Mom & Me Four Archive

    I noticed it, definitively, when we watched Akeelah and the Bee a week ago last Thursday. During the movie I prepared and launched dinner. As preparation ended, as is usual, I knelt beside my mother, who was sitting in her rocker, directed her silently to extend her hand toward me and took her blood glucose. As is also usual, as the meter analyzed her blood drop I placed it on the floor in front of me, next to her left foot. All the while Mom was watching the movie, paying no more attention to the process than usual. The meter beeped that it was finished. Mom turned her head toward me and said, "What's my blood sugar tonight?"
    "Did you hear the meter, Mom?"
    "Well, yes. I always hear it."
    Here I have to explain that:

1. This new meter has a softer beep by about half as our old meter. We've had the new meter since March of this year.
2. She rarely heard the old meter.
3. I've known, for some months, that she can hear this new meter in her bathroom, which is well constructed for the production of sound. She has also, but only a couple of times, indicated that she's heard the meter in the morning when it's on her bed very close to her ear.
4. I did not know that she's been able to hear the meter anywhere else.
5. I have noticed, though, since April, that her hearing has "gotten better", as she tells it; thus, she's noticed it, too. I think this improvement has everything to do with the fact that she is more alert, now that her anemia is under excellent control. Even when she's feeling a little low physically, her level of alertness remains practically steady; thus, she is almost always paying attention to her environment. Consequently, in the last several months I've been able to lower the volume of the TV (thank the gods) when she's watching it.

    As the movie continued and I served her dinner, I began to consider these changes in her hearing. I realized that maybe it is no longer necessary for me to speak in an unusually loud voice when talking to her, except when I am competing with the TV, the faucet in the bathroom, the direction of a fan or talking to her when my mouth is not speaking along a direct path to any part of her face. This would be a huge relief. Although my natural voice is unusually resonant and it does not take much effort for me to turn it up, I rattle from the inside out most of the time my mother is up from talking to her at bone shaking levels. Although I'd not given this much thought, the prospect of daily experiencing only my normal resonance struck me as similar to being granted freedom from a form of slavery.
    I decided to conduct some experiments after the movie. As we continued our evening, which included much discussion of the movie and the subject of spelling, I deliberately dropped the decibel level of my voice to normal. No matter where I stood or sat as we talked, the only time she had difficulty hearing and understanding me was when I was walking away from her and throwing my voice over my shoulder.
    I lifted an internal chorus of Hallelujah! to the skies.
    Just in the last week-plus-some, it's made a welcome difference in my physical comfort level around here. Except. Except.
    Within the last few-days-less-than-a-week I've been forced to take acute notice that some of my mother's "hearing problem" has been a listening problem. A fair amount of time when she doesn't "hear" me, she isn't listening. This isn't news to me, but it's become much more apparent, now that I've lowered the level of my voice.
    This is a decades old problem. I've had it with not only her but other members of my family. It's directly related to the fact that I am what is labeled a "know it all". Not that I do know it all, or ever have, or ever thought I have, or ever let on that I do. It's just that I have always been fascinated with information and will spontaneously spout bits of it when those bits seem appropriate to the conversation at hand. Sometimes these are gathered bits. Sometimes they are self-generated bits, fashioned from thinking about and playing match games with all the bits already in my head. I usually distinguish one type from another; sometimes, though, I have to be prodded to do this by someone asking, "How do you know thus and so?" Rarely, as a broad joke, I'll throw out mangled information. As an adult among adults, this is usually acknowledged for what it is. I used to do it as a child, though, too, among other children, primarily my younger sisters. Sometimes, these younger children took the joke as fact. One such "fact" has never been forgotten by one of my sisters. Another "fact", which I learned from someone else, believed for years and turned out not to be true also held a sister captive for about the same length of time it held me captive. As well, I have always been repetitive; probably because I have memories of realizing, from a very young age, that no one was listening to me most of the time, which I always thought was odd, since I spent so much time alone or in solitary pursuits when forced with accompaniment that I didn't think I talked that much.
    So, anyway, the family habit of not listening to me has a long history; particularly long in my mother's case. In some cases it is justified; when I am repetitive, for instance, or when I am slyly playing with my bits and in full view of a public, mixed audience. In some cases, well, it's sad that it happens, but it hasn't been justified.
