Friday, September 22, 2006
Interesting thing about having a cold...
...I drop certain courteous pretenses which cause me to defer, regarding television programming, to my mother and decide to watch what I want to watch, come hell, high water or the possibility of offending or boring my mother.
Today's been one of those healing days during which I've experienced shallow pockets of energy (during one I actually attempted to mow the back lawn; big mistake) alternating with deep pockets of need to collapse, drink fluids and zone out on TV. I didn't even have the mental acuity to watch some good movies or episodes of Sex and the City. Mostly, I've been alternating between the comedy channel (today's been a particularly good day for senseless laughing) and the music video channels, both of which I hardly ever watch because, well, Mom shows no interest in them and will use my surfing to them as an excuse to plead for yet another nap. When I'm sick, though, I want to watch what I want to watch and I usually manage it. While Mom was taking a nap I was surfing, lining up programs for evening vegetating. I noticed the Chris Rock HBO comedy special Never Scared coming on at 1830, which I hadn't yet seen. Perfect, I thought, and, chances are, Mom will be napping through quite a bit of it. I'm sure you can imagine what my mother's reaction would be to Chris Rock's comedy; definitely not a reaction I was willing to negotiate, sick or well. So, you know, from 1730 on I lazed on the couch and flipped around between snippets of odd shows and music videos, pleasurably anticipating a good half hour to hour of Chris Rock before Mom awoke. The best laid plans...
Mom awoke at 1815. My spirits sunk even further than they were already. For this reason, though, I decided, hell, I need this break, I'm going to watch the show, anyway, the entire 90 minutes, regardless. So, I decided to set her up for it, seeing as how she wasn't going to be able to avoid it. I told her a little about his comedy. I mentioned that the show would probably be full of words with which she'd have a hard time. He'd probably talk about sex, too, very bluntly. I explained that he was incise, often brilliant, penetrating, inventive and often offended lots of people, and was an excellent comedian in that he plays to his audience and is an equal opportunity offender. I enjoy his comedy, I continued, and was determined to watch the show regardless of whether or not she liked it and, no she could not go back and take another nap, although, if she preferred, she could move to the dinette and read her new set of gossip tabloids. She needed to make a decision on this before the show started, though, I explained, because, being on HBO, there would be no commercials and once the show started I didn't want the flow interrupted by any of her needs or decisions.
As often happens when I take the trouble to prep her, she decided she wanted to "see what this is all about." Brave woman, although I wasn't thrilled with her response. I expected this would mean that my watching of the show would, indeed, be interrupted, regardless. I sighed internally and flipped to the appropriate channel.
The show was so good that I was distracted enough not to split my concentration by obsessively observing her reactions. Some of her reactions, though, were obvious and surprised me. Since I was laughing uproariously during a lot during the show, I think some of her acceptance was cued by my reactions and my introduction to the show. But she blew me away when she laughed out loud during his segment on married sex versus non-married sex and complained about how he hadn't "had pussy for seven years," rather, he'd had "vagina"; as well, he hadn't "had a blow job in seven years," he'd had "fellatio". She was, understandably, shocked during the abortion segment. Her head swiveled when I laughed aloud a couple of times at that one. I don't think she understood the rap segment at all, and appeared to be stunned by the segment on women with "daddy issues" and prostitutes. That segment, though, was one of the earliest ones and I think she was getting her bearings. I caught her nodding, though, and in some cases smiling, during the segments on wealth versus rich, slavery, affirmative action and especially the bit when he segued the affirmative action segment into a political criticism of all the white "C" students running the country, particularly the current President Bush. At this, in fact, she turned to me and asked, "Isn't this show in Washington, D.C.?"
I was surprised she remembered this. "Yeah," I said, "it is."
"Oh, my," she said.
When the show was over, she'd faired so well through it that I was thoroughly refreshed and decided I could handle rewarding her with programs I knew were her favorites. Luckily, Animal Planet's Meerkat Manor was staging a three hour round-up of past episodes from 2000 - 2300, so she was set for the rest of the evening. Anyway, I like that one, too. She and I never fail to comment to one another on how tame the meerkats are during one of the often played introductory segments that precedes some of the shows in which the viewer sees the biologists weighing and checking members of the meerkat clan they're studying. This usually leads, during the show, to back and forth comments between us concerning how the process of observation might change the character of that which is being observed. One of my mother's regular comments, in fact, spouted during the burrow segments when it's obvious one of the meerkats is examining an underground camera, goes like this, "You'd think, wouldn't you, that just them noticing the cameras like that would have some kind of effect on their behavior, wouldn't you."
The upshot of the evening is that, although I doubt that I'd ever take her to a live Chris Rock performance, I'm telling you, the woman never fails to amaze me. I guess I should get sick more often.
Which reminds me, can anyone tell me, are there any really good professional (I specify "professional" because there is, actually, a blogger out there, Bailey, author of My Mother's Journey, who writes some spot-on, hilariously sly, sardonic stuff about her journey with her mother...consider turning professional, Bailey, when you're in a place where you can; the intense needs caregiving effort could use your delightfully askew perspective) comedians doing incisive caregiver-to-the-Ancient-and-Infirm humor out there? I doubt it, frankly. It's still one of those untouchable subjects. But, you know, when we get to that place, intense needs caregiving will finally have come into its own, I think.
Later.
Today's been one of those healing days during which I've experienced shallow pockets of energy (during one I actually attempted to mow the back lawn; big mistake) alternating with deep pockets of need to collapse, drink fluids and zone out on TV. I didn't even have the mental acuity to watch some good movies or episodes of Sex and the City. Mostly, I've been alternating between the comedy channel (today's been a particularly good day for senseless laughing) and the music video channels, both of which I hardly ever watch because, well, Mom shows no interest in them and will use my surfing to them as an excuse to plead for yet another nap. When I'm sick, though, I want to watch what I want to watch and I usually manage it. While Mom was taking a nap I was surfing, lining up programs for evening vegetating. I noticed the Chris Rock HBO comedy special Never Scared coming on at 1830, which I hadn't yet seen. Perfect, I thought, and, chances are, Mom will be napping through quite a bit of it. I'm sure you can imagine what my mother's reaction would be to Chris Rock's comedy; definitely not a reaction I was willing to negotiate, sick or well. So, you know, from 1730 on I lazed on the couch and flipped around between snippets of odd shows and music videos, pleasurably anticipating a good half hour to hour of Chris Rock before Mom awoke. The best laid plans...
Mom awoke at 1815. My spirits sunk even further than they were already. For this reason, though, I decided, hell, I need this break, I'm going to watch the show, anyway, the entire 90 minutes, regardless. So, I decided to set her up for it, seeing as how she wasn't going to be able to avoid it. I told her a little about his comedy. I mentioned that the show would probably be full of words with which she'd have a hard time. He'd probably talk about sex, too, very bluntly. I explained that he was incise, often brilliant, penetrating, inventive and often offended lots of people, and was an excellent comedian in that he plays to his audience and is an equal opportunity offender. I enjoy his comedy, I continued, and was determined to watch the show regardless of whether or not she liked it and, no she could not go back and take another nap, although, if she preferred, she could move to the dinette and read her new set of gossip tabloids. She needed to make a decision on this before the show started, though, I explained, because, being on HBO, there would be no commercials and once the show started I didn't want the flow interrupted by any of her needs or decisions.
