Monday, June 5, 2006
My template is, finally, almost the way I want it.
I notice that links in lists are a little strange; wrong font and too big. But, I'm working on that and I'm tired of thinking in CSS, at the moment.
Day before yesterday we had an interesting "Who Am I?", as in the podcast, incident. If you've listened to the podcast you know that Mom finally came around to a semblance of who I really am and how long I've been around (in the world), as well as my relationship to her. No such luck, though, during this most recent incident.
It began, as these incidents usually begin, after she slept, this time, a nap. "I've been thinking," she said, "did the folks ever contact that man about [Mom's brother's] accident?"
As usual, although I had an idea to what she was referring, I asked questions in order to make sure she and I were in the same "Zone". "You mean your folks?"
"Well, yes." She was surprised I asked.
"The 'man' you're wondering if they contacted. Would this have been an insurance man?"
"Well, sort of," she said, struggling to identify him exactly.
"So, what you're telling me is that someone, a company or a person, might have been liable for [your brother's] accident."
"Oh! Yes!"
"I thought it happened on your farm and he was doing a family chore. Am I wrong about that?"
Mom looked at me as though I was the one with dementia. "Well, I'm sure you know this," she said, "but I'll remind you. He was working with that group of men."
"A group of men who worked on other's people's farms?"
She was becoming irritated. I noticed a "How could you be so stupid" look creeping over her face. "Yes! Yes! You know!"
"And they brought their own machinery."
"Well, it belonged to the man who hired them."
"What kind of a machine was it, exactly, that injured [your brother]?"
"A thresher."
"And," I was trying hard to remain patiently stupid so as to get all the information I needed, "what exactly happened?"
"I don't need to tell you that. You probably remember it better than me!"
"Why would I?"
Fairly shouting, now, "Because you were there!"
"Well, just for the sake of argument, would you please refresh my memory?"
An exasperated sigh. "He fell into the thresher."
"And the thresher was owned by someone else and he was working for someone other than your family."
"I don't know why you can't remember this. It's as clear as day to me!"
I love it when my mother decides I'm the demented one. It means I'm doing my job well. "Okay. So, apparently, your folks were supposed to talk to someone about the accident. In order to get compensation for the medical bills?"
"Yes..." she was thinking hard, bringing things back she hadn't considered for a long time, "they were supposed to, but I don't know if they ever did. That's what I want to know. You were the one who talked to them about it."
Now, I figured, it was time to bring in a little reality, to see if I could get some more information from her. "Well, no, Mom, that wasn't me. I wasn't around then."
"Yes you were. You badgered them about talking to this man."
"That wasn't me, Mom. I wasn't even a gleam in your eye. Was it someone on [her brother's] work crew?"
Her expression told me she thought I was teasing her. "You were there, all right. You were on the crew."
"Mom, I couldn't've been. I'm your daughter."
Agitated, now. "I know who you are! And you were there!"
"Okay. Let's sort this out. It wasn't me who talked to your folks about contacting someone about insurance compensation, but apparently it was someone who reminds you of me. Was it a woman?" Best guess, you know, and, anyway, if it was a woman there were much fewer women in her family to suggest than men.
"No...it was a man."
"Mom, look at me." I was jutting out my breasts with my hands. "Aside from the fact that I wasn't born yet, even if I had been there, it couldn't have been me talking to them because I'm not a man."
She was both surprised and amused. "I see that. Well, it was you. I'm sure of that."
"This is what I'm thinking, Mom. It must have been someone who was very like me, someone who would badger Grandma and Grandpa about going after what was due them. Who, among your relatives, was like that?"
She gave this some consideration. "You're the only one, I think."
Whew. Well, this was getting weird. I decided to switch tracks. "Mom, who am I?"
She looked as though I was trying to trick her. "I know who you are all right, but, do you?"
I laughed. So did she. "Well, I think I do," I said, "but, you know, maybe I don't. Just for fun, tell me who I am."
She chuckled. "Your...let me think. My daughter."
"Which one?"
"You're certainly having a problem today, aren't you!"
"Come on, Mom, humor me. Which daughter am I?"
"Gail, of course!"
"And, will you concede that you gave birth to me long after [your brother's] accident happened?"
"Oh, yes. And you were such a cute baby, and so easy."
"Well, Mom, in that case, I obviously wasn't there." She made to interrupt me but I kept going, "I wish I could tell you what happened regarding the folks getting compensation..."
This time, her interruption was successful, "I don't think they ever did. Such a shame. We could have used the money."
"...I'm sure you could have. But, anyway, I truly don't know what happened, I really wasn't there. If I had been there, why would I refuse to tell you?"
I meant this as a rhetorical question but she answered, "I don't know. But, you were there. I remember. Clearly."
"So, you're saying I'm lying to you. Why would I do that?"
This is the question that always trips her up. "Well, I don't know. Why would you? Maybe you don't remember things as well as I think you do."
Oooh. She'd never before responded like this. "Hmmm...that's probably the case. Looks like we're in trouble, since neither of us is remembering anything very well, huh."