    So, with all this in mind, since I seemed to have solved the voice volume problem to my mother's and my satisfaction, I recently set about considering the listening problem. I realized that some of what she doesn't listen to are daily, incessant repetitions:

• "Drink more coffee/tea/OJ/water/V-8 juice. Now."
• "Blow your nose."
• "Time to go to the bathroom."
• "Lift your leg from the thigh. No. From the thigh."
• "Watch your OJ, don't cover it with the paper, you're about to knock it off the table."
• "Eat over your plate, not over your lap, please."
• "Lead [when negotiating our steps] with your left leg; it's your strongest."
• Many parts of our entire Song of the Washer-ing Women (which I try hard to vary every day, making up little songs on the spot, changing the order of the washing directions, joking gently about all sorts of things connected with requiring help bathing, etc.).

    Some of these commands and reminders can be further varied in order to present a surprise to her ear to which she will listen. Some of them, well, how many ways are there to say, "Blow your nose"?
    When I'm just talking to her, though, when we're carrying on a conversation, it is not uncommon for me to open my mouth and before I've made a sound her eyes are scrinched, she's straining toward me and saying, "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Thus, I find myself turning up my voice until there is no way she can't "understand" me.
    Ironically, I was the one who taught her how to say this to people when her hearing (and her alertness, I now realize) were much worse. She used to pretend she heard people, smile, nod and often miss out on important or interesting information or the pleasure of a shared connection. Now, the lesson is coming back to bite me in the ass.
    Early Friday morning I decided that the best way to deal with this was head on. During breakfast, after she'd read through the paper to her satisfaction, I kept her at the table and initiated The Listening Conversation. I hit her head on with the fact that she is in the habit of not listening to me and I know it's not because of her hearing. I approached this by explaining what I'd been doing with volume levels over the past week. The timing and area of the conversation were both attempts to sneak up on her. It worked. She listened.
    She tilted her face coyly away from me and flashed me a thin-lipped grin. "Most of what you say I hear over and over every day."
    "I know," I said. "I know that's a problem. Some of those reminders I can vary. Some I can't, and I can live with you tuning those out. I am not, however, interested in doing any more talking during a particular day than I have to do. So, I want you to know ahead of time that when we are just conversing about things, you are in a physical position to hear everything I say and there are no cross currents of sound or air distorting my voice, if you don't hear something I say the first time, I'm not going to repeat it. I'm tired of repeating myself. I'm tired of ramping up my voice just because you're not listening. I'm tired of rumbling myself from the inside out because you're not listening. You have the ability to listen. You are very good about letting people know when you don't understand something, so that's not a problem. I'm not expecting you to remember stuff, I'm not blaming you for your dementia. But, I'm not going to take responsibility, any longer, for any lazy listening on your part, and, believe me, I can tell the difference in you between lazy listening and a failure of brain power."
    So, it's been almost 48 hours since that conversation. There have been several times through yesterday and today when we've been in conversation, face to face, without sound distortions, and she's fallen into her lazy listening habit; thus, there have been several times when I haven't repeated things I've said. These incidents are decreasing, but yesterday she went to bed thoroughly grim, feeling, I'm sure, that I'd spent much of the day shutting her out. Today, though, she listened more carefully and heard about half again more of what I said; thus, the day was much easier for her and she retired in her usual good humor.
    Interestingly, as she was sitting on her bed blowing her nose in preparation for the oxygen cannula, she referred to a conversation we'd had earlier catalyzed by watching the movie Shakespeare in Love.
    "I'm still wondering about the end of the movie," she said, "where the girl is walking across the beach."
    "I explained that to you at the time; where that came from, what play it's referring to."
    "Oh, yes, I remember. I guess I wasn't listening."
    I almost fell over from the weight of her words. "See, Mom," I taunted her, "you admit it. You weren't listening."
    She turned that thin-lipped I've-been-caught grin on me again. "I know. What about the girl on the beach?"
    "I'll tell you what. The next time we watch that movie and you ask me that question, I'll answer it again. When I do, you'd better be listening."
    "I guess I'd better," she said. "How about if we watch it tomorrow?"
    How about that!

    Today, too, while doing chores, doing an errand, I've been reflecting on how peaceful it feels to not be continually vibrating raucously from the sound of my voice. It took only a day for this to have a felicitous effect. I've often considered that one of the things I might do immediately after my mother dies is set up a situation where I can go into enforced seclusion for a few months, maybe six, maybe more, in which I "take a vow of silence", as the monks would say. I remember explaining this desire a couple of years ago to one of my sisters as a period in which I could, "make sense of the totality of what I will have been doing here."
