Friday, September 1, 2006
Well, I surveyed The Sleeping Mom...
...at 1100 about going in her for blood draw today. No dice.
"Do we have to do that today?" she asked.
No, we don't. So, I'll check in on her again at 1215. If she's still reluctant to arise, I'll let her sleep, considering her active post-retiring-period last night. Rain is scheduled for this afternoon, although, as I write this, the sky is clear, spot-on-cerulean, hosting a few generous, white cumulus here and there, no noticeable wind. Today might be a good day to finish off the pyracantha. I'm watching the weather as I write this. Despite the agreeable sky, I notice the pressure is dropping and a high of 88° is predicted for Prescott proper (low 80's for us), which usually means a build-up of moisture in the afternoon and certain thunderstorms. The air, as well, feels a bit sticky.
I'm not the only one who's sensed an early fall in the air, this year. The day before our day trip, Mom said, "It's getting close to the holidays, isn't it." This clued me to the fact that she's geared for holiday celebrations this year. Considering how well our day trip went, her hemoglobin revival and, well, how her available energy may develop, I'm changing my thoughts about hosting Christmas up here, this year. Our chances of having true family-and-friend celebrations are actually higher if we head toward The Valley for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Which reminds me: After noticing this morning that one of my recent visitors searched my site for information about last Thanksgiving's day trip, after reading the intro to our successful trip two days ago, I'm sure, I linked to it in the post.
I've had something on my mind about the Ancient, ailing and terminal and their relationship to death, sparked by a short conversation with our regular oxygen delivery guy yesterday. Over the last several weeks he's been training a new delivery person every week, each of whom has quit soon after training has started. He was working with another trainee this week. I've developed a relationship with this man over several months. I know that he is easy going, both quick to humor and practicality, and I can't imagine that he is anything close to a Tyrant Trainer. I also know, from a survey of the equipment he delivers, that none of the equipment he delivers would be beyond my ability to handle in and out of any type of home or facility. In addition, the trucks are always equipped with handy-dandy mechanical helping devices. Thus, his job is not any more physical than, say, that of a UPS or Fed-Ex delivery person. I've talked to him about salary, too. Although salaries in this area tend to be a bit lower than typical, statewide (Arizona has the distinction of being a state in which real income for a family of four has steadily and precipitously dropped over the last few years, while corporate profits have zoomed), the company for which he works starts people well above minimum wage, even when the person isn't experienced, and even has a modest benefits package, including health benefits, which is very hard to find in this state. The job, as well, is secure, the company rewards stick-to-it-iveness, compensates overtime according to federal law (which is another area in which Arizona lags) and rarely requires after-hours work; when after-hours work is necessary, the company works hard to give it to people who want extra money and not importune those who would prefer fmaily time. Thus, I couldn't avoid wondering out loud, this week, why it is so hard for this company to keep employees, especially considering that their long term employees are very long term.
Our delivery guy began with a joke: "You know we have a saying: People are always dying to see us. It's true," he continued. "Most everyone on our routes is obviously terminal, or close to it. Your Mom is the exception. I think it's hard on people, watching clients decline, losing at least one client every week, getting to know new clients and knowing that they probably won't know these people very long..." his voice trailed off, then picked up, "...you have to make friends with death in this job. I don't think very many people are willing to do this."
This is also one of the requirements for being a successful caregiver to an Ancient One, beloved or not. With every health crisis, a caregiver cannot escape the pressure of the possibility that this crisis will be the last. Even when one's care recipient is doing well, as my mother is, and seems to have a felicitous amount of time packed under her belt, it is common, in the middle of pleasant circumstances, to find oneself beset with poignant expectations that this enjoyable espisode may be one of the last shared with one's care recipient. You never know, and it's impossible to ignore the dime upon which Ancient lives turn.
Thinking about this reminded me of a video Mom and I recently watched, Tibetan Book of the Dead, The Great Liberation. The imminent death of a relatively young man in a Tibetan village is followed, from his bed-ridden state to his death. The most noticeable and astounding aspect of his death is that his whole family and more than occasional village friends and acquaintances were in attendance through his entire journey out of this life, as well as their local Buddhist priest and a young acolyte. Throughout the video it is explained that, in this culture, death is considered so important to life that it would be unthinkable to avoid the dying.
Previous to taking care of my Mom, I too, I must admit, found it hard to be around the dying and those in attendance to the dying one. Although I realized, for instance, during my last conversation with my father after this conversation he would soon die (so did he), I did not come to my father's side, nor my mother's, who was taking care of him. I waited until after his death to return home for my culture's family death throes. Years previous, as an older teen, when a good friend of mine drowned unexpectedly, I could not bring myself to even attend the funeral or meet with his family. About a decade after this, I found myself working for a corporation in which I began to take over the duties of someone dying of AIDS, picking up slack as he continued as he could and slowly working into his job. Although he and I became fast friends, once he was no longer able to continue working, although I vowed, with every good intention, to continue to visit him, I couldn't. I felt awful about my inability, but I couldn't negotiate past my all-thumbs emotional vulnerability. When I was forced to attend to the dying by accompanying my mother through her attendance on her own dying relatives, before and after my companionship of her began, I was a reluctant, grumbling participant and completely abused my opportunities to become familiar with the changing structure of the lives of people who are terminal.