As often happens when I take the trouble to prep her, she decided she wanted to "see what this is all about." Brave woman, although I wasn't thrilled with her response. I expected this would mean that my watching of the show would, indeed, be interrupted, regardless. I sighed internally and flipped to the appropriate channel.
The show was so good that I was distracted enough not to split my concentration by obsessively observing her reactions. Some of her reactions, though, were obvious and surprised me. Since I was laughing uproariously during a lot during the show, I think some of her acceptance was cued by my reactions and my introduction to the show. But she blew me away when she laughed out loud during his segment on married sex versus non-married sex and complained about how he hadn't "had pussy for seven years," rather, he'd had "vagina"; as well, he hadn't "had a blow job in seven years," he'd had "fellatio". She was, understandably, shocked during the abortion segment. Her head swiveled when I laughed aloud a couple of times at that one. I don't think she understood the rap segment at all, and appeared to be stunned by the segment on women with "daddy issues" and prostitutes. That segment, though, was one of the earliest ones and I think she was getting her bearings. I caught her nodding, though, and in some cases smiling, during the segments on wealth versus rich, slavery, affirmative action and especially the bit when he segued the affirmative action segment into a political criticism of all the white "C" students running the country, particularly the current President Bush. At this, in fact, she turned to me and asked, "Isn't this show in Washington, D.C.?"
I was surprised she remembered this. "Yeah," I said, "it is."
"Oh, my," she said.
When the show was over, she'd faired so well through it that I was thoroughly refreshed and decided I could handle rewarding her with programs I knew were her favorites. Luckily, Animal Planet's Meerkat Manor was staging a three hour round-up of past episodes from 2000 - 2300, so she was set for the rest of the evening. Anyway, I like that one, too. She and I never fail to comment to one another on how tame the meerkats are during one of the often played introductory segments that precedes some of the shows in which the viewer sees the biologists weighing and checking members of the meerkat clan they're studying. This usually leads, during the show, to back and forth comments between us concerning how the process of observation might change the character of that which is being observed. One of my mother's regular comments, in fact, spouted during the burrow segments when it's obvious one of the meerkats is examining an underground camera, goes like this, "You'd think, wouldn't you, that just them noticing the cameras like that would have some kind of effect on their behavior, wouldn't you."
The upshot of the evening is that, although I doubt that I'd ever take her to a live Chris Rock performance, I'm telling you, the woman never fails to amaze me. I guess I should get sick more often.
Which reminds me, can anyone tell me, are there any really good professional (I specify "professional" because there is, actually, a blogger out there, Bailey, author of My Mother's Journey, who writes some spot-on, hilariously sly, sardonic stuff about her journey with her mother...consider turning professional, Bailey, when you're in a place where you can; the intense needs caregiving effort could use your delightfully askew perspective) comedians doing incisive caregiver-to-the-Ancient-and-Infirm humor out there? I doubt it, frankly. It's still one of those untouchable subjects. But, you know, when we get to that place, intense needs caregiving will finally have come into its own, I think.
Later.
So far, so good.
I waited until 1300 to awaken my mother, giving both of us an extra 45 minutes. I thought that would help me deal with the day ahead, which I decided would include everything every day designed for blood glucose control includes. It seems, though, I needed yet another calming influence.
When I awoke my mother, I noticed myself tensing. I tried to ignore it but my voice edged toward its "boot camp sergeant" tone. I tried to remain as quiet as possible while getting her to the bathroom. I noticed I was avoiding playing with the cats, which is unusual: Me playing with the cats on the floor is a part of Mom's wake-up routine. It directs her to focus on something that causes her to move close to the edge of the bed, and, besides, lightens everyone's mood. I decided it might do me good to force myself to play with them. It did.
Once we were in the bathroom, though, I became tight and commanding again. This wasn't good. The tone for the day is always set during Mom's bathing time. Luckily, as I was fooling with the wash cloths my better self began a sing-song whisper through my bones to my internal ear:
"I noticed," she said.
"Anyway, I think we'll just take it easy again, today. I'm afraid if I push you to do walkering, or something else, I'll get irritated over stupid things. I don't want to do that, you know. I think it's best for everyone if we just have an easy day. I'm afraid I'm not fit company for man nor beast, today."
"Well, I'm a woman..."
I laughed and interrupted, "...with you naked on the toilet, that's hard to ignore..."
She laughed. "...I was going to say, so you should have no trouble with me. Now, the kitties..."
"Ahh, they'll just spit and me and avoid me, if they need to."
"Well, then, I'd say we're set for the day." She started to rise from the toilet.
"Almost, Mom. After you bathe."
She grinned. "I thought I might be able to pull one over on you," she admitted.
"Not today, Mom!"
So, I guess I'm getting better at negotiating bad days. We had a bit of a tiff over liquids before Mom's nap and I was a little harsh, although not nasty. Otherwise, though, today has been an easy day, thanks to my finer internal self. Better fleetingly high blood glucose than disastrously frayed relationships. Even though my mother's dementia guarantees that she'll forget the fraying tomorrow...why tempt the fates when you don't have to?
When I awoke my mother, I noticed myself tensing. I tried to ignore it but my voice edged toward its "boot camp sergeant" tone. I tried to remain as quiet as possible while getting her to the bathroom. I noticed I was avoiding playing with the cats, which is unusual: Me playing with the cats on the floor is a part of Mom's wake-up routine. It directs her to focus on something that causes her to move close to the edge of the bed, and, besides, lightens everyone's mood. I decided it might do me good to force myself to play with them. It did.
Once we were in the bathroom, though, I became tight and commanding again. This wasn't good. The tone for the day is always set during Mom's bathing time. Luckily, as I was fooling with the wash cloths my better self began a sing-song whisper through my bones to my internal ear:
Gay-yul, Re-memmm-ber...you may be doing well at this, but nurturing is not natural to you and your natural state is to live a-lo-one...when you're stressed, you instinctively push people a-waaay...re-laaax...it's not your mother's fa-ault...be caare-fuul, or you'll stress everyone in the house-hold...I stopped. I took a deep breath. "Mom," I said, "I'm still feeling kind of crummy today."
"I noticed," she said.
"Anyway, I think we'll just take it easy again, today. I'm afraid if I push you to do walkering, or something else, I'll get irritated over stupid things. I don't want to do that, you know. I think it's best for everyone if we just have an easy day. I'm afraid I'm not fit company for man nor beast, today."
"Well, I'm a woman..."
I laughed and interrupted, "...with you naked on the toilet, that's hard to ignore..."
She laughed. "...I was going to say, so you should have no trouble with me. Now, the kitties..."
"Ahh, they'll just spit and me and avoid me, if they need to."
"Well, then, I'd say we're set for the day." She started to rise from the toilet.
"Almost, Mom. After you bathe."
She grinned. "I thought I might be able to pull one over on you," she admitted.
"Not today, Mom!"
So, I guess I'm getting better at negotiating bad days. We had a bit of a tiff over liquids before Mom's nap and I was a little harsh, although not nasty. Otherwise, though, today has been an easy day, thanks to my finer internal self. Better fleetingly high blood glucose than disastrously frayed relationships. Even though my mother's dementia guarantees that she'll forget the fraying tomorrow...why tempt the fates when you don't have to?