She laughed. I joined in. "We seem to be doing all right."
"I agree. I think we're doing just fine. Let's figure, if we don't remember it, it isn't important." This is a famous, long time bit of automatic wisdom of hers.
"I'm with you there."
A curious sidebar: Some decades ago, one of my sisters divulged to me that she thought of me as a man. I can't remember if it was in the context of a sleep dream or for some other reason, but I thought this was so funny that I began referring to myself as "Bob Green", "Green" and variations thereof being one of my two common nicknames for years. In a short lived family newsletter I published when I lived in Seattle, Bob Green became my alter ego and wrote a column on food and household tips.
Anyway, I applied myself to further thought about this later in the day. Although no one would mistake me physically for a man, perhaps there are certain "mannish" qualities about me: My insistence on (and need for) a solitary life, my insistence on making sure what I need to do is somehow what I want to do...a sort of "lone bachelor wolf" quality that informs everything else that I am. Maybe the demented, if they are still in the stages where they are aware of and reading others, are quicker to pick up on people's intrinsic identities than who their physical accoutrements (including but not limited to such things as appearance, style of dress, name and public persona) advertise them to be. We humans are creatures who live more in anticipation than actuality and we love the masquerade to the point of confusing ourselves and others with the costume. Wouldn't it be interesting if we discovered that one of the hallmarks of dementia is that in this state, finally, we discard noticing the act in favor of noticing the actor?
Day before yesterday we had an interesting "Who Am I?", as in the podcast, incident. If you've listened to the podcast you know that Mom finally came around to a semblance of who I really am and how long I've been around (in the world), as well as my relationship to her. No such luck, though, during this most recent incident.
It began, as these incidents usually begin, after she slept, this time, a nap. "I've been thinking," she said, "did the folks ever contact that man about [Mom's brother's] accident?"
As usual, although I had an idea to what she was referring, I asked questions in order to make sure she and I were in the same "Zone". "You mean your folks?"
"Well, yes." She was surprised I asked.
"The 'man' you're wondering if they contacted. Would this have been an insurance man?"
"Well, sort of," she said, struggling to identify him exactly.
"So, what you're telling me is that someone, a company or a person, might have been liable for [your brother's] accident."
"Oh! Yes!"
"I thought it happened on your farm and he was doing a family chore. Am I wrong about that?"
Mom looked at me as though I was the one with dementia. "Well, I'm sure you know this," she said, "but I'll remind you. He was working with that group of men."
"A group of men who worked on other's people's farms?"
She was becoming irritated. I noticed a "How could you be so stupid" look creeping over her face. "Yes! Yes! You know!"
"And they brought their own machinery."
"Well, it belonged to the man who hired them."
"What kind of a machine was it, exactly, that injured [your brother]?"
"A thresher."
"And," I was trying hard to remain patiently stupid so as to get all the information I needed, "what exactly happened?"
"I don't need to tell you that. You probably remember it better than me!"
"Why would I?"
Fairly shouting, now, "Because you were there!"
"Well, just for the sake of argument, would you please refresh my memory?"
An exasperated sigh. "He fell into the thresher."
"And the thresher was owned by someone else and he was working for someone other than your family."
"I don't know why you can't remember this. It's as clear as day to me!"
I love it when my mother decides I'm the demented one. It means I'm doing my job well. "Okay. So, apparently, your folks were supposed to talk to someone about the accident. In order to get compensation for the medical bills?"
"Yes..." she was thinking hard, bringing things back she hadn't considered for a long time, "they were supposed to, but I don't know if they ever did. That's what I want to know. You were the one who talked to them about it."
Now, I figured, it was time to bring in a little reality, to see if I could get some more information from her. "Well, no, Mom, that wasn't me. I wasn't around then."
"Yes you were. You badgered them about talking to this man."
"That wasn't me, Mom. I wasn't even a gleam in your eye. Was it someone on [her brother's] work crew?"
Her expression told me she thought I was teasing her. "You were there, all right. You were on the crew."
"Mom, I couldn't've been. I'm your daughter."
Agitated, now. "I know who you are! And you were there!"
"Okay. Let's sort this out. It wasn't me who talked to your folks about contacting someone about insurance compensation, but apparently it was someone who reminds you of me. Was it a woman?" Best guess, you know, and, anyway, if it was a woman there were much fewer women in her family to suggest than men.
"No...it was a man."
"Mom, look at me." I was jutting out my breasts with my hands. "Aside from the fact that I wasn't born yet, even if I had been there, it couldn't have been me talking to them because I'm not a man."
She was both surprised and amused. "I see that. Well, it was you. I'm sure of that."
"This is what I'm thinking, Mom. It must have been someone who was very like me, someone who would badger Grandma and Grandpa about going after what was due them. Who, among your relatives, was like that?"
She gave this some consideration. "You're the only one, I think."
Whew. Well, this was getting weird. I decided to switch tracks. "Mom, who am I?"
She looked as though I was trying to trick her. "I know who you are all right, but, do you?"