    When I think back on my announcement, I find it amusingly absurd that it was the sister who is the most relentlessly social to whom I spoke of this; she was confused, horrified and, which came as the ultimate surprise to me, a little chastened. I think she took my announcement as a personal rejection. Not that she needed to; I think it was simply that it is not her nature to consider seclusion as socially useful; thus, her immediate response to my announcement was that I was somehow rejecting her and my other sisters. I was so surprised by her reaction, though, that I didn't think to respond reassuringly; I left her to contemplate it on her own. I have no idea what the upshot of that contemplation might be.
    At any rate, at the time of my announcement, I was sure of my motives. Now, I think, I think I've achieved a bit more clarity about why I consider this kind of a retreat immediately after my mother dies.. These years of being my mother's companion have, of necessity, turned me into a much, much more talkative person than I've ever been, simply because there is someone around with whom I must talk. Previously, although I'm neither shy nor socially withdrawn, thus, when in public I am more apt to talk than not, I purposely spent lots of time alone, primarily because I have, all my adult life, insisted on living alone; thus, I was able to get away with scraping together enough silence to keep me happy. Not so, as my mother's companion.
    Although I expect my new efforts at lowering decibel levels will continue to provide great relief, I also expect my desire for intense silence, especially my own, will probably remain with me, so, depending on how circumstances fall into place after my mother's death, I might, indeed, enter into silence for awhile. As I contemplated this yesterday, I realized that I think I may want to enter into a state of not just vocal silence, but communicative silence, as well; primarily, I don't want to write anything down. This would be an extraordinary challenge for me, since it is automatic for my brain to explain things to me lingually, because I'm always considering the possibility of writing down what I'm thinking. As I considered what excluding the tool of writing from me would do I further realized that in order to head off any possibility of me storing lingualized bits in my brain which I would rush to write once I'd finished my enforced silence, I would also have to take a vow that I would not write about my experience of silence. Ever. This would free my brain from the necessity of attempting to lingualize everything it thought. Wow, I thought. If I could set myself to this discipline, I might discover, for myself, a whole new way of thinking! I might even be able to free myself from some strictures of thought that seem inherent but are merely habitual! This must be what very deep meditation is!
    So, while I must, I'll surrender to internal sound. Now that I've figured out that I can modify the volume, it's no longer threatening to approach the level of self-torture. I've noticed, in fact, that I am hearing indigenous environmental sound better than I did prior to Friday, and, you know, my hearing is important to me. It's so important to me that if someone told me that I must sacrifice either sight or sound, my choice, but I couldn't have both, I'd gladly hand over my eyes.
    When I can, though, I'll, one way or another, pursue silence. Now that I feel this is certain, my external and internal ears are so savoring the possibility of a future period of silence that it feels as though they are shivering with the desire to lap up every possible sound I can create between now and the moment I am free to step over the threshhold into A Grand Silence.
    Seems so appropriate: This noisy, companionship (including the internal noise of reporting on the companionship) discipline...followed by the discipline of pursuing deep internal silence.
    Music to my ears.
    Later.

    I'm sure it will be the first of a few more than a few that will be packed into the period between now and the end of January. This, I realized yesterday, is one of the pleasures of the holiday season, for me.
    She commented on the striking fragrance of the package she delivered to me. "It perfumed my whole van," she said.
    "Bet you were glad to finally deliver it," I said, chuckling.
    "Oh, no, it was wonderful! Especially this time of year when everything is so colorful around here."
    I explained to her that it was a box of soaps. "I use heavily fragrant soaps in my mother's bathroom; it stimulates her nose, always causes her to comment when she's in there, and, you know, with bathing her, we spend a lot of time in there. It also helps mask the odor of her used paper underwear until I can empty the trash can."
    "I should try that," she said.
    With this we were off and running, catching up on each other's caregiving careers. She is the woman I've mentioned, here, who, with her husband, takes care of her mom (87) and dad (89) in home and has been for some years, while she and her husband continue working toward their separate retirements. Her Mom's profile is much like my mother's: Dementia-Lite, "old age" diabetes, slowly increasing physical instability, a few other miscellaneous conditions, one of which is high blood pressure. Her father, other than an osteoporotic upper back, "is fine", although, he too, is noticeably "slowing down". The couple lives in an added on "apartment" which is completely open to the rest of the house, but includes "separate" amenities like a small kitchen, bedroom, a living/entertainment room, even a utility room so they can do their own wash.