So, you know, I "get" that most people, including but not exclusive to family, who know my mother and I, think that my caregiving is simply an exercise in waiting for her to die. I understand how upsetting it is for people to not only confront this but move past it, take advantage of what is left of her life and renew their relationship with who she is now over avoiding the issue by waiting until she "finally dies" to remember her as she was before she began to shake hands with old age and death. I can't help but wonder, though, if we are not only doing uor Ancient and/or Terminal Ones, but ourselves, a great disservice by avoiding, rather than embracing, their last years, months and days; if in backing away from this period in the lives of our friends and loved ones, we are deliberately truncating the real meaning of their lives in favor of romanticized notions of their past and their value, which keeps us locked in this terminal catch-22, which also badly serves our sense of meaning about our own lives.
Just wanted to mention this.
Think I'll check in on The Mom, see where she is in sleep.
Later.
"Do we have to do that today?" she asked.
No, we don't. So, I'll check in on her again at 1215. If she's still reluctant to arise, I'll let her sleep, considering her active post-retiring-period last night. Rain is scheduled for this afternoon, although, as I write this, the sky is clear, spot-on-cerulean, hosting a few generous, white cumulus here and there, no noticeable wind. Today might be a good day to finish off the pyracantha. I'm watching the weather as I write this. Despite the agreeable sky, I notice the pressure is dropping and a high of 88° is predicted for Prescott proper (low 80's for us), which usually means a build-up of moisture in the afternoon and certain thunderstorms. The air, as well, feels a bit sticky.
I'm not the only one who's sensed an early fall in the air, this year. The day before our day trip, Mom said, "It's getting close to the holidays, isn't it." This clued me to the fact that she's geared for holiday celebrations this year. Considering how well our day trip went, her hemoglobin revival and, well, how her available energy may develop, I'm changing my thoughts about hosting Christmas up here, this year. Our chances of having true family-and-friend celebrations are actually higher if we head toward The Valley for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Which reminds me: After noticing this morning that one of my recent visitors searched my site for information about last Thanksgiving's day trip, after reading the intro to our successful trip two days ago, I'm sure, I linked to it in the post.
I've had something on my mind about the Ancient, ailing and terminal and their relationship to death, sparked by a short conversation with our regular oxygen delivery guy yesterday. Over the last several weeks he's been training a new delivery person every week, each of whom has quit soon after training has started. He was working with another trainee this week. I've developed a relationship with this man over several months. I know that he is easy going, both quick to humor and practicality, and I can't imagine that he is anything close to a Tyrant Trainer. I also know, from a survey of the equipment he delivers, that none of the equipment he delivers would be beyond my ability to handle in and out of any type of home or facility. In addition, the trucks are always equipped with handy-dandy mechanical helping devices. Thus, his job is not any more physical than, say, that of a UPS or Fed-Ex delivery person. I've talked to him about salary, too. Although salaries in this area tend to be a bit lower than typical, statewide (Arizona has the distinction of being a state in which real income for a family of four has steadily and precipitously dropped over the last few years, while corporate profits have zoomed), the company for which he works starts people well above minimum wage, even when the person isn't experienced, and even has a modest benefits package, including health benefits, which is very hard to find in this state. The job, as well, is secure, the company rewards stick-to-it-iveness, compensates overtime according to federal law (which is another area in which Arizona lags) and rarely requires after-hours work; when after-hours work is necessary, the company works hard to give it to people who want extra money and not importune those who would prefer fmaily time. Thus, I couldn't avoid wondering out loud, this week, why it is so hard for this company to keep employees, especially considering that their long term employees are very long term.
Our delivery guy began with a joke: "You know we have a saying: People are always dying to see us. It's true," he continued. "Most everyone on our routes is obviously terminal, or close to it. Your Mom is the exception. I think it's hard on people, watching clients decline, losing at least one client every week, getting to know new clients and knowing that they probably won't know these people very long..." his voice trailed off, then picked up, "...you have to make friends with death in this job. I don't think very many people are willing to do this."
This is also one of the requirements for being a successful caregiver to an Ancient One, beloved or not. With every health crisis, a caregiver cannot escape the pressure of the possibility that this crisis will be the last. Even when one's care recipient is doing well, as my mother is, and seems to have a felicitous amount of time packed under her belt, it is common, in the middle of pleasant circumstances, to find oneself beset with poignant expectations that this enjoyable espisode may be one of the last shared with one's care recipient. You never know, and it's impossible to ignore the dime upon which Ancient lives turn.
Thinking about this reminded me of a video Mom and I recently watched, Tibetan Book of the Dead, The Great Liberation. The imminent death of a relatively young man in a Tibetan village is followed, from his bed-ridden state to his death. The most noticeable and astounding aspect of his death is that his whole family and more than occasional village friends and acquaintances were in attendance through his entire journey out of this life, as well as their local Buddhist priest and a young acolyte. Throughout the video it is explained that, in this culture, death is considered so important to life that it would be unthinkable to avoid the dying.
