Monday, June 19, 2006
"You look good today! I think we'll resume walkering."
Whereupon, my mother displayed her best comic impression of infirmity and illness. But I don't think she means it, today, so after she finishes her leisurely breakfast we'll take the walker out for a driveway spin. Maybe two laps today, who knows.
We also, earlier had an interesting, civilized confrontation over shelving. My mother suddenly noticed the amount and variety of items I keep handy on the vanity area to the left of "her" bathroom sink. Staring at the disarray she said, "I was just thinking..." this always means she's thinking of some sort of organizational alteration... "we should put shelves over the back of the toilet," she twists herself to indicate the empty wall behind her, "so we can get rid of all those things on the sink. I'll bet you don't even remember what they are."
Au contraire. We use all of them every day. They wouldn't be there if we didn't. I remind her of this.
"Wouldn't you like them out of the way, though, when you're not using them?"
I laughed. "Mom, you're the shelf person. I'm the 'leave it there, I use it' person. If you were keeping house you could have it your way. I'm keeping house, though, so I get to do it my way."
She started at the assertion that she's no longer her own housekeeper.
I could see a more entrenched argument coming, so I headed it off with, "Mom, since I'd have to be reaching behind you constantly throughout your bathing in order to access those items, it may look better to shelve them but it works better for me to have them just a few inches away."
"Oh," she said, nodding considerately. "I never thought of that. But, what about when I bathe myself?"
I grinned, patted her face gently on both cheeks and kissed her forehead. "My dear," I said, "I don't think that'll be happening, anymore. Look at it this way. Monarchs and Mandarins used to have the luxury of having royal bathers. You've reached their level of importance. You, now have a bather of your own."
She straightened and primped on the toilet. "Oh, my! Maybe we should hire a staff to handle my entire life, then!"
I had to laugh again. "Mom," I said, "I'm your staff."
Some minutes later, while she was applying lotion to her arms and dressing on her own in the bathroom and I was setting up breakfast, I was thinking about how I am, indeed, a one person staff...shades of I Can't Get It for You Wholesale, about which I continually forget...but, even more startling, forget about employed staffs of people, I am, literally, the staff, as in steadying implement, upon which her life leans. "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." And, as is the nature of staffs, if they are handy and reliable, they usually become an unnoticed source strength. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Not bitter, really, but not complimented, either. Observant. Cool-headed. Wondering what is the typical fate of discarded staffs.
Anyway, quickly, before I seize the moment and move my mother out to the driveway, I want to mention yet another caregiver blog. I know, I never thought I'd find yet another literate, readable absolutely sensical blog about caregiving, simply because I don't look for them. But, the author of The Yellow Wallpaper does and, trusting her taste in these matters, I've been checking out her links. I just this morning finished reading through Dementia Blues. It journalizes the experiences of a partnered daughter taking care of her demented, frail parents as a sensitive, extremely concerned, live-out caregiver. It's sharp; perceptive; outspoken. As she mentions, as well, I believe Dementia Blues and The Yellow Wallpaper represent the larger caregiving experience in this nation than mine does. My situation, as I've mentioned before, is a fluke. The situations of the above two authors, I'm sure, is extremely representative of boomer caregiving to our Ancient Ones. As such, they both, I think, have more day-to-day relevance for other caregivers than my journal and are definitely more approachable from a word-count standpoint. I, once again, highly recommend Dementia Blues and will be expanding my out-links to include this journal.
I'm not discounting the value of my own journal but I think, the value of mine runs more along the lines of, say, the documentation of an entolmologist minutely recording, minute to minute, the lives of insects; extremely valuable in the long run, fairly boring in the short run, not to mention completely unrepresentative of the relationships most of us have with insects.
My mother calls from the bathroom. I'll put up the links...
...later.
We also, earlier had an interesting, civilized confrontation over shelving. My mother suddenly noticed the amount and variety of items I keep handy on the vanity area to the left of "her" bathroom sink. Staring at the disarray she said, "I was just thinking..." this always means she's thinking of some sort of organizational alteration... "we should put shelves over the back of the toilet," she twists herself to indicate the empty wall behind her, "so we can get rid of all those things on the sink. I'll bet you don't even remember what they are."
Au contraire. We use all of them every day. They wouldn't be there if we didn't. I remind her of this.
"Wouldn't you like them out of the way, though, when you're not using them?"
I laughed. "Mom, you're the shelf person. I'm the 'leave it there, I use it' person. If you were keeping house you could have it your way. I'm keeping house, though, so I get to do it my way."
