutorial--showed her the keyboard, showed her that the paper was loaded and ready to go. She seemed to get it. I left the room. About an hour later, I heard her walking back to the living room saying to Dad, "I'm exhausted" as she collapsed in her hydraulic recliner.

Later on, I went into the dining room to check what she had typed. There were at least a dozen pieces of paper spread all over the table with "Dear" typed at the top. Some had "Deeeeeeee aaarr" or "DDDDearrrr" or "De ar". "Dear" was as for as she could get.

I gave her another tutorial. My brother did the same during one of his visits. Twice. Ultimately she was able to type a complete salutation and the beginning of the first sentence, "Dear Pat and Dick, It's been so long...." and then it just drops off. Eventually Mom gave up. The typewriter is in one of the guest rooms now, with Mom's last attempt "Dear Pat and Dick, It's been so long ....." still in it.

Okay so now flash forward to two weeks ago. Mom came into the office one day and asked me for some note cards so she could write Thank You notes to people who had sent Christmas cards or little presents. I found a box of personally monogrammed notecards in the desk, which excited her. She took the notes into the dining room and started to work on them. It took her a while and she got frustrated.

One afternoon she asked me whose monogram was on the front of the cards. "That's your monogram Mom!"

"Oh" she replied, surprised, slightly confused.

I encouraged her to keep at it and suggested maybe she do just a little bit at a time. That seemed to help. She finally finished one note, which she sealed and gave to me to mail, which I did. Then another one already sealed and addressed (quite legibly too!), which I also mailed.

And now the source of my dilemma. Two days ago, Mom handed me a third note to mail. It too was already addressed. I took it, told her I'd mail it that afternoon, and added it to my pile of outgoing bills. That afternoon I got in the car to run errands, which included a stop at the post office to pick up stamps so I could mail everything in my Outgoing pile. I got my stamps and was standing in the post office lobby stamping each envelope. Mom's note was the last one in the pile. It wasn't sealed. It was a note she wrote to her friends Pat and Dick in South Carolina (the ones to whom she had attempted to type a letter). She has not seen Pat and Dick for at least twenty years. They've stayed in contact by phone and by letter. The address on the outside was legible, barely legible but legible nonetheless. I took the note out, curious to see if I thought Pat or Dick was going to be able to read it, curious to see what Mom had written.

I think I stood in that post office for at least fifteen minutes staring at what Mom had tried to write. "Dear Pat and Dick" it started. "It's been so long since I've written" it continued. Some words were a little hard to decipher but it was off to a good start. Good for Mom, I thought. She should write more, I thought. But then the note declined. The entire notecard was filled with writing. But it was all made of half-sentences, repeated fragments, half-words, and a kind of an eery, strange repetition of the word "quick" in several different forms. Like seriously, the word "quick", "quicker", or "quickly" was interspersed in the note at least twenty times. Sometimes by itself, sometimes in doublets--quickly, quick. Sometimes in triplets--quick, quicker, quickly. Sometimes all by itself. Quick. It made no sense. The first thing that popped into my head was that sentence everybody learns on the first day of typing class because it includes every letter in the alphabet, "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog." Did Mom's brain have some sort of weird short circuit moment where it overlapped a random typing memory onto what she was trying to write? So I stood there. And all I could think was, "I can't send this." I stood there holding this disjointed but well-intentioned note to dear friends and all I could hear in my head was "I can't send this."

So there it is. Do I send it? It's still in my purse, stamped and ready to go. But I just can't stand the thought of Pat or Dick receiving the note and seeing the evidence of my mother's dementia.

What to do?

Oh yes.......I am......Super Caretaker!

This brace Mom has to wear is such a cumbersome thing. For one thing, her Depends has to go on OVER it, which takes some practice. Wearing it involves a lot of little changes in the way Mom gets dressed and undressed, as well as how she goes to the bathroom. And "change" never sets well with the elderly, or at least it doesn't set well with my elderly parents. It's really remarkable how any little bend in their routine, just makes them crumble.

Last night, for example, I had just settled into bed with the dogs when I heard really loud, loud talking. At first, I thought it was Mom's tv (sometimes she turns it up pretty high), but I quickly realized it was actually Mom's voice I was hearing (not a good sign). So I got out of bed and started to walk back toward Mom and Dad's "wing". Dad met me halfway. Turns out he was on his way to my "wing" to get me.

He's in his underwear; he's frustrated. "Your Mom needs something and I can't understand her!"

He gets so worked up when she's upset because he can't make out what she's saying and she's too upset to repeat anything for him. Plus, my mother doesn't make a lot of sense when she's upset. Then again, who does?