I seem to be feeling marginally better...
...at least I didn't go back to bed and sleep until after noon, today, a good sign. No fever, as far as I can tell, enough energy so that when I awoke this morning at my usual time I felt as though I could negotiate an early hour and a half of outside-the-house errands that were piling up. The early running around drooped me a little, but no more sore throat, although my nose is running to beat the band, but, you know, that's an optimistic sign that it's the cold is loosening it's hold. I think I'm at that stage where I sound lots worse than I feel, versus yestereday when I felt horrible but sounded fine. My mind, though, remains mush. I have no mental energy so I probably won't catch up on either posting or correspondence, today. I will, though, after observing the effects of two days of relaxation on my mother's blood sugar, get her moving at least in the house. It's another windy, cool day so trying to get her outside, even on the driveway, well, let's just say I'm not up to that challenge.
Looking back, I remain unpleasantly surprised that caregiving has made me suseptible to run of the mill colds, obviously continuing to challenge my immune system. I've been taking a variety of supplements for a few years, now, since I noticed that I'm no longer invincible to colds, that are supposed to boost my immune system. Suffice it to say, I shudder to think how many colds I'd suffer if I wasn't taking these supplements! At the same time, though, I appreciate my body's ability to knock me out of the running when it's necessary by putting out the "Vacancy" sign for viruses when my spirit is unwilling to wind me down. Sometimes, there's nothing like being sick to make you feel better.
Well, I think I'll sit back and twiddle my thumbs until it's time to awaken the Mom. Maybe I'll even do it in a reclining position; although, I don't know, that would clog one side of my perpetually running nose.
Looking back, I remain unpleasantly surprised that caregiving has made me suseptible to run of the mill colds, obviously continuing to challenge my immune system. I've been taking a variety of supplements for a few years, now, since I noticed that I'm no longer invincible to colds, that are supposed to boost my immune system. Suffice it to say, I shudder to think how many colds I'd suffer if I wasn't taking these supplements! At the same time, though, I appreciate my body's ability to knock me out of the running when it's necessary by putting out the "Vacancy" sign for viruses when my spirit is unwilling to wind me down. Sometimes, there's nothing like being sick to make you feel better.
Well, I think I'll sit back and twiddle my thumbs until it's time to awaken the Mom. Maybe I'll even do it in a reclining position; although, I don't know, that would clog one side of my perpetually running nose.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Running around with my mom...
...seems to have caught up with me. Today, I feel as though I've managed to run myself into the ground. Too many candles burning at both ends, or something. I thought maybe a restful, movie filled day for Mom yesterday would translate into rest for me, as well. Didn't happen. After several extremely late (or early, depending on your chronographic perspective) retirements and fairly early awakenings for me, today I awoke at 0715 feeling like absolute shit, sweating, no doubt from a fever break, nose running, throat feeling like I'd scrubbed it with a Brillo pad, so I took two ibuprofen, laid back down for another hour or so, I told myself, and started awake at a few minutes before 1300. Thank Morpheus, Mom was still sleeping. It took me another hour to get myself moving, but, believe me, this has meant a slow drag all day. Thus, I've allowed Mom another one of her favorite days of doing nothing, not bugging her to move away from her rocker, allowing her to sleep whenever she wanted...while I drag my ass through the minimum chores necessary to keep the day from getting out of hand. This hasn't been good for her blood glucose, but it has been for her spirit, and I've needed the down time, so I think we're all right. I'd like to get her out tomorrow, but, considering how I'm feeling tonight, I'm not sure that I'll be interested in getting out, tomorrow, so, at the very least, I'll have her do some walkering around the house, to make sure her body remembers what to do with her limbs and refined carbohydrates.
And yet, I have three posts piling up in my head, ready for writing and publication, I'm still trying to find some time to respond to some of you who have been commenting regularly on my site and writing me (all correspondence much appreciated and treasured, believe me, I'm very sorry that I've been so tardy in acknowledgment and response) but I don't think I'll be getting to any of this, tonight. I'm hoping that, once my mother decides to retire, about all I'll be posting is my ass on my futon.
Just wanted each of you to know, if it appears that I'm ignoring you, in this case, appearances are definitely deceptive.
Oh, god, I'm yawning non-stop.
Later.
And yet, I have three posts piling up in my head, ready for writing and publication, I'm still trying to find some time to respond to some of you who have been commenting regularly on my site and writing me (all correspondence much appreciated and treasured, believe me, I'm very sorry that I've been so tardy in acknowledgment and response) but I don't think I'll be getting to any of this, tonight. I'm hoping that, once my mother decides to retire, about all I'll be posting is my ass on my futon.
Just wanted each of you to know, if it appears that I'm ignoring you, in this case, appearances are definitely deceptive.
Oh, god, I'm yawning non-stop.
Later.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Great day, yesterday!
We took our first "Christmas at Costco" trip yesterday. Mom was rarin' to go. She walkered a lot and rested a little; her physical upshot was that she suffered only minor stiffness which disappeared with a nap in the evening. No back or knee problems, even though she was bent practically in half most of her walkering time. I reminded her to "stay close to the walker to prevent back aches" only once, though. She was so animated and focused on Costco's holiday decoration and food gift displays (not to mention the sampling kiosks) that I forgot about her possible later discomfort in the pleasure of watching her examine every item and discussing each with her.
Funny about the holiday food gift aisle. I forgot about this aspect of Costco holiday visits. So far, they have only one aisle of decorations and one of food gifts...the display will grow exponentially from now through Thanksgiving, though. Anyway, after we perused the decoration aisle, the next up was the holiday food gift aisle which, of course, was loaded with all the sweet delicacies against which diabetics are cautioned to armor themselves. Had I been paying attention, I might have steered her away from this aisle but, suddenly, there we were, Mom's eyes as big as saucers. She said, "Now, this is where I intend to spend some time!"
I gave up before I was even allowed to start. I figured, what the hell, her doctor wants us to raise her HA1c, it takes three months to do this, nothing like the holidays to encourage apparently (I add this cautionary word because, of course, part of her HA1c "problem" is related to her Anemia Due to Chronic Disease, which is under the best control it ever will be) healthy glycohemoglobin levels. I'll tell you, this wily woman, this mother of mine, must have been reading my mind because, maybe an eighth of our way down the aisle she said, her eyes twinkling and her right eye winking at me, "Didn't the doctor say you should let up on controlling the amount of rich foods I eat?!?"
Sometimes it amazes me what she remembers and how she remembers it. I winked back at her in response.
We discussed possible holiday food purchases. I reminded her of two things:
I gave her a two-purchase leeway (which expanded to three) and she made some excellent choices: Two different sets of Belgian Chocolates, one a collection of delectable looking cups filled with a variety of spiced chocolate delights and the other a collection of Belgian chocolate truffles with the advertised promise of strongly flavored centers. She saw me fingering and reading the ingredients on a bag of chocolate covered Bing Cherries, not the kind with the drippy centers and impossibly sweet Marachino cherries, but simple Bing cherries dipped in dark chocolate, and said, "Go ahead, get those. I like cherries, too."
So, I did. She also prompted me to write down certain other items for future purchase: Chocolate covered Macadamia nuts; spiced nuts; a new brand of cocoa mix; something called "Moose Mix" which includes caramel covered popcorn and chunks of dark, nut filled chocolate.