    Since our last visit, sometime in April of last year, I think, much has happened in their family. Her mother has "gone downhill" rather quickly in the intervening months: She is no longer able to sew, which was one of her favorite activities. She becomes confused with the machine and, within minutes of starting a sewing project, manages to jam the machine, which frustrates her even more. The FedEx lady told me that she "finally" felt it was time to remove the machine from her mother's line of sight so as to preserve her mother's "sanity". "As soon as the machine was put away," she said, "it's the funniest thing. My mother stopped thinking about sewing."
    "Wow," I said. "Maybe she was ready to go onto something else, but, you know, old habits die hard."
    The FedEx lady nodded. "I worry, though, that Mom doesn't have enough to do," she said.
    I related how, within the last year and a half, I've been learning the hard lesson that being Ancient is more about "being than doing". We sympathized with one another about how hard this is to acknowledge. Curiously, though, neither of us referred to the "sadness" of this, the "loss" of that. This is why I love talking with her. She shares my attitude that these devolvements are just life, you know, when one door closes, another one opens. I find that this attitude is common only among those who have embraced not just the actuality of their Ancient Ones, but their presence, full time, in their lives. Not all in-home caregivers operate from these attitudes but, so far, all caregivers I've encountered with these bedrock perspectives are taking care of their Ancient Ones in home.
    Since we last talked, her parents celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary. "We were going to keep it low key," she said, "just immediate family," which includes family in Phoenix and Tucson. Somehow, though, word got around. Pretty soon relatives were calling from all over the U.S. and Mexico (their family is scattered from Seattle to Florida and Michigan to Mexico, literally), asking about the party, inviting themselves, suggesting things they could do to make it better...the event turned into a boisterous soirée with 90 people and a D.J. for back yard dancing. "I took a month off just to prepare, even though we decided to cater it," the FedEx lady said.
    As the event expanded to practically every last dribble of living relatives, the FedEx lady got an idea. "I told everyone to write up one of their memories of Mom and Dad, attach a souvenir and bring it as their gift to them. We copied all the memories and took pictures of the souvenirs. I'm not sure how it happened, but there were well over 100 memories." They presented their matriarch and patriach with the originals at the party and laid out the copies on a table so people browse and read them. When people began to leave, someone came up with the idea of "exchanging memories"; as each person left, they scanned through the copied memories and took one of someone else's home with them. "Even the young ones," she said. "They were first at the table. I guess they wanted to make sure they got their favorites."
    Everyone, of course, had a wonderful time. "My mother was so surprised," the FedEx lady told me. "After the party she kept saying, 'there were no fights!' Whenever we get together, it seems like there's always someone who is upset with someone else and it spills over into the party."
    "I wonder," I said, "if it's because your parents were the focus. I mean, you know, during holiday celebrations, everyone is supposed to have the spotlight for a little while, but someone always gets left out, knows, ahead of time, they're going to get left out, someone else can't distinguish between appetizer chips and chips on shoulders, everybody's strung out from the holiday rush, all the 'shoulds' that run rampant during that season..."
    The FedEx Lady nodded vigorously. "We've got a lot of that going on in our family."
    Just about every family does, I guess, no matter what form it takes.
    She mentioned to me, too, that her son has come back to live with them in order to help take care of her parents, especially his Grandma. Although, for the past few years they've employed a housekeeper who comes in during the weekdays, does housework, cooking, and is supposed to provide company and transportation for her Mom and Dad, as her mother's dementia has increased, her lack of affinity for the housekeeper has also increased. She resents the housekeeper's presence, doesn't like her personality, doesn't like the food she cooks, thus, she doesn't eat, during the day, and would prefer to ignore rather than engage the housekeeper.
    "Finally," she said, "I realized that what Mom and Dad need, now, is family. I called my son in Seattle and asked him if he'd consider finishing his school out here in the evening and being with Grandma and Grandpa during the day."
    He accepted. Enthusiastically. "He knows that if he wants to add to his memories of them, he'd better start, now."
    I briefly wondered if this is a realization that comes naturally to families formed out of one of the subcultural concepts of extended family. This family is one of those.