She started at the assertion that she's no longer her own housekeeper.
I could see a more entrenched argument coming, so I headed it off with, "Mom, since I'd have to be reaching behind you constantly throughout your bathing in order to access those items, it may look better to shelve them but it works better for me to have them just a few inches away."
"Oh," she said, nodding considerately. "I never thought of that. But, what about when I bathe myself?"
I grinned, patted her face gently on both cheeks and kissed her forehead. "My dear," I said, "I don't think that'll be happening, anymore. Look at it this way. Monarchs and Mandarins used to have the luxury of having royal bathers. You've reached their level of importance. You, now have a bather of your own."
She straightened and primped on the toilet. "Oh, my! Maybe we should hire a staff to handle my entire life, then!"
I had to laugh again. "Mom," I said, "I'm your staff."
Some minutes later, while she was applying lotion to her arms and dressing on her own in the bathroom and I was setting up breakfast, I was thinking about how I am, indeed, a one person staff...shades of I Can't Get It for You Wholesale, about which I continually forget...but, even more startling, forget about employed staffs of people, I am, literally, the staff, as in steadying implement, upon which her life leans. "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." And, as is the nature of staffs, if they are handy and reliable, they usually become an unnoticed source strength. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Not bitter, really, but not complimented, either. Observant. Cool-headed. Wondering what is the typical fate of discarded staffs.
Anyway, quickly, before I seize the moment and move my mother out to the driveway, I want to mention yet another caregiver blog. I know, I never thought I'd find yet another literate, readable absolutely sensical blog about caregiving, simply because I don't look for them. But, the author of The Yellow Wallpaper does and, trusting her taste in these matters, I've been checking out her links. I just this morning finished reading through Dementia Blues. It journalizes the experiences of a partnered daughter taking care of her demented, frail parents as a sensitive, extremely concerned, live-out caregiver. It's sharp; perceptive; outspoken. As she mentions, as well, I believe Dementia Blues and The Yellow Wallpaper represent the larger caregiving experience in this nation than mine does. My situation, as I've mentioned before, is a fluke. The situations of the above two authors, I'm sure, is extremely representative of boomer caregiving to our Ancient Ones. As such, they both, I think, have more day-to-day relevance for other caregivers than my journal and are definitely more approachable from a word-count standpoint. I, once again, highly recommend Dementia Blues and will be expanding my out-links to include this journal.
I'm not discounting the value of my own journal but I think, the value of mine runs more along the lines of, say, the documentation of an entolmologist minutely recording, minute to minute, the lives of insects; extremely valuable in the long run, fairly boring in the short run, not to mention completely unrepresentative of the relationships most of us have with insects.
My mother calls from the bathroom. I'll put up the links...
...later.
Comments:
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originally posted by Deb Peterson: Mon Jun 19, 06:31:00 PM 2006
Gail--I'm going to borrow this rejoinder the next time my mother wants to put things away! It's funny how opposite to her I am--my cupboards and drawers are pretty tidy, but my bedside table and countertops look like flea market displays. The conversation about shelving between you and your Mom reminded me a little of my mother and her need to make the bed. I probably look far too deeply into these things, but this little bit of household order--I think--is her refusal to capitulate to the aches and pains and difficulties of her life. Who cares if she doesn't make her bed? Well, I would, not because I'm a good housekeeper but because it would signal to me that she'd given up. I'm not sure if your Mom has a running concern with putting things away--but I think having a little turf to protect probably helps her to feel a little more in control.
Now I don't understand why you consider your situation a "fluke." I don't think I'd be as interested in reading your journal if I didn't find my own situation, and then some, in what you write. There are variations in circumstance, but in the end you're telling a classic story, and you're doing it in a funny, honest and loving way. NOT boring, VERY valuable.
Gail--I'm going to borrow this rejoinder the next time my mother wants to put things away! It's funny how opposite to her I am--my cupboards and drawers are pretty tidy, but my bedside table and countertops look like flea market displays. The conversation about shelving between you and your Mom reminded me a little of my mother and her need to make the bed. I probably look far too deeply into these things, but this little bit of household order--I think--is her refusal to capitulate to the aches and pains and difficulties of her life. Who cares if she doesn't make her bed? Well, I would, not because I'm a good housekeeper but because it would signal to me that she'd given up. I'm not sure if your Mom has a running concern with putting things away--but I think having a little turf to protect probably helps her to feel a little more in control.