Previous to taking care of my Mom, I too, I must admit, found it hard to be around the dying and those in attendance to the dying one. Although I realized, for instance, during my last conversation with my father after this conversation he would soon die (so did he), I did not come to my father's side, nor my mother's, who was taking care of him. I waited until after his death to return home for my culture's family death throes. Years previous, as an older teen, when a good friend of mine drowned unexpectedly, I could not bring myself to even attend the funeral or meet with his family. About a decade after this, I found myself working for a corporation in which I began to take over the duties of someone dying of AIDS, picking up slack as he continued as he could and slowly working into his job. Although he and I became fast friends, once he was no longer able to continue working, although I vowed, with every good intention, to continue to visit him, I couldn't. I felt awful about my inability, but I couldn't negotiate past my all-thumbs emotional vulnerability. When I was forced to attend to the dying by accompanying my mother through her attendance on her own dying relatives, before and after my companionship of her began, I was a reluctant, grumbling participant and completely abused my opportunities to become familiar with the changing structure of the lives of people who are terminal.
So, you know, I "get" that most people, including but not exclusive to family, who know my mother and I, think that my caregiving is simply an exercise in waiting for her to die. I understand how upsetting it is for people to not only confront this but move past it, take advantage of what is left of her life and renew their relationship with who she is now over avoiding the issue by waiting until she "finally dies" to remember her as she was before she began to shake hands with old age and death. I can't help but wonder, though, if we are not only doing uor Ancient and/or Terminal Ones, but ourselves, a great disservice by avoiding, rather than embracing, their last years, months and days; if in backing away from this period in the lives of our friends and loved ones, we are deliberately truncating the real meaning of their lives in favor of romanticized notions of their past and their value, which keeps us locked in this terminal catch-22, which also badly serves our sense of meaning about our own lives.
Just wanted to mention this.
Think I'll check in on The Mom, see where she is in sleep.
Later.
Comments:
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originally posted by Deb Peterson: Mon Sep 04, 12:29:00 PM 2006
Gail--I started to comment on this the other night, then pulled back, not sure of what I was trying to say. But I kept returning to this part of your last sentence: "if in backing away from this period in the lives of our friends and loved ones, we are deliberately truncating the real meaning of their lives in favor of romanticized notions of their past and their value, which keeps us locked in this terminal catch-22, which also badly serves our sense of meaning about our own lives." I don't really need to say much more than this!--except that I think your words are so true (and well written). And maybe even that much more poignant and true for those of us who are witnessing an "adagio" rather than an "allegro" movement. All those "rests" are challenging to sit through, never mind assign meaning to. I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes the days seem so meaningless, which makes me anxious, until I remind myself that I don't have to supply meaning to them right now. I don't have to make them "meaningful", all I have to do is be here and be open to the "right now".
My mother has always been hard to talk to about the big issues--she does sometimes wonder about what heaven is like but she's not a romantic soul, like my father was. I think all that philosophizing was considered a luxury by my grandfather, and she inherited this trait. You just got on with things and no molly-coddling. I wish I could talk about it with her (and maybe I'll try to bring it up again) but I'll probably have to just continue trying to figure out her "rules" and then try to honor them.
But I think in general the collective view of death is a kind of stilted, self-conscious one. There are several women in the grad program at Brown who are Mexican and they created a Day of the Dead exhibit--with the sugar skulls and the photos--and I got to talk with one of them about how they spend the day, have a meal, with the dead--turn it into something that sounds fun. I wish there was mmore of that where I live--but who knows? Maybe this will be where we'll realize the enrichment that can be brought by another culture.
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Gail--I started to comment on this the other night, then pulled back, not sure of what I was trying to say. But I kept returning to this part of your last sentence: "if in backing away from this period in the lives of our friends and loved ones, we are deliberately truncating the real meaning of their lives in favor of romanticized notions of their past and their value, which keeps us locked in this terminal catch-22, which also badly serves our sense of meaning about our own lives." I don't really need to say much more than this!--except that I think your words are so true (and well written). And maybe even that much more poignant and true for those of us who are witnessing an "adagio" rather than an "allegro" movement. All those "rests" are challenging to sit through, never mind assign meaning to. I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes the days seem so meaningless, which makes me anxious, until I remind myself that I don't have to supply meaning to them right now. I don't have to make them "meaningful", all I have to do is be here and be open to the "right now".
My mother has always been hard to talk to about the big issues--she does sometimes wonder about what heaven is like but she's not a romantic soul, like my father was. I think all that philosophizing was considered a luxury by my grandfather, and she inherited this trait. You just got on with things and no molly-coddling. I wish I could talk about it with her (and maybe I'll try to bring it up again) but I'll probably have to just continue trying to figure out her "rules" and then try to honor them.
But I think in general the collective view of death is a kind of stilted, self-conscious one. There are several women in the grad program at Brown who are Mexican and they created a Day of the Dead exhibit--with the sugar skulls and the photos--and I got to talk with one of them about how they spend the day, have a meal, with the dead--turn it into something that sounds fun. I wish there was mmore of that where I live--but who knows? Maybe this will be where we'll realize the enrichment that can be brought by another culture.
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