    Both her Mom and Dad have "perked up" considerably since their grandson moved back home. "It's not so much what he does or doesn't do," The FedEx Lady said, "it's that they goof around together. He knows what kind of food Mom and Dad like, that's what he fixes and Mom eats it. They don't just go on business trips, they take little pleasure trips with him. They talk about common experiences. They are all very interested in what happened in each other's lives yesterday, the day before, when they weren't together, and what is going to happen today."
    Wow, I thought. I couldn't have put the importance of family involvement in the lives of its Ancient Ones better.
    "I'm not worried about making it to retirement anymore," she said. She held up two fingers. "Only two more years. My son will finish with his schooling, then, and I'll be able to be at home with Mom and Dad." There was much relief in her voice. The possibility of having to quit work before retiring on behalf of taking care of her parents has been haunting her. "By that time," she added, "[her son] will be so involved with his grandparents that I know he'll continue visiting a lot, no matter where he moves."
    I asked to whom her Mom and Dad were going to travel this year for the holidays, as is the family custom.
    The FedEx Lady shook her head. "Not this year," she said.
    I recalled her mentioning, last year, that the two trips they took were so hard on them she was anticipating that traveling to relatives wasn't going to last too much longer.
    "It's too hard on Mom and Dad gets confused," she confirmed. "Someone would have to travel with them, then return, then go get them. It takes them awhile to recover from the trips, too...they had a good time, last year, but were so tired they both said they wished family had come to them."
    I nodded. Sounds familiar. "So, holidays here, this year?" I asked.
    She nodded and began an excited exposition about visits already planned and parties-in-the-works.
    I chuckled. "More time off during the holidays," I said.
    "Not for me! It's my husband's turn. I've taken just about all the time I can. He's insisting on it. I think he's looking forward to it." She mimed exhaustion, back slumping, arms dangling, head spinning in clock circles. "If I had to take all that on every time a celebration comes up, we wouldn't have holidays!"
    Whoa, I thought. So, maybe I can be forgiven for what has become my dismissal of holidays over the last few years. I'm not just imagining my frustration, nor am I inventing it in anticipation, nor am I being selfishly petty about refusing celebratory delights in favor of avoiding exasperation and exhaustion. It happens even for those who have significant family back-up. "I guess that means we'll be able to keep up with each other over the holidays, this year. That'll be great," I said.
    "I know," she said. "I always feel better when we talk like this. I think about you and your Mom a lot. I don't know many people who take care of their parents."
    "Same here," I said.
    So, for me, for the FedEx Lady...
    ...later.

    Before my mother awoke, yesterday, I received a call from one of my sisters, the one with whom I communicate the most. We always fall into an easy chatter, although not necessarily about easy subjects.
    One of the subjects we traversed was the younger members of our extended family; the nieces and nephews and grand-this-and-that's. She has, for some years, been closely tending one of the youngest of these relatives. There is a possibility that this relationship will be overshadowed by the intrusion of professional care for the child, next year...for no other reason than that the parents seem to be unaware of the extraordinary, dynamic and valuable (to both parties) relationship my sister has forged with The Young One in question. My sister and I spent some time mourning the fact that the relationship isn't evident to The Young One's parents, talked about ways to bring it to their awareness and lobby for that relationship as at least as valuable to The Young One's development as a professional day care center could be. To lighten the flow of the conversation, I joked that if my sister had a hard time approaching the parents about this, "Have 'em call me, I'll tell them!"
    We both laughed.
    "No, don't," I continued, attempting to stoke another laugh. "Considering all the stuff I've said and written since April, trying to change the way everyone relates to Mom and me, the last thing I need is to distance yet another part of the family!"
    "Oh, I don't pay any attention to that!" the sister with whom I was talking said.
    I was momentarily startled. I immediately thought of the Care Free post and the post about relationships and wondered In other words, if you're beset with a howling dog, hang back until the dog is asleep, then, let that sleeping dog lie. The conversation continued to swirl fast around me, though, so I tabled my initial consideration and immediately entitled the fast receding comment, "An Offering Meant to Assure Me that I Had Not Managed to Distance Her."
    Our conversation continued bubbling downstream, then Mom awoke and I was on my way for the day.
    A couple of hours into our day, though, I noticed I was increasingly silent and preoccupied. I wasn't in a bad mood; just stony with thought. I replayed my sister's startling comment so many times and scrutinized each of my reactions to it, small and large, that I cannot now be sure if she said "don't pay any attention to" or "ignore". I think it's the former...but it feels like the latter.