Now I don't understand why you consider your situation a "fluke." I don't think I'd be as interested in reading your journal if I didn't find my own situation, and then some, in what you write. There are variations in circumstance, but in the end you're telling a classic story, and you're doing it in a funny, honest and loving way. NOT boring, VERY valuable.
originally posted by Paula Martinac: Tue Jun 20, 06:06:00 AM 2006
Hi Gail,
I so identify with the line: "She started at the assertion that she's no longer her own housekeeper." One big reason that my sisters and I have been unable to get my mom to even think about assisted living, where she'd be right across a courtyard from my dad in nursing care, is that she's convinced she still does her own housekeeping. She hasn't cooked for nine months, but insists that she does; and as far as cleaning and laundry, well, let's not even go there. But when we mention that she no longer does any of these things, she screws up her face in a way that say "What are you talking about?"
Thanks for posting at my blog! I discovered yours a while back, but admit to being a rather haphazard commenter.
Hi Gail,
I so identify with the line: "She started at the assertion that she's no longer her own housekeeper." One big reason that my sisters and I have been unable to get my mom to even think about assisted living, where she'd be right across a courtyard from my dad in nursing care, is that she's convinced she still does her own housekeeping. She hasn't cooked for nine months, but insists that she does; and as far as cleaning and laundry, well, let's not even go there. But when we mention that she no longer does any of these things, she screws up her face in a way that say "What are you talking about?"
Thanks for posting at my blog! I discovered yours a while back, but admit to being a rather haphazard commenter.
originally posted by Gail Rae: Tue Jun 20, 01:11:00 PM 2006
Hi, Deb!
I have to respond to your most recent comment "in line". My mother has never been "into" housekeeping. Although she did it, and did it well, for a few years, she transferred as much as possible over to her daughters as soon as they took a childish interest (the only interest possible, from my point of view) in all aspects of housekeeping, including cooking. My father, as well, preferred a well-appointed living quarters and not only kept after us kids but would often, grumbling, reclean the kitchen when one of us had done a sloppy job. I like to say I "inherited" this from her, although she tells me that I actually inherited my completely messy life-style (I actually don't notice dirt unless it's pointed out to me through the real or imagined eyes of visitors) from one of her cousins (still alive and going strong in her 90's) whose housekeeping my mother considers so bad she's said, "You don't even want to walk into their (including the cousin's husband) home." Before I came to live with her, my mother employed a "Merry Maid" service once a week. Even when we were kids, we had someone who came in twice a week to clean and iron (although she was not allowed to clean our bedrooms; we were supposed to be learning how to do this ourselves). So, no, my mother has never had a housekeeping trait that I can hone into to determine whether I need to worry about her. I know I've got other cues upon which I depend, but I can't think of what they are, at the moment. As to bed making, before I started making her bed out of the necessity of having to change sheets and wash it of urinary leakage, she never made her bed, so, once a week, I'd change it out. Otherwise, I actually do a lot more housekeeping here than I ever have, just to keep a negotiable path through the house, make sure visitors don't think we're living in complete squalor (minimum squalor is okay) and maintain a modicum of organization in case I have to get to something, records, or implements, fast.
Come to think of it, maybe my mother's "protective turf" at the moment, anyway, is more figurative than literal. I think it's her sense of her life as her own. When she gets really irritated with me she continues to remind me that, "I got along without you before I [asked you here], I can get along without you now." When she stops doing that, that's when I'll worry!
Hi, Deb!
I have to respond to your most recent comment "in line". My mother has never been "into" housekeeping. Although she did it, and did it well, for a few years, she transferred as much as possible over to her daughters as soon as they took a childish interest (the only interest possible, from my point of view) in all aspects of housekeeping, including cooking. My father, as well, preferred a well-appointed living quarters and not only kept after us kids but would often, grumbling, reclean the kitchen when one of us had done a sloppy job. I like to say I "inherited" this from her, although she tells me that I actually inherited my completely messy life-style (I actually don't notice dirt unless it's pointed out to me through the real or imagined eyes of visitors) from one of her cousins (still alive and going strong in her 90's) whose housekeeping my mother considers so bad she's said, "You don't even want to walk into their (including the cousin's husband) home." Before I came to live with her, my mother employed a "Merry Maid" service once a week. Even when we were kids, we had someone who came in twice a week to clean and iron (although she was not allowed to clean our bedrooms; we were supposed to be learning how to do this ourselves). So, no, my mother has never had a housekeeping trait that I can hone into to determine whether I need to worry about her. I know I've got other cues upon which I depend, but I can't think of what they are, at the moment. As to bed making, before I started making her bed out of the necessity of having to change sheets and wash it of urinary leakage, she never made her bed, so, once a week, I'd change it out. Otherwise, I actually do a lot more housekeeping here than I ever have, just to keep a negotiable path through the house, make sure visitors don't think we're living in complete squalor (minimum squalor is okay) and maintain a modicum of organization in case I have to get to something, records, or implements, fast.