I laughed. So did she. "Well, I think I do," I said, "but, you know, maybe I don't. Just for fun, tell me who I am."
She chuckled. "Your...let me think. My daughter."
"Which one?"
"You're certainly having a problem today, aren't you!"
"Come on, Mom, humor me. Which daughter am I?"
"Gail, of course!"
"And, will you concede that you gave birth to me long after [your brother's] accident happened?"
"Oh, yes. And you were such a cute baby, and so easy."
"Well, Mom, in that case, I obviously wasn't there." She made to interrupt me but I kept going, "I wish I could tell you what happened regarding the folks getting compensation..."
This time, her interruption was successful, "I don't think they ever did. Such a shame. We could have used the money."
"...I'm sure you could have. But, anyway, I truly don't know what happened, I really wasn't there. If I had been there, why would I refuse to tell you?"
I meant this as a rhetorical question but she answered, "I don't know. But, you were there. I remember. Clearly."
"So, you're saying I'm lying to you. Why would I do that?"
This is the question that always trips her up. "Well, I don't know. Why would you? Maybe you don't remember things as well as I think you do."
Oooh. She'd never before responded like this. "Hmmm...that's probably the case. Looks like we're in trouble, since neither of us is remembering anything very well, huh."
She laughed. I joined in. "We seem to be doing all right."
"I agree. I think we're doing just fine. Let's figure, if we don't remember it, it isn't important." This is a famous, long time bit of automatic wisdom of hers.
"I'm with you there."
A curious sidebar: Some decades ago, one of my sisters divulged to me that she thought of me as a man. I can't remember if it was in the context of a sleep dream or for some other reason, but I thought this was so funny that I began referring to myself as "Bob Green", "Green" and variations thereof being one of my two common nicknames for years. In a short lived family newsletter I published when I lived in Seattle, Bob Green became my alter ego and wrote a column on food and household tips.
Anyway, I applied myself to further thought about this later in the day. Although no one would mistake me physically for a man, perhaps there are certain "mannish" qualities about me: My insistence on (and need for) a solitary life, my insistence on making sure what I need to do is somehow what I want to do...a sort of "lone bachelor wolf" quality that informs everything else that I am. Maybe the demented, if they are still in the stages where they are aware of and reading others, are quicker to pick up on people's intrinsic identities than who their physical accoutrements (including but not limited to such things as appearance, style of dress, name and public persona) advertise them to be. We humans are creatures who live more in anticipation than actuality and we love the masquerade to the point of confusing ourselves and others with the costume. Wouldn't it be interesting if we discovered that one of the hallmarks of dementia is that in this state, finally, we discard noticing the act in favor of noticing the actor?
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originally posted by Deb Peterson: Tue Jun 06, 04:14:00 PM 2006
Gail--What an interesting idea. I do think that there is a method to their so-called madness. I think I mentioned in one of my blog posts that I've noticed that my mother finds patterns in things--she's always looking at clouds or shadows and seeing animals or faces. I don't remember her doing that much before. So maybe your Mom looks at you and because the primary connections are not always made, she sees beyond them to still significant features or gestures. I've had many "I'm your daughter" conversations with my mother. When I'm with her, she often thinks I'm her older sister. But I've overheard her referring to something I've done as something "Dad" or "Hank" (my father) has done.
We had a long discussion one night that was very similar to the conversation you write about here, only she was confusing my cousin Bob (of the impending wedding) with a boy named Bob that she knew when she was a girl. I think of it because the Bob of her childhood died of kidney disease when he was about fifteen. Now your Mom's brother didn't die of the accident (did he?) but that must have been a traumatic experience for her at the time, just as the death of my mother's friend was for her when she was a girl. In some way, both are bringing this traumatic event into the present, still trying to reconcile it with what's happening now. It's interesting to explain to others that my mother always recognizes me, but she doesn't always recognize me as her daughter!
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Gail--What an interesting idea. I do think that there is a method to their so-called madness. I think I mentioned in one of my blog posts that I've noticed that my mother finds patterns in things--she's always looking at clouds or shadows and seeing animals or faces. I don't remember her doing that much before. So maybe your Mom looks at you and because the primary connections are not always made, she sees beyond them to still significant features or gestures. I've had many "I'm your daughter" conversations with my mother. When I'm with her, she often thinks I'm her older sister. But I've overheard her referring to something I've done as something "Dad" or "Hank" (my father) has done.
We had a long discussion one night that was very similar to the conversation you write about here, only she was confusing my cousin Bob (of the impending wedding) with a boy named Bob that she knew when she was a girl. I think of it because the Bob of her childhood died of kidney disease when he was about fifteen. Now your Mom's brother didn't die of the accident (did he?) but that must have been a traumatic experience for her at the time, just as the death of my mother's friend was for her when she was a girl. In some way, both are bringing this traumatic event into the present, still trying to reconcile it with what's happening now. It's interesting to explain to others that my mother always recognizes me, but she doesn't always recognize me as her daughter!
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