She did not rest through either the decoration aisle or the holiday food aisle. As well, she decided that "this year", perhaps we should attempt to send out Christmas cards and picked out a box with a reproduction of the simple, stark Bernardo Luini painting "Madonna and Child" (named, on the card, as "The Sleep of the Child Jesus"; the representation to which I've linked is not nearly as colorful as the reproduction on the card, which features lots of burnt umber, burnt sienna, festive touches of cadium-barium, light to deep, yellowish skin tones on The Madonna and pinkish skin tones on The Child). I can't remember ever sending out Christmas cards on my own, although my mother used to be a champion sender. As well, my taste in "madonna/child" pictures runs more to this. My taste in Christmas cards is revealed by my favorite, which I liked so much I never sent the original to anyone, although I occasionally Xerox copies of it to send to relatives with an appropriate sense of humor and very special friends. I just looked for it with the intention of scanning and displaying it online, but couldn't find it, so here's a description: It's a card designed along the Hallmark Shoebox line, that I bought in Sacramento in the mid 80's. It features stark caricature: A space ship on the front; inside, a snow man in various stages of disassemblage greets the reader with a straightforward message: "It's here."
After dinner last night I brought out the chocolates at Mom's suggestion and limited her to one from each package. I cautioned her not to gobble, but to savor them, as we'd be enjoying them a little at a time. She paid no attention to me. For several minutes, though, after she'd popped hers down her gullet, practically swallowing them whole, and the boxes had been restashed, as I continued to enjoy mine she said, studying my leisurely delicatizing, "You know, you might have a point, there." She also received a third glipizide, in consideration of all the white rice (with dinner) and sugar she consumed. I almost considered not administering the third, but decided it probably isn't a good idea to spend the entire holiday season + a month pushing her HA1c to the sky.
We had an easy evening, washed her hair, planned a trip to Bashford Courts to their Mountain Christmas store, one of Mom's favorites, as you can imagine, and one of our shared favorites, The Raven gift boutique. I'm not sure this will happen. Today is cool, very windy, and alternately cloudy, with an ambivalent promise of rain. Although I've got the windows open while she's sleeping, they will no doubt be shut tight upon her awakening. If she has the energy, we'll certainly take in the gift stores, but I'm not going to push it. I just checked in on her and she's snoring, which means she's sleeping hard against the drop in atmospheric pressure. Regardless, I think it'll be a good day. We'll finally be receiving her belated birthday present (I can't believe how long it took me to get copies of these movies): How the West Was Won and Jeremiah Johnson, as well as a copy of one of our shared all time favorites, Strictly Ballroom, so, even if we don't get out today, I'm expecting another great day.
Time to get ready for The Mom's Awakening.
Later.
Funny about the holiday food gift aisle. I forgot about this aspect of Costco holiday visits. So far, they have only one aisle of decorations and one of food gifts...the display will grow exponentially from now through Thanksgiving, though. Anyway, after we perused the decoration aisle, the next up was the holiday food gift aisle which, of course, was loaded with all the sweet delicacies against which diabetics are cautioned to armor themselves. Had I been paying attention, I might have steered her away from this aisle but, suddenly, there we were, Mom's eyes as big as saucers. She said, "Now, this is where I intend to spend some time!"
I gave up before I was even allowed to start. I figured, what the hell, her doctor wants us to raise her HA1c, it takes three months to do this, nothing like the holidays to encourage apparently (I add this cautionary word because, of course, part of her HA1c "problem" is related to her Anemia Due to Chronic Disease, which is under the best control it ever will be) healthy glycohemoglobin levels. I'll tell you, this wily woman, this mother of mine, must have been reading my mind because, maybe an eighth of our way down the aisle she said, her eyes twinkling and her right eye winking at me, "Didn't the doctor say you should let up on controlling the amount of rich foods I eat?!?"
Sometimes it amazes me what she remembers and how she remembers it. I winked back at her in response.
We discussed possible holiday food purchases. I reminded her of two things:
- All holiday displays are in their infancy. Thus, we should pick and choose carefully with an eye to further possible purchases, and
- regardless of how loud her sweet tooth screams, I am not going to allow her to eat a box of candy or cookies or dried fruit or an entire cake in one sitting. I suggested that we pick a few really interesting items from yesterday's display, rather than trolling through under the influence of her "one of each" philosophy. Then, we'd savor our way slowly through our choices, purchase more as they are displayed, and lightly sweeten and spice our way through the holiday season in a relatively healthy manner.
I gave her a two-purchase leeway (which expanded to three) and she made some excellent choices: Two different sets of Belgian Chocolates, one a collection of delectable looking cups filled with a variety of spiced chocolate delights and the other a collection of Belgian chocolate truffles with the advertised promise of strongly flavored centers. She saw me fingering and reading the ingredients on a bag of chocolate covered Bing Cherries, not the kind with the drippy centers and impossibly sweet Marachino cherries, but simple Bing cherries dipped in dark chocolate, and said, "Go ahead, get those. I like cherries, too."
So, I did. She also prompted me to write down certain other items for future purchase: Chocolate covered Macadamia nuts; spiced nuts; a new brand of cocoa mix; something called "Moose Mix" which includes caramel covered popcorn and chunks of dark, nut filled chocolate.
She did not rest through either the decoration aisle or the holiday food aisle. As well, she decided that "this year", perhaps we should attempt to send out Christmas cards and picked out a box with a reproduction of the simple, stark Bernardo Luini painting "Madonna and Child" (named, on the card, as "The Sleep of the Child Jesus"; the representation to which I've linked is not nearly as colorful as the reproduction on the card, which features lots of burnt umber, burnt sienna, festive touches of cadium-barium, light to deep, yellowish skin tones on The Madonna and pinkish skin tones on The Child). I can't remember ever sending out Christmas cards on my own, although my mother used to be a champion sender. As well, my taste in "madonna/child" pictures runs more to this. My taste in Christmas cards is revealed by my favorite, which I liked so much I never sent the original to anyone, although I occasionally Xerox copies of it to send to relatives with an appropriate sense of humor and very special friends. I just looked for it with the intention of scanning and displaying it online, but couldn't find it, so here's a description: It's a card designed along the Hallmark Shoebox line, that I bought in Sacramento in the mid 80's. It features stark caricature: A space ship on the front; inside, a snow man in various stages of disassemblage greets the reader with a straightforward message: "It's here."
After dinner last night I brought out the chocolates at Mom's suggestion and limited her to one from each package. I cautioned her not to gobble, but to savor them, as we'd be enjoying them a little at a time. She paid no attention to me. For several minutes, though, after she'd popped hers down her gullet, practically swallowing them whole, and the boxes had been restashed, as I continued to enjoy mine she said, studying my leisurely delicatizing, "You know, you might have a point, there." She also received a third glipizide, in consideration of all the white rice (with dinner) and sugar she consumed. I almost considered not administering the third, but decided it probably isn't a good idea to spend the entire holiday season + a month pushing her HA1c to the sky.
We had an easy evening, washed her hair, planned a trip to Bashford Courts to their Mountain Christmas store, one of Mom's favorites, as you can imagine, and one of our shared favorites, The Raven gift boutique. I'm not sure this will happen. Today is cool, very windy, and alternately cloudy, with an ambivalent promise of rain. Although I've got the windows open while she's sleeping, they will no doubt be shut tight upon her awakening. If she has the energy, we'll certainly take in the gift stores, but I'm not going to push it. I just checked in on her and she's snoring, which means she's sleeping hard against the drop in atmospheric pressure. Regardless, I think it'll be a good day. We'll finally be receiving her belated birthday present (I can't believe how long it took me to get copies of these movies): How the West Was Won and Jeremiah Johnson, as well as a copy of one of our shared all time favorites, Strictly Ballroom, so, even if we don't get out today, I'm expecting another great day.
Time to get ready for The Mom's Awakening.
Later.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
We've got an outing planned, today...
...about which Mom is excited and has been talking for a couple of days: We're going to Costco for no other reason than to survey their initial holiday layout of decorations and gifts. We've talked about how it would be silly to buy anything more for the holidays, since we have so many holiday decorations, collected through the years, that we use only a fraction of them during any particular season. Some are still in their original boxes. But, Mom's Mrs. Christmas, so she has to familiarize herself with the field, every year. Because her energy level is so high, we'll probably spend a lot of time, between now and Christmas, hitting all the stores that put out amazing holiday displays.
I want to touch on one more incident, which isn't a trip incident but I listed it in the tacked on section to the trip ticks (pun intended).
I had to replenish our supply of paper underwear, so, as usual, I went to Walmart, who has the cheapest price on the brand that Mom prefers (because they fit the best and don't bulk her clothes, even when she's wearing two of them). We use two sizes, one for the inside and one for the outside. They were out of the outside size and I noticed the inside size was dwindling, as Walmart was actually advertising them, so I picked up three packages. As I was exiting a section, a woman who looked to be just this side of Ancient noticed the packages in my cart. I noticed that she was carrying a very small package of panty inserts in her hand, trying to disguise them by holding them close to her purse.
As she stared into my cart she said, "I hope you don't mind me being forward, but I'd like to ask you a question."
"Go for it," I said. I leaned into her and continued, sotto voce, "I have no secrets that the rest of humanity doesn't also have."
She grinned and displayed the package of panty inserts she was holding. "I've recently had to start using these. My doctor says that 'everyone uses them' but, honestly, you're the first person I've ever seen buying any. And, you're buying so many!"
"For my mother," I explained. "She's 89 and terribly incontinent, so we go through a lot of these."
"Does it bother her to have to use them?"
"Funny you should ask," I replied. "Her incontinence developed fairly slowly. She was probably about your age when it started. At that time, she used the pads, just like you. She didn't like the idea of using them, though, she didn't like buying them, either, and, until I came to be her companion, she'd often 'forget' (I drew quotes in the air) them and risk accidents in public. When I came to be with her, I insisted on her wearing them because it cut down on the laundry and the accidents. She finally got used to it."
"She doesn't use pads anymore?"
"No, she's way beyond that stage, now. She's also beyond the stage where it bothers her. Frankly, I don't think she even realizes that her underwear is disposable, anymore. She has Dementia-Lite and sometimes argues with me when I tell her to throw her used underwear away. She's of that generation who was raised during the depression and didn't throw anything away."
"Oh, yes. I just missed that generation, but have had many friends like that." She leaned in even closer. "You know," she said, "although I would never do this, sometimes I wish I had the courage to just slip them in my purse and shoplift them out of the store. I hate having people know that I can't hold my bladder anymore."
"If it gives you any comfort, there are lots of people who can't do that, now, and, believe me, as my generation gets older, stores will be selling more of these," I pointed to the paper underwear in my cart, "than they will regular underwear! And, anyway, television is loaded with commercials for these things, now. Pretty soon, it'll be a badge of honor to have them in your shopping cart."
We both laughed.
"You know, though, this should make you feel even better. Once these packages are in my cart, I forget they're there until I get to the checkout stand. Then, funny, I always manage to work a reference into the conversation I'm having with the check-out clerk that these are for my mother, and I usually say it loud enough so anyone in line behind me can hear it. I never thought of that before! I guess buying them embarrasses me, a little, too, because I go out of my way to make sure everyone within earshot knows they're not for me!"
Again, we laughed. "Well, she said," I don't think I could get away with that. People would hardly believe they were for my mother!"
"I'll tell you what," I said, patting the hand in which she clutched the package of panty inserts, "Tell them they're for my mother."
As a sidebar, she also asked me how long I'd "been with [my] mother". I'm italicizing those two words because her use of them struck me. It's the first time I've encountered someone who has referred to my bond with my mother as "being with" her, rather than "taking care of" her. I like this and have been considering her phrasing ever since. I suspect that the reason she thought to use this phrase has something to do with her age. We all have a resistance, as we approach the upper limits of age, to the idea that we need someone to "take care of" us. We do, however, naturally accept the idea that life is an interdependent exercise that often works much better if we have company while we negotiate it. Perhaps, if we can begin to look at "caregiving to the elderly" from this perspective, it wouldn't seem so daunting and impossible to us and more of us would consider doing it, thus lightening the actual burden of companionating our Ancient and Infirm ones and lightening the emotional burden that the idea of "caregiving" places upon those who are becoming more dependent upon we who feel we can allow ourselves the luxury of identifying ourselves as "independent". We might, finally, consider the companionating of the Ancient and Infirm a relationship for which we want to make room in our lives. The mere act of changing our perspective in this way might lead to a grass roots revolution through which we will demand that "society" change in order to accommodate our desire to keep our Ancient Ones close to us, not so much to protect them from the evils of the "long term care industry" but to enjoy their company and avail ourselves of the perks of becoming thoroughly familiar with, even loving, their existence, until they're ready to pursue further adventures beyond the borders of this life.
One final thought: A change in language often engenders a change in thought. A change in thought always engenders a change in society.
"What a wonderful world this would be." [Thank you, Sam Cooke/Alpert/Adler]
I want to touch on one more incident, which isn't a trip incident but I listed it in the tacked on section to the trip ticks (pun intended).
I had to replenish our supply of paper underwear, so, as usual, I went to Walmart, who has the cheapest price on the brand that Mom prefers (because they fit the best and don't bulk her clothes, even when she's wearing two of them). We use two sizes, one for the inside and one for the outside. They were out of the outside size and I noticed the inside size was dwindling, as Walmart was actually advertising them, so I picked up three packages. As I was exiting a section, a woman who looked to be just this side of Ancient noticed the packages in my cart. I noticed that she was carrying a very small package of panty inserts in her hand, trying to disguise them by holding them close to her purse.
As she stared into my cart she said, "I hope you don't mind me being forward, but I'd like to ask you a question."
"Go for it," I said. I leaned into her and continued, sotto voce, "I have no secrets that the rest of humanity doesn't also have."
She grinned and displayed the package of panty inserts she was holding. "I've recently had to start using these. My doctor says that 'everyone uses them' but, honestly, you're the first person I've ever seen buying any. And, you're buying so many!"
"For my mother," I explained. "She's 89 and terribly incontinent, so we go through a lot of these."
"Does it bother her to have to use them?"
"Funny you should ask," I replied. "Her incontinence developed fairly slowly. She was probably about your age when it started. At that time, she used the pads, just like you. She didn't like the idea of using them, though, she didn't like buying them, either, and, until I came to be her companion, she'd often 'forget' (I drew quotes in the air) them and risk accidents in public. When I came to be with her, I insisted on her wearing them because it cut down on the laundry and the accidents. She finally got used to it."
"She doesn't use pads anymore?"
"No, she's way beyond that stage, now. She's also beyond the stage where it bothers her. Frankly, I don't think she even realizes that her underwear is disposable, anymore. She has Dementia-Lite and sometimes argues with me when I tell her to throw her used underwear away. She's of that generation who was raised during the depression and didn't throw anything away."
"Oh, yes. I just missed that generation, but have had many friends like that." She leaned in even closer. "You know," she said, "although I would never do this, sometimes I wish I had the courage to just slip them in my purse and shoplift them out of the store. I hate having people know that I can't hold my bladder anymore."
"If it gives you any comfort, there are lots of people who can't do that, now, and, believe me, as my generation gets older, stores will be selling more of these," I pointed to the paper underwear in my cart, "than they will regular underwear! And, anyway, television is loaded with commercials for these things, now. Pretty soon, it'll be a badge of honor to have them in your shopping cart."
We both laughed.
"You know, though, this should make you feel even better. Once these packages are in my cart, I forget they're there until I get to the checkout stand. Then, funny, I always manage to work a reference into the conversation I'm having with the check-out clerk that these are for my mother, and I usually say it loud enough so anyone in line behind me can hear it. I never thought of that before! I guess buying them embarrasses me, a little, too, because I go out of my way to make sure everyone within earshot knows they're not for me!"
Again, we laughed. "Well, she said," I don't think I could get away with that. People would hardly believe they were for my mother!"
"I'll tell you what," I said, patting the hand in which she clutched the package of panty inserts, "Tell them they're for my mother."
As a sidebar, she also asked me how long I'd "been with [my] mother". I'm italicizing those two words because her use of them struck me. It's the first time I've encountered someone who has referred to my bond with my mother as "being with" her, rather than "taking care of" her. I like this and have been considering her phrasing ever since. I suspect that the reason she thought to use this phrase has something to do with her age. We all have a resistance, as we approach the upper limits of age, to the idea that we need someone to "take care of" us. We do, however, naturally accept the idea that life is an interdependent exercise that often works much better if we have company while we negotiate it. Perhaps, if we can begin to look at "caregiving to the elderly" from this perspective, it wouldn't seem so daunting and impossible to us and more of us would consider doing it, thus lightening the actual burden of companionating our Ancient and Infirm ones and lightening the emotional burden that the idea of "caregiving" places upon those who are becoming more dependent upon we who feel we can allow ourselves the luxury of identifying ourselves as "independent". We might, finally, consider the companionating of the Ancient and Infirm a relationship for which we want to make room in our lives. The mere act of changing our perspective in this way might lead to a grass roots revolution through which we will demand that "society" change in order to accommodate our desire to keep our Ancient Ones close to us, not so much to protect them from the evils of the "long term care industry" but to enjoy their company and avail ourselves of the perks of becoming thoroughly familiar with, even loving, their existence, until they're ready to pursue further adventures beyond the borders of this life.
One final thought: A change in language often engenders a change in thought. A change in thought always engenders a change in society.
"What a wonderful world this would be." [Thank you, Sam Cooke/Alpert/Adler]
The Last of the Trippy Shorts
Movement and Ancient Energy
So, yes, her energy level during the day trip to her doctor was amazing, although as I review the last few weeks, specifically since I've been having trouble with her blood glucose levels and have insisted on at least some extra movement every day, even if this means walkering in the house, in a home based effort to control it (of which I continually remind Mom, and to which I continually solicit her agreement), I've noticed that the old health saw we all recognize and to which all of us pay at least verbal obeisance, "movement begets movement", is certainly true. I just hadn't considered, until our trip, that it remains true for my mother.
As we began the day I perused my memories of all our day trips within the last few years and "decided" that, considering her shortened night-sleep time and all the extra movement the trip would require, I should be prepared for her to take a couple of naps. This, I decided, would work out fine, since I had a little shopping I wanted to do in the Valley during our "down" time pre- and post-appointment. She sleeps hard after vigorous movement and as long as I let her know I'd be gone from the hotel room and keep my shopping trips short, we shouldn't have a problem.
Much to my surprise, she wanted to shop with me. She's always loved window shopping, or, during her less active periods, the idea of it. So, I took her along with me to Ulta, at her insistence.
I thought she might like to see a little of this part of the city, which had been her stomping ground from 1981-2004. I suggested we take the long way around. She agreed. She didn't remember a lot on her own, but I kept up a running commentary, which she enjoyed and in which she participated. As usual, Mesa continues development, which fascinated her, at first. Then, as she tired of taking in the sites, the surprise of new this and new that began to annoy her. As well, she was itching to move, also a surprise, and began to wonder when we'd get to "the store". I'd driven quite a bit out of our way. I told her we'd "head back" and be there "soon".
Not soon enough, apparently. About three miles from our target, she said, "Doesn't this city ever end?!?"
Whereupon, I reminded her that about three decades ago, when most of our family first came back to the States from Guam to live here, on road trips, during night driving, we used to discuss the curiosity of the extension of lights through what, during the day, looked like undeveloped desert between Phoenix and Tucson and Phoenix and Prescott. "Remember," I said, "when we used to talk about how, eventually, Arizona was going to be one big city?"
She laughed. "Oh, yes! That was one of your dad's favorite subjects!"
"Well," I said, "welcome to Arizona, the Twilight Zone of Cities! We will never get to Ulta because, even as we drive, the city continues to expand!"
She laughed. "Your dad would love that," she said.
About a mile before we reached our destination we got caught in a traffic jam on Power Road, just north of Southern, outside Leisure World in Mesa. Mom nodded toward the ostentatious display sculpture, a huge globe on top of a pedestal, just inside the gated community, and mentioned, "Your dad considered buying there, you know."
"Really! I had no idea! I remember him mentioning that he was impressed that Arthur Godfrey was somehow connected with it, but I didn't know you guys considered buying."
"Oh, yes! I'd forgotten that!"
"So, which community (the other was Palmas Del Sol, where they finally bought) did you prefer?"
She shook her head, looked a bit sour. "Oh, neither. I was fine with whatever Dad wanted. I didn't want to live someplace that he didn't like. I never would have heard the end of it."
"Okay, well, he's dead, now. I mean, maybe he can hear us, but I can't imagine he'd hold it against you, anymore. So, just between us and old ghosts, where would you have preferred to live?"
She leaned into me and said, voice lowered, "The farm. I never wanted to leave the farm." By this, she meant the five acre farm in Wichita Falls, where they lived for some years in the 1970's.
"Oh, yeah. You loved that place, didn't you?"
"Well, most of it. But your dad just couldn't settle down there."
"As I recall, he couldn't settle down anyplace."
"Well, no, that's true."
"So, at least, finally, in Prescott, you're living in a place that you picked out yourself."
"Oh, no, Dad picked that one out, too!"
I laughed. "No, Mom, that one's your fault! I even tried to talk you out of it, but you were adamant. And, you know what? You were right. It is, now, the perfect place for you. For us."
"Well, you just keep reminding me of that, child."
"Oh, don't worry, I'll never stop reminding you of it!"
