Sauvignon Blanc

I don't even know where to begin.

So I'll begin with Dad pouring me a glass of wine. Remember, I don't drink. But, you know, there are moments when it just seems like the perfect thing to do. So I did.

Then Dad and I toasted each other, "Happy Holidays! Bon Vivre! Lacheim! A votre vivre!" All of those toasts. It had been a long day. Mom, in a downward turn of depression most of the day, had exhausted both of us, the Home Health aide, the housecleaner, AND the pedicurist. I was so verklempt I left to "run errands" and came back with ingredients to make turkey soup with the leftover turkey.

The soup was simmering as Dad and I clinked our glasses of sauvignon blanc. Then we started talking about Christmas and I reminded him that I was going to be gone for Christmas (I'm going to Birmingham December 22-28 to spend Christmas with my son, his wife, my first granddaughter, my nephew and his family, and my daughter. My first Christmas, except for one, away from my parents since I moved here.). Of course, Dad had forgotten that I was going. I expected that. So did he actually. I reminded him again, and he was fine with that.

But.......the trouble started because Mom overheard the conversation from the living room and instantly plummeted into a full-blown anxiety attack as soon as she heard that I was going to be gone for Christmas.

She yelled. She wailed. She whined. She complained. She even threw her glasses on the floor.

Here's the fundamental difference between my mom and my dad. When I reminded Dad that I was going to Birmingham to spend Christmas with family, his immediate response, "GREAT! I think that's wonderful that you're going to spend Christmas with everyone! "

Mom's response? Well, it was along the lines of, "I DON'T THINK THAT'S FAIR! SHE SHOULDN'T BE LEAVING US!"

About that time, still in the kitchen (resisting the urge to go into the living room and face my mother's wrath), I poured my second glass of Sauvignon Blanc. (Funny how it tasted even better the second time.) Dad wheeled into the living room to deal with Mom's tantrum.

Then Dad kind of ripped into Mom telling her, "I think that's very inconsiderate of you Patreesha. Denise deserves to have her own life. You should be happy that she's able to go spend Christmas with everyone." (Picture me toasting Dad, in the air, from the kitchen.)

But the real fun didn't start until Mom wheeled into the kitchen to "give me a piece of her mind." Now remember, I have two glasses of wine in me when she finally decides to come into the kitchen and pour out her wrath in my general direction. And remember.......I don't drink. Also remember, Mom has dementia in a really big way so it takes her.........a looooooong time to say anything. And most of the time, WHAT she is able to say, doesn't even make sense. Here's the gist of what she laid on me: She thought it was downright wrong of me to leave and if she and Dad couldn't go to Birmingham with me (a logistical impossibility--think of the bathroom issue), then I should stay home with them.

Then she tried the guilt trip, "I can't believe you would leave us like that."

Then she tried the super-guilt trip, "I'm going to commit suicide."

Let me just say........I'm not an advocate of "the drink." But it's amazing the assertiveness one gains after two glasses of wine.

So......to the guilt trip ploy I said, "Well Mom, I AM leaving, for five days. And you will be in splendid hands while I'm gone. And I will take lots of pictures of everyone and show you all of them when I get back. "

And......to the super-guilt trip ploy I said, "Really Mom? How exactly areya gonna do that? And even if you did Mom, then you'd miss seeing all the pictures of everyone that I'm going to bring back! Why would you wanna do that?!"

Then........I swear on a stack of bibles...........my mother who, just minutes previously had read me the riot act for having the gall to abandon her over Christmas, looked at me with her sunken eyes and overly-medicated stare and said, "What should Dad and I have for Christmas dinner?"

And I said, "Would you like to plan the Christmas dinner for you and Dad?"

And she said, "Yeeeeees."

And I said, "I think that would be lovely Mom. You can plan the dinner, I'll have it all ready for Dad to warm up, and you can spend a wonderful, romantic Christmas dinner with the man you have spent the last 65 years with. "

"67," she quickly corrected me.

"OK! Sixty-seven years then! Even better!" I said.

"I like that idea," she said.

"Me too," I said.........looking for my glass of wine.

Black Mules

I'm not a chatty person.

In fact, I've found that in the last year, I've become less and less chatty. It's not that I don't have anything to say. I just prefer to listen. Especially with my parents.

Used to be, whenever I had to drive Dad to an appointment, or to CostCo, I'd make a point of controlling the conversation just to keep him away from the three deadly topics--religion, politics, and money.

But lately, I just get in the car and clam up. If Dad goes off on one of his religious or political rants, I simply listen, and maybe toss out a "yep" or a "right" every now and then. It's either that or end up screaming at him, not out of anger, but because that's the only way he can hear anymore. If I say something once, he'll say, "WHAT?" almost immediately, then I'll say it louder, and he'll say almost immediately again, "WHAT"! and then I just out and out yell whatever I said at him.

Kinda takes away the enjoyment of a good conversation.

Anyway, Dad had an appointment with the hearing aid specialist at CostCo this afternoon. Mom chose to stay home (after changing her mind three times).

Dad and I climbed into the jeep and set off on our way, about a ten minute drive, to CostCo. In keeping with my current trend, there was no conversation except for Dad's intermittent banging on the dashboard--his signal that he wants the heat turned up. Real subtle.

Then we passed by the big field where there is almost always a group of horses, mules, and brown and white cows grazing and roaming.

As we pass, Dad blurts out, "BLACK ANGUS! Look at those beautiful black angus! Those are black angus! Did you see those beautiful black angus??" He whacks me across the right upper arm with his left hand. (He does this all the time when he wants to punctuate a point. He thinks it's funny. And it is. The first time.)

And the thing is, the creatures he thinks are black angus......are mules. And since I'm feeling belligerent, I say, "No, those are mules."

"MULES!?" Dad recoils, appalled, unbelieving. "What do you mean MULES?!"

"Those are mules, Dad, not black angus." I'm calm, matter-of-fact, slightly smart-alecky.

"Why are they so black?" Dad's challenging me now. He does that a lot. Dad loves to press my buttons. He knows I prefer not to talk, so he needles me to make me do exactly what I don't want to do.

"They're BLACK mules." It's the best I can come up with.

Dad is silent.

We continue on, down Hendrickson Road, then I turn up Priest Road, which just happens to have a field on it where three big black angus steers are grazing.

I point them out to Dad, "THOSE are black angus." I'm smug. I'm a smart-ass. But it's been a long week trying to get Mom stable and I'm tired and not feeling very patient. Smart-ass is the best I can do. More importantly, I forget how well my father knows me. He may be 94, and stubborn, and belligerent, but dang if he isn't incredibly quick some times. This was one of those times.

As soon as I proudly point out the three black angus to him, he immediately comes back with, "Nah, those are black mules."

Smart aleck.

She's Back

The Mom of Monday morning is a welcomed relief from the Mom of last week. Both Dad and I are buoyed at not having to put out any Mom-fires this morning.

Dad has a hearing-aid appointment at 12:30 today. Mom says she wants to come along.

Great!

Mom asks me to come in and help her pick out something to wear.

Great!

I tell her I'll be in as soon as I finish what I'm doing (which, I kid you not, was writing the previous blog).

Great!

I try to wrap up the blog post. No more than two minutes pass. And yet.......it comes. The anxious breathing from the next room. The random whimpers.

Great.

I keeping tapping away ferociously on the keyboard so I can get into Mom's room before the anxiety that seems to be mounting completely takes her over and ruins what is, so far, a really, really good day.

Too late. Two minutes was clearly too much time.

I post the blog.

I turn to get out of my office chair.

And there she is, standing in my doorway, clothed in only a Depends (Large/Moderate Absorbency), her hip brace, her shoes, and her foot brace. Oh yeah, and her walker.

"Did.......yyyyyyyyou..........forget.......meeee?"

Damn those aliens.

Every Morning's Another Day...Or Another Mother

"When what to my wondering eyes should appear"............(when I came in to Mom's bedroom at 9am to see if she was still asleep).....but my mother, propped comfortably, contentedly even, up in her bed, glasses on, reading the new Julie Andrews book (which has been lying on Mom's bed, unread, untouched, and ignored for months).

I stopped in the doorway. I mean, imagine my surprise. Every morning for the past week, Mom's morning has begun with confusion, anxiety, and incoherence. The woman lying so casually on her bed now, was.....well, it was a little odd to see.

Mom looked up briefly from her book and said casually to me (normally....as if this is how she starts every morning), "Well good morning! How are you?"

So.....my question is.........what devious alien kidnapped my dementia-ridden mother during the night and replaced her with a lucid one?

And.......can I keep this one?

Shrinkage

And for the record: I noticed this morning, when I was walking behind Mom into the dining room, that she is significantly shorter than she was two weeks ago, before I went to NYC.

Two weeks.

People can shrink in two weeks?

You know what it makes me think of? (And I'm certain this is NOT a new idea. Just new to me.) It makes me think of the fetal position, and how we start out in that position, become more and more upright as we mature, then become more and more "down-right" as we age and sort of revert back to the fetal position.

I love it when life hits you square in the face one of those "full circle" things.

"Foosey!"

Clearly Mom's on a roll today. She just wheeled into my office and declared clearly and loudly, "I'm a foosey!" (Of course, I knew she meant to say 'floozy', which is why I nearly choked on my T'giving leftovers.).

I asked her why she thought she was a "foosey".

She said, "Because I can't figure out how to make the TV guide work."
So, excuse me now while I go and explain to my mother: 1. The definition of floozy; and 2. How the TV guide works.

Guess I'll finish my leftovers later.

Short Circuit

Okay so my mother, who has been unable to piece together more than two words in the last week (and that is NOT an exaggeration), weebled herself over to the glass doors just now, gazed out at the early morning sun and snow-covered mountains, and then blurted out "LOOK-AT-THE-BEAUTIFUL-SUNSHINE-ON-THE-MOUNTAINS!!!!"
Scared the crap out of me.