Anyway, so I get to her room and she's sitting on her bed sobbing. I say, "What's up Mom?"

"I..I...I......n-n-n-neeeeeeed....m-m-m-myyyy..........diaper pulled onnnnnnn! A-a-a-and......I..I...I....c-c-c-can't......p-p-p-pull......it.....uuuuuuuup!" (For just a tiny little moment I think to myself, Isn't this probably exactly what little babies think when their Huggies are drooping off their little bottoms?)

But back to Mom........

Anyway......the thing you need to know is, I had just helped her put on her Depends not ten minutes ago. But as I said, the brace is new, the Depends feels different. It's all new stuff.......changes in the routine.

Experience has taught me well. I have come to understand that it takes old people wayyyyy longer to ascend any learning curve. So I calmly said, "Mom, your Depends is on. I just helped you put it on."

And she immediately stopped crying. Then she stood up, reached down to lift up her nightgown, dropped her head to look, and saw the Depends exactly where it was supposed to be (completely pulled on), and said simply, "oh."

And I said, "So you see?! You're fine!"

And about that time Dad had made it into her room. I turned to leave and there he was, with this exasperated, utterly helpless look on his face, "Well what's the damn problem?!" So I told him, " 'S'all good. She just thought her diaper wasn't on."

He looked at Mom. Mom looked back at him. He looked at me. I tossed my hand (and his worries) into the air, " 'S'all good!"

Then we all stood there for a few beats.

Then Dad put his arm around me, gave me a thankful squeeze, and said softly. "What would we do without you?" And because I'm a sucker for contrasting emotions, I instinctively flipped the mushy moment, threw both arms up in "touchdown" fashion and accompanied myself with a triumphant superhero fanfare, "Dah-dada-dahhhhh!"

The Big Brace

What a night. Or morning. Whatever. (You might notice a slightly drier sense of humor in this blog. My brain's a little wonky.)

Okay, so......Mom and I spent a really "lovely" three and a half hours (midnight to 3:30am) in the Port Angeles ER. Got two new high scores on Sudoku, as well as a surprisingly sharp performance playing Fling. (Note to everyone out there: When you have to go the ER, ALWAYS bring in your iPod.)

It was particularly quiet during this visit. Not sure which I prefer. It was really exciting two visits ago, when the chopper airlifted out a motorcycle crash victim. Some lady, in 2C, was moaning like crazy, and there was somebody in the special "Psychiatric" room with the door closed. The place was so busy that day that they had to put Mom and I right out in the reception area, where I could see everything that came in or went out. Really tantalized my "inner doctor."

But last night was quiet. Only two other patients there--one for a suspected kidney stone that turned out to be constipation (Is it possible to be THAT constipated?), and a guy curled up in the fetal position in the "Psych" room with a cop standing guard outside. (I didn't ask.)

They gave Mom a whopping dose of intravenous Vicodin. (Isn't it weird what heavy duty pain meds do to your brain? Mom started babbling about toothpicks on the floor. The nurse just looked at me and said, "Vicodin." I nodded and resumed my Sukodu game.) Then, the doc and one attendant proceeded to pop Mom's titanium hip back into it's artificial socket, and then strapped on the big ole' velcro/plastic half-body brace that Mom is now commanded to wear ALL THE TIME.

Sometimes I think it's probably a good thing that half of Mom's brain has been chewed away by dementia and that she's oblivious to practically everything. Otherwise, she'd be a complete lunatic at having to wear that contraption 24/7. Case in point, that time when she was in rehab after her back operation (the one that originally got me to move up here six years ago), and before the dementia really took its toll. Mom, as I don't think I have mentioned, is very particular/stubborn about certain things--what she eats, what she wears, how things should be cooked, etc. Well, she didn't like the food at the rehab place at all. I mean. NOT at all. In fact, she didn't like rehab. My brother and I were visiting her one afternoon. Honestly, for as long as I can remember, I have no memory of my mother ever swearing. But that afternoon, Mom was pretty fed up with rehab, the food, the staff, and basically everything having to do with the fact that she wasn't in her own home. Oh the words flying out of her mouth! I, and every other sailor in the universe, and my brother...we all blushed. It was embarrassing and entertaining all at the same time.

Anyway.......so Mom has this big ole' brace that she was to wear now... indefinitely. All day. All night. And I'm just holding my breath...."bracing" as it were......... for the day, the afternoon, the morning, when Mom breaks through the dementia and decides she's had enough of The Brace. (Sailors be warned.)

Oh and one more thing. Dad slept through the whole thing.

Pop Goes The....

Tonight I had intended on writing about Dad's current obsession/fascination with The Olympic Games in Vancouver. But that's going to have to wait.

I came home tonight, wasn't here five minutes when Mom started calling for help. Turns out she dislocated her hip, again. (This is the third time.) Called 911. EMTs guys came.

Emily (the bulldog) was sooooo excited because she completely believed they came to play with her. She loves the EMT guys.

Anyway, EMT guys loaded Mom onto a gurney and left about two minutes ago.

On my way to the ER as soon as I post this.

Stay tuned.

Dad wants a dog. Part 3

Yep. There's more.

I got up early Thursday morning because Thursday is the day I reserve for appointments and errands. Mom's hair appointment, her manicure, various and assorted doc appointments, trip to CostCo, Safeway, Sunny Farms, etc.

Thursday is basically Mom and Dad day. Gets them out of the house, change of scenery, people to talk to, sensory stimulation.

So anyway, I get up, get dressed, do my morning yoga, collect my thoughts, remind myself that it's Thursday, then head for the kitchen for morning chores and to go over the shopping list, which sets on the kitchen counter, in front of the fruit (or as Dad calls it "fruitta") bowl, with the designated "shopping list pen" (Dad has a thing about pens) on top of it.

I glance down the list which reads as follows:

bananas (The second "n" has one of those little wiggly things over it, like it's supposed to be pronounced with an "ny" sound, as in "bana-nyas". None of us understand why Dad does this. He doesn't say "bananyas", he just spells it that way.)

milk 2%

eggs

fruitta (cuz, as I mentioned, Dad loves to call fruit "fruitta")

cottage cheese

"puppy dog"

Tropicana OJ

whole grain bread

WHAT?!

Yeah. Dad actually wrote "puppy dog" (and he wrote it in quotes too, which means I don't even know what) on the shopping list, which he KNOWS I check every Thursday, which he KNOWS I tear off and take to the store with me after I check it every Thursday. In short, he KNOWS I will see that, along with juice and bananyas, he would like me to also pick up a dog when I go to the store!

So I'm guessing Dad thought he'd just sneak "puppy dog" into the list, hoping.....what?......that I'd just skim down the list, item by item, purchase each thing as I go up and down the aisles, throw a loose puppy into the shopping cart and not notice??? My Dad has the most wicked sense of humor sometimes.

I shake my head. I tear off the list. I fold it.

Can't wait for Part 4.

Dad Still Wants a Dog: Part 2

Today is the day the adoption-ready dogs were being brought to Sequim. Today is the day Dad wanted to go to see the adoption-ready dogs.......to bring one home.
Except I said no. And that was the end of that conversation.

But that was then.

Today--this morning to be exact--Dad wheeled into the office, sat down, moved close, and said, "Maybe we could go over and just LOOK at the dogs....."

I sat. I looked at him.

And he looked back at me.

And both of us just sat there looking at each other.

Then Dad said, "I know. Bad idea." Then he got up and wheeled out.

I still hadn't said anything. Never said a word.

But...........it sure felt like I had...

Amy's Tamale and Rice

Dad: (as I pass through the living room) Hey!
Me: What!? (as I backtrack to see what he wants)
Dad: What was that...that you had for dinner last night?
Me: Tamale and rice?
("Amy's Tamale and Rice"..........very good. Highly recommended. I had picked up two at the store last week. I was short on time for dinner the night before and popped one into the microwave. Dad came into the kitchen just as I was taking it out. He's a sucker for anything with an aroma, and it was all I could do to keep him from sticking a fork into my tamale and "sampling" half of it.)
Dad: Yeahhhh! Tamale! Are there any more?
(He asks this with so much expectation! Picture a kid who's just been given a great big present. The kid looks at the great big present and says, "What?! Golly Gee! You mean it's for MEEEEE?????!!!")
(I briefly contemplate lying to him....telling him, "nope Dad, sorry, that was the last one" because, in fact, there IS one more "Amy's Tamale and Rice", in the freezer in the garage, but only one more and I was going to have tomorrow night. Sooooooo................. To lie............ or not to lie.....)
Me: Yep. There's one more. (dang I'm such a pushover.)
Dad: There is?! I looked for more in the garage but I couldn't find any.
(Note regarding why Dad was unable to find "Amy's Tamale and Rice" in the garage freezer: This is because, as my brothers and I have discovered, if there are certain food items you want to make sure you have when you want them, you MUST hide them from Dad. Why? Because when Dad is in forage mode, he consumes whatever he finds. Seriously.)
Me: Yeah there's one more. I'll bring it in. (I head to the garage to relocate "Amy's Tamale and Rice" to the house freezer. Relocation complete, I return to Dad in his chair.)
Me: Okay, it's in the freezer.
Dad: What? There's a disagreement?
Me: No. I put it in the freezer.
Dad: You have a disagreement? Who do you have a disagreement with?!
Me: No! Dad! I put. The tamale. In the FREEZER.
Dad: Ohhhh! It's in the freezer?
Me: Yeahhhh!
Dad: Ohhhhh! Thank you! Oh boy! I'm going to have it tonight!! (and there's that look of expectation again....)
Me: Allrighty then. Enjoy it.

A Very Old Man and the Dog He Doesn't Have But Wants to Adopt

Dad's at it again.

Wheeled into my office this afternoon, little smile on his face, sat down on his walker seat (always a sign that a major conversation is about to ensue), then made his pitch. Again.

"You know that pet food store over on Hooker Rd?"

"eeeeyup."

"Well..........they're bringing over a bunch of dogs for adoption, Wednesday, 10-3pm."

Pause as Dad looks at me with that "Oh come on Mom can't I pleeeeeez get a puppy????" look on his face.

Then he says, expectantly of course, "What do you think?"

I take his hand. I know he'll really listen if I'm holding his hand. "Here's the deal Dad. If we knew for a fact that you were going to be around, and healthy, and mobile, for another 10 years, it would be a great idea."

Then the reality-check washes over his face and I feel like I just single-handedly killed Dad's adopted dog that doesn't even exist. He gets up to exit my office. "Yeah. You're right. Bad idea."

But I stop him before he turns completely and leaves the office. "No it's not a BAD idea. It's just...."

"Not workable."

And I rest my hand on his shoulder, "Yea."

As he disappears out the office door, "Okay."

It's weird being a parent to your parents.

Cow-Socks and Stride-Rites

I'm not a betting person. But if I were, you can be sure I'd put good money on the chances that at some point, on some day, my mother is going to walk out of this house without a stitch of clothing on except her little socks with the cows on them, and her Stride-Rite shoes. Bet on it. She came very close to it yesterday.

Mom frequently has days when she's, well, a little out of sorts. Her synapses seem to take the longest path possible, if they take any path at all. And that's on a good day. On her "off" days, nothing seems to fall into place for her--emotionally, mentally, physically. Some "off" days are worse than others. In any case, Dad and I and the aides just do the best we can when it happens.

Yesterday......Mom was having a "sort of off" day. I was working in the office (which is next to her bedroom), she was in her room getting dressed (I thought). I could hear her whining and whimpering a little more than usual (one clue that an "off" day is in the making), so I rather expected she might need help at some point. I was right. It wasn't long before I heard, "Deni-i-i-ise."

I popped up and went in to see what Mom needed. She was sitting in her chair, still in her nightgown and robe. I said, "What's the problem Mom?" She said, "I made it."

I had no idea what she meant. This isn't really new. Mom frequently says things that make absolutely no logical sense. And if you try to work with her to find the logic, she often forgets why she said what she said in the first place. So we generally ignore the first what-did-she-just-say-comment, figuring that if it's really important, she'll say it again. It's proven to be a fairly effective strategy. My guess, in this case, is that "I made it" meant that she made it into her chair. Just a guess.

Anyway, I asked if she needed anything and she said, "No" so I went back to work.

About two minutes later, "Deni-i-i-i-i-se!"

Up I pop.

In I go.

This time, no nightgown, no robe. Just socks (the ones with the little cow faces on them) and her Stride-Rites. And just as I'm bending down to pick up her robe and nightgown, she says, "I need a Depends." And just as I'm straightening up to turn to her to ask if she'd like me to go get her one, she's gone! Without her walker! Toddling down the hallway in her socks and her Stride-Rites doing a good 3mph! Did I mention she didn't have her walker???!!! Arrrrghh!

So Mom has made it to the end of the hall when I call to her like an old barn-shy horse, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Of course she doesn't stop. I run down the hall and physically stop her by grabbing her shoulders and say, "Where are you going???"

And, of course, innocently, she says, "I'm going to the garage to get a Depends."

oy.

So I turn her chubby little 5' frame around by the shoulders, chiding and scolding her, as we head back to her bedroom. "First of all Mom, you're naked. Second of all, you don't have your walker!"

She only responds with, "ohhhh."

I help her get dressed, the day proceeds.

Now I understand those crazy stories I read in the paper about old people wandering around outside with no clothes on. If you see a story about an 89 year old woman in Sequim, check twice. If cow-socks and Stride-Rites are involved, it may very well be my mother.