    Considering that this is probably how all my sisters would like to react to my occasionally ornery annoyance with all of them as extremely distant relatives during this time of Taking Care of Our Ancient One Mother kept me noticeably removed from my mother all day. I know this because, although my mother did not take offense at my preoccupation, nor did she try to break into it, she thanked me obsessively for every move I made on her behalf. She only does this when I am not fully engaged with her, whatever the reason.
    I can't say that I've come to any conclusions about the struggles I encounter as my mother's companion being simultaneously distanced and dismissed by my sisters. I have, once again, discovered, over the last 36 hours, that it is a relief to, you know, "have it in writing". Keeps me from agonizing over suspicions, which is a mostly foreign and distressing reaction for me, anyway.
    I suppose I should be busily trying to figure out a way to extend myself as more approachable, less likely to flare; come up with suggestions for relationship renewal; shuttle my mental and physical asses around finding materials to "make it easy on everyone"; see to it that Mom and I again become "the flexible ones"; allay everyone's feelings of guilt, whether or not each is aware of them.
    Instead, I imagined a post-Mom's-death scenario in which everyone, except me, heaves a sigh of relief that "it's over" and now we can all go back to being sisters, again. I was struck with the similarily of this possibility to the possibility that the parents of The Young One may be ignoring the not-to-be-found-anywhere-else value of the relationship my sister has forged with The Young One while doing what her parents only acknowledge as "babysitting", out of a sense of guilt toward what they imagine to be the "burden" of child care they have "foisted" upon my sister. They don't want to realize that it is much more than "babysitting", maybe because they feel guilty that, in this society with its capitalistic view of survival and its attendant prerogatives, they cannot make themselves available to provide what my sister is providing. Never mind that they are not of the age or relationship to The Young One to duplicate my sister's relationship with The Young One.
    I thought about how the caregiving capacity of elders (pre-Ancient elders) is devalued and, finally, taken from them, through this overwhelming, unspoken guilt. I thought about how this further isolates everyone within an extended family. I thought about how this universal, simultaneous devaluation of caregiving and guilt over care that should be available through the family system but is almost impossible to provide through it continues to ensure that in all matters relating to love and nurturing, our economic system continues to hold sway. I thought about all the new experiments being launched in the hopes of somehow straddling economic and emotional imperatives: Green House Assisted Living Facilities; Chosen Famililes; Eden Alternative Reorganization of Nursing Homes and their Professionals; Credit Given for Helping the Elderly When One is Younger From Which One Can Draw When One Is Older; An Obsessive Concern with Encouraging the "Independence" in the Elderly as Long as Possible. Not one of these attempts involves raising the relationship consciousness of our families; they all, in fact, reward, and are rewarded by, distance. No one is talking about how families need to confront difficult relationships and work through them so that families will want to encourage and support the kind of relationships my sister has with her Young One and I have with My Mother, and will face off with our current economic system and insist on the respect and the room to do this.
    We are giving up on family, dismissing the value of hard won family relationships that take time and energy and concern and commitment because we're scared we'll be out of a job (and, not coincidentally, out of the chance for "personal fulfillment") if we don't. Then, how will we survive?!?
    Maybe this is inevitable: A world without family. Maybe it's just another step in evolution and, one way or another, we'll adjust, and the world won't be so bad. Humans are nothing if not adaptable.
    But, you know, here I am with my mother, her only immediate family, now, daily astonished at how this detailed, complicated relationship we've forged continues to mold and enrich both of our lives, and I'm thinking, I care about this. Without apology, without embarassment, I care about this. I wish I lived in a world in which it was easier for others to care about this, too.
    Later.

...will not be our "outing" day. Considering the combination of allowing myself to sleep in after last night lasting through almost 0300 this morning, Mom staying up almost as long as I did and the very cool, very windy weather today, with occasional dark clouds on the horizon, I don't think she'll be upset with my decision. Although she may not remember her plan, I'll remind her, just to keep it uppermost in her mind so that when the right day arrives she'll be up for it. And, I'll apologize for trumping her desire. I don't think she'll mind, though. I think the apparent "weather", and the chance to sleep in (I don't know how long, yet today, I'll extend this) will allow her to accept my decision with equanimity.
    I've been a little "off" this morning (shouldn't surprise me), so I've been busily attending to end-of-month business, placing some orders for supplies we use that are significantly cheaper to buy online and was so overcome by "the business me" that I'm getting a jump start on Mom's end-of-the-year tax business. This may so astonish her CPA that he'll have another heart attack!
    I expect today to be low-key. We didn't walker yesterday, though, so I may try to engineer an in-house session. Then again...
    Mom mentioned, though, yesterday, probably provoked by the rain, "Isn't it about time for us to start baking?" She's referring, of course, to seasonal baking: very gingery date bread; dried cherry, toasted almond egg nog bread; muffins for freezing; fruitcakes and holiday cookies a little later; meat pot pies for freezing; time to start using our bread machine to supply us with daily bread, rather than buying it...
    ...must be, I guess.
    Later.

    That's right. Mom came out from her darkened bedroom at 0030, first to go to the bathroom, then to check if my excitement about the movie was being satisfied. She also invited me to sleep with her in her bedroom if I "[got] too scared, but you must bring your own pillow," she warned.
    Although there had been a promising bit about a woman locked in a jaw breaker who'd managed to survive and a bit about an obsessed detective also held possibilities, neither was well used in the context of the movie. By the time my mother appeared, hanging over the banister, I was suspicious that nothing was ever going to really happen in this movie: The story lagged from about 10 minutes into it; the situations had become so familiar as to border on boring; the "surprises" were bereft of horror-shock value. Although I was determined enough to see the movie through to the end, I wasn't so involved that I couldn't also attend to my mother in the bathroom. I knew I wouldn't miss anything important.
    As I was complaining to my mother about the movie, she decided to stay up and watch the rest of it. At the end, even though (or maybe because) all the mysteries were solved, the psychopath remained loose (often key to evoking a lingering sense of horror) and the "last" victim remained unrescued with no hope, as the credits begin to roll in the wake of the victim's last scream, "Noooo, Nooooo," I was disappointedly shaking my head. I noticed, peripherally, my mother was, too.
    "I guess I didn't get in on enough of it to get scared," she said.
    "Trust me, Mom, none of it was enough."
    "What was that other movie you mentioned?"
    I confirmed that she was referring to SE7EN, which I'd discussed when telling her what I knew about Saw.
    "Maybe we could watch that one."
    Not a bad idea. As I queued it on our rental facility, I got to thinking. "You know what, Mom, I'm wondering if there is an 'age' when people are most likely to enjoy horror and, once you're past that age, you're immune."
    "I couldn't tell you. I've never been scared by any of those movies."
    Neither have I, not truly, not even as a child. There are times, though, when the elements of horror grip me. They don't necessarily have to be a contained in a movie or story in the horror genre. Scarface, for instance, has that effect on me. The imbedded biographic tale about Keyser Söze in The Usual Suspects has that effect on me, although the rest of the movie does not; not even the end. Unbreakable has some classic subtle horror moments for me, although they don't include the crime sequence toward the end of the film. Hell, the witch, Maleficent in Disney's Sleeping Beauty had that effect on me, I loved her, although I dismissed the rest of the movie.
    "Well," I said, "maybe I need to see if I'm beyond that stuff. Would you mind if I watch movies, over the next week or so, that I remember having a horrific effect on me?"
    "Not at all," she said. "I think I'd like to see that seven movie."
    I was about to say, "Good", when I recalled the scene in which a john is clad in a particularly viscious penile apparatus and forced to fuck a prostitute to death. "Well, I should tell you, one of the scenes is unusually upsetting, and it involves sex," I warned her.
    She leaned over the arm of her rocker toward me in the mock confidence, "You know," she said, "I know about sex."
    I laughed. "I'm sure you do, Mom, but I don't think you know about the kind of sex featured in the film."
    "If I don't like it, I'll just close my eyes."
    So, I guess I'm about to find out if memories of proper provocational horror would match me, now. It'll be interesting to view Mom's reactions, too.
    Anyway, to bed. As I've been writing this post, Mom's been up twice more. If I stay up any longer, there's a possibility that neither of us will make it to bed tonight.
    Later.

...for watching Saw. Although I've pretty much ignored the movie since it hit the theaters some years ago, I guess, I didn't even know it was a horror movie, my mother's recent interest in horror movies has had me doing research, looking for suitable possibilities for her, in part for rental and in part so that I would recognize appropriate names on the cable channels. This is how I recently learned about Saw, and learned it's been compared to SE7EN, which I really enjoyed. That's my kind of horror movie. I don't want undead monsters, I don't want mutant monsters, I want psychological monsters bent on psychological and physical torture of their victims and/or their antagonists, before death, if death occurs. I haven't yet been satisfied. I haven't discovered my ultimate example of the genre. I continue to look, though, well, except in book form: Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite is completely satisfying for me, as far as written horror fiction is concerned.
    Mom sounded game. Right up until 2230. Then, the rainy day, her unusually short nap (probably because of the excitement I'd generated over the horror movie), doing her hair, writing on her back (I think I've created a write-on-my-back monster) all combined to create a "time for bed" mood, much earlier than usual. I considered gently pushing her to stay up a little longer, but I decided, nah, she's feeling good, everything's fine, I'll let her head in early. Maybe that will mean an earlier rising, and a fairly early excursion tomorrow.
    She's still looking forward to an outing, tomorrow. It still looks like the weather will cooperate. And, I still get to see the movie, Mom or not. So, you know, something about little blessings, small favors, I don't know.
    Almost movie time.
    Later.

...for both my mother and me, but it lead to an interesting conversation along the way.
    My errand for today was to have the car reshod. I'd ordered the tires last week, was contacted yesterday that they were in, the sale price applied to the specific make and model I wanted...so I took the car in this morning, making sure I was there when they opened, so I could get back long before Mom arose. So was everyone else in town, and their dogs. That's a small town for you.
    Three hours later my car was ready to roll. In the meantime, though, although I'd wandered over to a companion store and bought a book to read during my wait, a woman sitting to my left and I struck up a conversation. I was sitting on the floor, much more comfortable for me than the benches provided which are made for tall people with very long legs. The woman commented to me that I was lucky I could "do that"; sit, relaxed, in a half lotus on the floor.
    I laughed. "Believe me," I said, "it's strictly inherited. It has nothing to do with any health regimens I should probably doggedly be following, but don't. I'm my mother's companion; she's 89 and has Dementia-Lite. It's not uncommon for her to sit on the floor, forgetting that she isn't going to be able to get herself up. I guess I got the flexibility from her."
    The woman told me she was a nurse who specialized in people with Alzheimer's. "Your mother's on Aricept?" she asked.
    "No," I explained, "she has Chronic Renal Failure and Anemia..."
    "Oh, no, then, you don't want her on that."
    I was pleased for the added confirmation. She solicited a brief description of my mother's dementia and reconfirmed that it is, mostly likely, vascular dementia.
    Turns out, the woman and her husband have also embraced her mother-in-law, who is 94 and "fine", mentally and physically, into their home. She's been with them for several years. I asked how she came to be with them. She related some interesting tidbits.
    Her mother-in-law had previously homed out of Arizona, in the same state all her life. Just previous to merging her life with that of her son's and daughter-in-law's, she began experiencing a variety of internal health problems, none of which were being handled with any adequacy by the medical professionals in her life. As a result, her life took a swift downhill turn. She was staying in bed most of the time from pain. She was unable to eat much without suffering severe indigestion. The two problems, combined, caused her to not go to the trouble of eating. She began to languish. Her daughter-in-law flew to her rescue. She intervened with the doctor. "Advocating is so important," she said.
    Yes!, I thought, my internal fist raised in salute. Nothing like having an experienced nurse confirm this.
    With some common surgeries, all the mother-in-law's ailments were cured. Medicine suggested putting the mother-in-law into temporary, live-in rehab therapy.
    The daughter-in-law shook her head. "I'm a nursing home administrator. I know where that would lead."
    Interesting, I thought, that even those who are employed by nursing homes don't feel in control of the environments.
    "So, I told her," she continued, "Mother, I can get you all set up here [indicating, as I understood, into an assisted living situation] or you can come home with us."
    "'Let's pack my bags,'" the mother-in-law said.
    We talked, some, too, about the relief of taking care of a beloved elder at home. Her mother-in-law requires less intense care than my mother. The woman mentioned that, today, her mother-in-law was home "doing the laundry. She likes to do it."
    "My mother still likes to feel a part of chores, too," I said. "I include her as much as possible, even though most of it, now, is in a strictly supervisory position."
    We grinned at one another.
    The woman and her family haven't always lived in this area. When their mother-in-law joined them, they lived in southern Arizona. Up to the time of this move, the daughter-in-law pursued her profession. When they moved she decided, for a variety of reasons, including being outrageously over qualified for any positions in this area, she would be more valuable at home.
    When it became apparent that my car was ready, I lingered for some minutes because the woman and I had begun to compare notes about the peculiar ease and relief of having one's beloved Ancient Ones at home. