Sunday, November 5, 2006
I had a great conversation, today...
...with one of M(y)C(olorado)N(ie)C(e)s that reminded me of a very recent conversation with my mother; one I will treasure.
As we talked about her grandmother was doing, MCNC mentioned that she didn't know whether Grandma would even remember her.
"Oh," I assured her, "Grandma remembers you, MCNC. She has a little problem with her great grandchildren, but she remembers her grandchildren. She may think you're still in Russia (many years ago this niece was in Russia and my mother has never forgotten this), but she remembers you. Believe me, MCNC, Mom even forgets a lot about the people she sees a lot, including me. Just the other day..."
Here's where the conversation begins, a much fuller and more accurate-in-detail version (although not more accurate in sense) than the version MCNC received:
Mom, speaking to me as we're sitting in the living room together, working on separate things: "So, what are your plans for next year?"
Me: "What do you mean?"
Mom: "Are you planning on teaching next year?"
Me (not bothering to mention that I'm not a teacher): "No, I don't think so."
Mom (suddenly turning to sharply study me): "Well, then, what are you going to do?"
Me: "I thought I'd stay here and continue taking care of you. Why? Are you planning on teaching next year?"
Mom: "No, I don't think I'll teach next year."
Me: "Well, if you were going to teach, I'd go out and get a job. But, since you're not, I'll stay here and take care of you."
Mom: "That sounds like a good idea."
We occasionally have variants on this conversation. Sometimes Mom works herself into a fit of agitation over me not working outside the home "next year". When this happens, the conversation usually goes like this:
"Mom, do you want me to work outide the home?"
"Well, it seems like you should."
"Okay. In that case, this is what is going to need to happen. Either I'll need to put you in day care outside the home all day long, or hire professionals to be here with you, or, maybe you'd prefer an assisted living facility."
"Oh, I can take care of myself while you're gone."
"Well, no, we tried that, some years ago, and all you did was sleep. That's not taking care of yourself, Mom, that's waiting for me."
"Oh. Well, I suppose you're right."
"Anyway, Mom, this is my job, taking care of you. I like this job. Do you not like how I'm doing it?"
"Well, no, I'm very pleased with you. It just seems that you should be doing something else with your time."
"Mom, I have nothing better to do with my time than be with you."
"Oh, good, because I want you here with me."
Although the words often vary, the sentiments are accurate. I think, everytime she works herself into a snit over me being employed at my "career", whatever she happens to think that is at the time, or, at the very least not "wasting" my time taking care of her, I sense it is because she is so comfortable and relaxed in her life as she lives it and I provide for it to be lived that it is easy for her to feel as though life should be continuing the way she's always known...everyone working, going to school, coming home at the end of the day to recuperate and refresh themselves in the bosom of family, everyone pitching in to keep house, anyone who isn't employed outside the home keeping the home fires burning for everyone else...
And, you know, it is a peculiar pleasure for me that she continues to feel this way. Whenever we have one of these conversations, I always reflect that I must be doing something right.
The Mom is up from her nap. Time to plan dinner...and light a home fire.
Later.
As we talked about her grandmother was doing, MCNC mentioned that she didn't know whether Grandma would even remember her.
"Oh," I assured her, "Grandma remembers you, MCNC. She has a little problem with her great grandchildren, but she remembers her grandchildren. She may think you're still in Russia (many years ago this niece was in Russia and my mother has never forgotten this), but she remembers you. Believe me, MCNC, Mom even forgets a lot about the people she sees a lot, including me. Just the other day..."
Here's where the conversation begins, a much fuller and more accurate-in-detail version (although not more accurate in sense) than the version MCNC received:
Mom, speaking to me as we're sitting in the living room together, working on separate things: "So, what are your plans for next year?"
Me: "What do you mean?"
Mom: "Are you planning on teaching next year?"
Me (not bothering to mention that I'm not a teacher): "No, I don't think so."
Mom (suddenly turning to sharply study me): "Well, then, what are you going to do?"
Me: "I thought I'd stay here and continue taking care of you. Why? Are you planning on teaching next year?"
Mom: "No, I don't think I'll teach next year."
Me: "Well, if you were going to teach, I'd go out and get a job. But, since you're not, I'll stay here and take care of you."
Mom: "That sounds like a good idea."
We occasionally have variants on this conversation. Sometimes Mom works herself into a fit of agitation over me not working outside the home "next year". When this happens, the conversation usually goes like this:
"Mom, do you want me to work outide the home?"
"Well, it seems like you should."
"Okay. In that case, this is what is going to need to happen. Either I'll need to put you in day care outside the home all day long, or hire professionals to be here with you, or, maybe you'd prefer an assisted living facility."
"Oh, I can take care of myself while you're gone."
"Well, no, we tried that, some years ago, and all you did was sleep. That's not taking care of yourself, Mom, that's waiting for me."
"Oh. Well, I suppose you're right."
"Anyway, Mom, this is my job, taking care of you. I like this job. Do you not like how I'm doing it?"
"Well, no, I'm very pleased with you. It just seems that you should be doing something else with your time."
"Mom, I have nothing better to do with my time than be with you."
"Oh, good, because I want you here with me."
Although the words often vary, the sentiments are accurate. I think, everytime she works herself into a snit over me being employed at my "career", whatever she happens to think that is at the time, or, at the very least not "wasting" my time taking care of her, I sense it is because she is so comfortable and relaxed in her life as she lives it and I provide for it to be lived that it is easy for her to feel as though life should be continuing the way she's always known...everyone working, going to school, coming home at the end of the day to recuperate and refresh themselves in the bosom of family, everyone pitching in to keep house, anyone who isn't employed outside the home keeping the home fires burning for everyone else...
And, you know, it is a peculiar pleasure for me that she continues to feel this way. Whenever we have one of these conversations, I always reflect that I must be doing something right.
The Mom is up from her nap. Time to plan dinner...and light a home fire.
Later.
Comments:
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Originally posted by Anonymous: Sun Nov 05, 07:29:00 PM 2006
Mom just mentioned working to me too. I think like you said, it is hard to acknowledge that there's a problem and that she needs so much help; she wants to be productive. She doesn't want to need so much care. Its kinda sweet actually.
Originally posted by Deb Peterson: Mon Nov 06, 08:21:00 PM 2006
Gail--Your conversation sounded so familiar to me! And on a slightly related note, I was sitting with my mother tonight, looking at the ad inserts that had come with the daily newspaper. "Christmas ads already!" I commented. She looked over at me, genuinely surprised. "Are they going to celebrate Christmas this year?" she asked.
Originally posted by Patty Doherty: Tue Nov 07, 12:31:00 AM 2006
Deb and Gail,
Your posts have me reeling in a memory. Throughout my father's disease, there were so many bad times, but when I read your blog, it makes me remember the wonderful moments. I find peace in your words, they calm down my vigilant nature, they make me breathe, they gently prod my past to release those moments of sheer wonder I experienced while caring for my father.
My sister had purchased one of those silly dancing, singing Santa Clauses. You flip a switch and they sing Rocking Around the Christmas Tree. Well, we set in on the kitchen table in front of my father one afternoon. He was particularly glum and morose. He looked at the small model of cheer, tilted his head to the side and said, "Hey little fella." When we turned it on, he began to smile and as the battery-operated St Nick danced, my father got up and started to dance. Then my mom, then my sister, than me. We were all dancing in the kitchen, my mom shaking her head, wiping her hands on a dish towel, my sister with the biggest smile in the world, spinning around the room and my father moving like Fred Astaire.
I loved that "little fella" and we kept it out long after the tree had come down, the lights were unplugged and Christmas had turned to summer.
If I breathe in and breathe out, make myself very still, I can hear it, see it and my father dances.
What a mighty sword your pen is, gently cutting through layers of stubborn time.
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Mom just mentioned working to me too. I think like you said, it is hard to acknowledge that there's a problem and that she needs so much help; she wants to be productive. She doesn't want to need so much care. Its kinda sweet actually.
Originally posted by Deb Peterson: Mon Nov 06, 08:21:00 PM 2006
Gail--Your conversation sounded so familiar to me! And on a slightly related note, I was sitting with my mother tonight, looking at the ad inserts that had come with the daily newspaper. "Christmas ads already!" I commented. She looked over at me, genuinely surprised. "Are they going to celebrate Christmas this year?" she asked.
Originally posted by Patty Doherty: Tue Nov 07, 12:31:00 AM 2006
Deb and Gail,
Your posts have me reeling in a memory. Throughout my father's disease, there were so many bad times, but when I read your blog, it makes me remember the wonderful moments. I find peace in your words, they calm down my vigilant nature, they make me breathe, they gently prod my past to release those moments of sheer wonder I experienced while caring for my father.
My sister had purchased one of those silly dancing, singing Santa Clauses. You flip a switch and they sing Rocking Around the Christmas Tree. Well, we set in on the kitchen table in front of my father one afternoon. He was particularly glum and morose. He looked at the small model of cheer, tilted his head to the side and said, "Hey little fella." When we turned it on, he began to smile and as the battery-operated St Nick danced, my father got up and started to dance. Then my mom, then my sister, than me. We were all dancing in the kitchen, my mom shaking her head, wiping her hands on a dish towel, my sister with the biggest smile in the world, spinning around the room and my father moving like Fred Astaire.
I loved that "little fella" and we kept it out long after the tree had come down, the lights were unplugged and Christmas had turned to summer.
If I breathe in and breathe out, make myself very still, I can hear it, see it and my father dances.
What a mighty sword your pen is, gently cutting through layers of stubborn time.
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