Come to think of it, maybe my mother's "protective turf" at the moment, anyway, is more figurative than literal. I think it's her sense of her life as her own. When she gets really irritated with me she continues to remind me that, "I got along without you before I [asked you here], I can get along without you now." When she stops doing that, that's when I'll worry!
originally posted by Gail Rae : Tue Jun 20, 01:20:00 PM 2006
Deb,
Forgot about this next thing; it should be added: My aunt, in her dementia, would spend a lot of time folding imaginary things, we're not sure what...maybe Inn linens, since she and her family worked in one of the Inns my grandparents owned and managed many years ago. My memory is that she was the chef, the ruler of the huge, delectable pantry at Latchstring Inn (Spearfish Canyon, SD), the last of my grandparents' enterprises, but it wouldn't surprise me if also did laundry. Too, the job she retired out of was as accountant for a dry cleaning establishment. Although she was mainly a numbers person there, I can remember her frequent complaints about short-staffed days where she'd feel obliged, once the book work was secure, to help out in the laundry.
Deb,
Forgot about this next thing; it should be added: My aunt, in her dementia, would spend a lot of time folding imaginary things, we're not sure what...maybe Inn linens, since she and her family worked in one of the Inns my grandparents owned and managed many years ago. My memory is that she was the chef, the ruler of the huge, delectable pantry at Latchstring Inn (Spearfish Canyon, SD), the last of my grandparents' enterprises, but it wouldn't surprise me if also did laundry. Too, the job she retired out of was as accountant for a dry cleaning establishment. Although she was mainly a numbers person there, I can remember her frequent complaints about short-staffed days where she'd feel obliged, once the book work was secure, to help out in the laundry.
originally posted by Blogger Gail Rae : Tue Jun 20, 01:40:00 PM 2006
Something else, Deb,
I appreciate your defense of not only my journaling but the superficial peculiarity of my situation as caregiver to my mother. I don't disagree with you. I, too, feel that caregiving for Ancient Ones, despite the specific circumstances, has many themes repeated through every experience. It's hard not to take into serious consideration, though, the differences, most of which, I think, have to do with the occasional peace that knowing my mother so intimately, which is only possible because I live with her, confers; the ability to, no, make that the necessity of having to confront all those old hurts and other relationship vagaries simply because we live together and if I didn't insist on addressing them they'd get in the way of taking care of her; the absence of guilt about my mother's care that I'm sure would plague me if I wasn't doing it the way I'm doing it; being in a position to learn the lesson that, despite the maxim upon which most of my generation insists (and I believe them because part of my refusal to marry and have children was, is and continues to be based on it), for me, to quote Elton John, "It's no sacrifice"; the learning of this lesson and its uncanny suitability to my character of which completely surprise me. Thus, although I'm sure, without being reminded, there is much in my journals that all caregivers to Ancient Ones, live-in and live-out, recognize, I know there is also much that is foreign, possibly even offensive, to the live-outs, just as there is much in the live-out journals that is foreign (although, thankfully, not offensive) to me.
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Something else, Deb,
I appreciate your defense of not only my journaling but the superficial peculiarity of my situation as caregiver to my mother. I don't disagree with you. I, too, feel that caregiving for Ancient Ones, despite the specific circumstances, has many themes repeated through every experience. It's hard not to take into serious consideration, though, the differences, most of which, I think, have to do with the occasional peace that knowing my mother so intimately, which is only possible because I live with her, confers; the ability to, no, make that the necessity of having to confront all those old hurts and other relationship vagaries simply because we live together and if I didn't insist on addressing them they'd get in the way of taking care of her; the absence of guilt about my mother's care that I'm sure would plague me if I wasn't doing it the way I'm doing it; being in a position to learn the lesson that, despite the maxim upon which most of my generation insists (and I believe them because part of my refusal to marry and have children was, is and continues to be based on it), for me, to quote Elton John, "It's no sacrifice"; the learning of this lesson and its uncanny suitability to my character of which completely surprise me. Thus, although I'm sure, without being reminded, there is much in my journals that all caregivers to Ancient Ones, live-in and live-out, recognize, I know there is also much that is foreign, possibly even offensive, to the live-outs, just as there is much in the live-out journals that is foreign (although, thankfully, not offensive) to me.
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