Once we arrived at Ulta, she spent most of her time browsing the perfume/perfumed products section, which is no surprise...these displays are always the most seductive in the store. She didn't want to buy anything. She didn't remember being there a few weeks ago, either. She even mentioned, "I've never been here. We need to come here more often."
Just across the parking lot, obscured by a Souper Salads restaurant, is a Black Angus. I'm surprised she noticed it, it seemed out of her view, but, as we exited the beauty supplies store she spotted it, mentioned that she was hungry and wanted meat. She also wanted to walker over to the restaurant. I considered the possibility but thought the better of it. I mentioned to her that, after eating, we'd also have to walker back.
"Oh, that's right," she said. "Well, let's drive, then."
Good thing we did. By the time we finished dinner she was complaining that she was "awfully stiff".
Once we were back at the hotel and she was considering a nap, I commented on the surprising amount of walkering she'd done without back and knee problems.
"I know," she said, working her arms as though she was power walking. "I felt like I could just go and go!"
I couldn't help interjecting a little lesson, here. "That, Mom, is because you've been doing a little walkering almost every day for the past couple of weeks. See what a difference it makes when we keep you in practice?"
"My goodness, yes," she agreed.
"So, do you see, now, why it's important to keep you moving, especially when you're feeling good?"
She gave me a sly look. "I don't have to remember that. You'll remind me."
Yes, I will, that's for sure.
Before she laid down for an hour of relaxation, we talked a bit about what a wonderful day we were having and how successful this trip was. We discussed the possibility of further day trips to the Valley, strictly for pleasure.
"We could go other places, too," she said.
"Oh? What do you have on your devious little mind?" I asked.
"Well, I was thinking about Iowa..."
My previous automatic response would have been, "No, no way, not overnight," but, you know, in light of this trip, well, who knows what she and I will be able to not only endure but enjoy. "Hmmm..." I said carefully, "Yeah, maybe we could fly there, rent a car..."
"I see no reason why we couldn't drive there."
Thinking that her excellently controlled anemia hadn't had any effect on her geographical dementia, I said, "Well, Mom, that would probably be a four day trip, at the least, maybe more."
"Well, goodness! I know that!"
"Don't you think you'd rather fly?"
"You can't see the countryside when you fly," she insisted.
"I see your point but, you know, that's a loooong trip by car, and, once we're committed, turning back, if we wanted to, wouldn't shorten the trip."
She thought about this for a few minutes. "I see your point," she conceded, "but, I think we'd have a good time. We've always have a good time on road trips."
She's right. We do, especially when she feels good. We're great traveling companions. Before I could respond, though, she said, "Well, we'll think about it. We don't have to make any plans right away."
I silently sent a prayer of thanks to the travel gods. This "wait and see" addendum is an indication that she's realizing she might be over-imagining her stamina.
So, it's on our mental table. Our extended, formal dining table. Which means, it may not ever be eaten but it's there. Even if we don't partake, it will provide lots of hours of pleasurable savoring.
At one point, she asked when we were going to see "those friends of [mine]." That would be MCF and family. I specifically planned our last trip two weeks ago and this one without a visit with them because all my recent memories of our visits, while they've been wonderful for both of us, have also tired her out so much that I can barely get her out of the car when we get home. After our doctor's visit in April, she had suggested that the next time we visit MCF, we make sure we have nothing else on the docket. She felt like trying to do business and see friends was just too much. Her energy level is up now, though, and, well, I guess I should have factored this in. I think she would have loved spending the evening with them, even if it meant a much later arrival at home than we accomplished. Besides, since her energy level was high, with a little rearrangement we probably could have accomplished the same time schedule, had "dinner with friends" which Mom always loves and still arrived home at a decent hour.
For some reason, though, I couldn't bring myself to cop to having purposely planned a friendless trip. I'm not sure why. Instead, I lied and said "everyone was busy".
"I remember they were busy when we were down here recently..." Uh oh, I thought, I forgot I used this lie before "...but I thought you said we'd being seeing them this time."
I might have...I couldn't remember. It was definitely possible, though, because our last trip went so well, but it had been a very short trip. We'd left the Valley at 1400.
About a half hour later she asked a version of the same question, "What time are we supposed to meet those friends of yours?"
Again, I lied.
I guess, from now on, at least as long as her energy is up and her "conditions" are under good control, I need to factor visiting friends back into our traveling plans.
As our conversation at the hotel about our trip wound down, before she took a short nap and I headed out to my favorite Mesa coffee shop for a very large/four espresso shot/non-fat/mocha Valencia iced latte to bolster me for the trip, we both sat silently regarding each other, smiling, savoring all the detail we'd just covered.
"Mom," I said, bleary with success, "I just want you to know, I can't think of anyone I'd rather be with."
I heard a sharp intake of breath, looked at her and noticed she was tearing up, trying to disguise it as weepy allergy eyes. "I was just thinking the same thing," she said, choking little and disguising that as a cough, "only I couldn't find the words."
It's Never Too Late
Although this trip did not involve smoking, I knew before we left, from weather reports, that it would involve some very bad air in the Valley. I packed a lot of oxygen, knowing that by the time we headed back up the mountain she'd probably be having a little trouble breathing and the oxygen would help her body negotiate the sharp rise in altitude from dirty air to somewhat less oxygenated air. To make sure all went well, I hooked her up to oxygen before we drove out of the hotel parking lot to head home and dialed her to 5/lpm pulse, knowing that this would guarantee that she would get at least 2/lpm between bouts of mouth breathing. She fussed about this, but after I explained the situation to her, she agreed she'd probably be more comfortable with it. She'd barely gone without oxygen throughout the whole trip. Usually she only uses it when she moves, down there, but I noticed, both at the restaurant and during our short rests at the hotel, that she was doing significantly more mouth breathing than is typical in the Valley, so I knew that the quality of the air was bothering her and kept her attached to her tank.
Since her level of alertness has improved, reminding her to "breathe through your nose" isn't quite the chore as it used to be. Because I didn't have to do it as often on this trip, I was able to silently observe her breathing habits on oxygen with a more finely honed focus than usual. Something I noticed that had escaped me before: My mother tenses when she anticipates. By this I mean, it doesn't matter what she is anticipating: Good, bad, exciting, stressful, relaxing, routine, a break in routine, anticipation causes her body to tense, particularly her upper body.
Whoa, I thought, this is interesting! I've always considered my mother a self-relaxation specialist but, as I thought back, I realized this tensing-in-anticipation behavior is of very, very long standing. So, I decided, before we were out of the Valley, instead of reminding her to "breathe through your nose, not your mouth" and/or reminding her not to swallow air (which she does, a lot, when she tenses), when I noticed she was beginning to tense her upper body, I'd simply tell her to "relax". This worked beautifully; so well, in fact, that, about halfway through the trip back, I decided that maybe a little self-realization might underscore my efforts.
I explained to her what I'd observed. "You know, Mom," I said in summation, "the really funny thing about this is that you are actually very good at relaxing, you always have been. Except when you are anticipating something. That's when you tense and that causes you to become breathless. I know that sometimes you're breathless because your lungs are challenged, but, you know, they're in much better shape than they used to be (I didn't mention why this was so). So, now, a lot of the time when you become breathless, I think it's because you feel like, when you know something is going to happen, anything, you feel like you have to put your shoulder to some figurative wheel, you tense for the effort, and, just like that, you become short of breath. The really bizarre thing about this is that I think I learned from you, by observation, that, you know, things happen, just go with the flow, do what you have to as challenges come to meet you, and everything will work out all right. It's almost as if you've hoped this is true but you haven't really believed it."
The car filled with my mother's stunned silence. As we cleared Black Canyon Pass and approached Sunset Point she said, "You know, I think you might have something, there."
I let another several seconds go by before I ventured, "Well, you know, it's never too late to test your beliefs, Mom. I, personally, think your belief is true, but that isn't going to help you, any. I'm going to be super vigilant from now on, though. I'm going to be reminding you every time I notice you tensing, until it becomes such a habit that you internalize my voice and remind yourself, to 'relax, you can't stop life coming at you, but, hey, you've lived this long, you can get through anything, good, bad, middling, anything, and you don't need to expend nearly the effort you think you do.'"
More silence. Finally, timidly, "Can I count on you to do that?"
"Yes. I promise. Aside from making your experience of life more pleasant, it'll make my experience of our life much easier."
"Good."
Since then, I've also noticed that it helps if I give her a mini shoulder and back massage when I tell her to relax. I've also added a reminder for her to "drop your shoulders, you don't have to do anything, here, everything is unfolding on its own." As a result, since last Tuesday, even though her energy level has kept her interested in getting up and out and moving around and doing and seeing things more than in the past, even though I continue to hook her up to 2/lpm continuous oxygen whenever she's involved in walkering movement, she's using significantly less oxygen than before. I'm truly amazed.
It is such a treat to be able to do this for my mother and to watch her learn to take life even easier than we both thought she already took it. It has put me in mind of something a wonderful friend of mine said about my mother years ago: That he considered my mother, "...resigned, in the best sense of the word." He was right about this. Until recently I've considered this statement a stunning tribute to her. Lately, I've been thinking about this tribute in connection with her nascent ability to relax into the tradewinds of life, though, and realized that a modification of this phrase, into which she is just now, bordering on nonagenarianism, developing, is an even more stunning tribute: "...accepting, in the best sense of the word."
Not just resignation, even in its best sense, but acceptance. Of everything. With calm breathing and relaxed carriage. That's the key. What an honor it is to be able to pass this key onto my mother, especially since it isn't a key I've yet been privileged to use.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Until this morning, I forgot...
...that having a fax machine means that faxes can go both ways! I got the call this morning from Mom's doctor's office that Blood Test Results from 9/12/06 are up. I was going to have them sent through the mail, as I always leave stamped, self-addressed envelopes there, but realized, while on the phone with the doctor's PA, that I could have them faxed. So I did. They're posted, and the doctor and I are both happy.
Some of the comments written by the doctor on some of the tests:
I've been noting, over at The Dailies (into which I have yet to record yesterday) that I've been able to coax her into daily movement, including trips out of the house, without hardly any effort. Yesterday, in fact, we went to two hardware stores (I finally found an appropriate manual mower) and Walmart. By retirement, though, she was pooped, so, by mutual agreement, I'm letting her sleep in today, although I'm not going to let her go past 1400. I'll also allow a nap, though. She mentioned, last night, that she feels as though "[I've] run [her] ragged." I guess I have, although it hasn't been hard. She's been more than willing. She even wanted to do the hardware store runs a day before we actually did them. Yesterday, as usual, she combined a lot of vigorous walkering with a lot of resting, but she was a lean, mean walkering machine. At the second hardware store, the guy who helped us commented on her energy and slyly asked me how old she was, appending, "...45 or so, right?"
Mom gave him a "you do me an injustice, sir" glare.
Taking my cue from her, I said, "Oh, she's 89 and owns every one of her years, believe me!"
At which Mom said (despite the fact that when she's relaxing she thinks of herself as somewhere in her 30's), "Are you sure I'm not in my 90's?"
So, I guess her perception of her age depends on who's 'watching' and what sort of an impression she wants to make! I figure, when she's relaxing with me or among people she knows well, she is more aware of her 'spiritual age', which probably is somewhere in the 30's. When she's in public and wants to wow her audience, she tries to tack a few years onto her chronological age. Funny, funny woman!
Well, I think I'll head over and update The Dailies while I've got a few minutes.
Later.
Some of the comments written by the doctor on some of the tests:
- CBC: Although her her anemia indicators dropped a bit between her blood test here and the one at the doctor's office, he considers her anemia "currently stable". So do I.
- As usual, her kidneys show moderate function, no better or worse than usual, and her liver enzymes are in order, so her pronounced both "good".
- He was concerned that her HA1C is in the low range of normal, though, and suggested that we drop her back to one 10 mg glipizide ER per day at breakfast. Her lowered anemia indicators, of course, affect this result, but his concern about her average running "a little low" is warranted, even and especially with her odd drop in her anemia indicators over less than a week. Since her BG continues to display her very new tendency to run high, what I'll do, for a week or so, is drop her back to her regular two-per-day at breakfast and dinner dose, see how her BG is running and, if we're back where we were previous to about three weeks before her appointment, drop her back yet again to one per day at breakfast. As the holidays rev up and plates of sweets are laid out where ever we go, I'll keep an eye on it and add a dose here and there as necessary. However, some of this will depend on whether her anemia revives again (as it usually does), which I'll know through the monthly CBCs, which will continue. The next monthly will be drawn around 10/12/06.
- Her cholesterol is out of control, again (there are times when it's in perfect control) per the numbers, but the doctor wrote "OK" and circled it for emphasis, so I'm not going to worry about that. I understand his reasoning completely.
- Her iron (which is the last item in the Chem Panel) is fine. He didn't do a full survey but I figure he thinks none is needed, and I agree.
- I didn't bother to put in the Prescott Reference Ranges, this time. I'll continue those with the next monthly.
I've been noting, over at The Dailies (into which I have yet to record yesterday) that I've been able to coax her into daily movement, including trips out of the house, without hardly any effort. Yesterday, in fact, we went to two hardware stores (I finally found an appropriate manual mower) and Walmart. By retirement, though, she was pooped, so, by mutual agreement, I'm letting her sleep in today, although I'm not going to let her go past 1400. I'll also allow a nap, though. She mentioned, last night, that she feels as though "[I've] run [her] ragged." I guess I have, although it hasn't been hard. She's been more than willing. She even wanted to do the hardware store runs a day before we actually did them. Yesterday, as usual, she combined a lot of vigorous walkering with a lot of resting, but she was a lean, mean walkering machine. At the second hardware store, the guy who helped us commented on her energy and slyly asked me how old she was, appending, "...45 or so, right?"
Mom gave him a "you do me an injustice, sir" glare.
Taking my cue from her, I said, "Oh, she's 89 and owns every one of her years, believe me!"
At which Mom said (despite the fact that when she's relaxing she thinks of herself as somewhere in her 30's), "Are you sure I'm not in my 90's?"
So, I guess her perception of her age depends on who's 'watching' and what sort of an impression she wants to make! I figure, when she's relaxing with me or among people she knows well, she is more aware of her 'spiritual age', which probably is somewhere in the 30's. When she's in public and wants to wow her audience, she tries to tack a few years onto her chronological age. Funny, funny woman!
Well, I think I'll head over and update The Dailies while I've got a few minutes.
Later.
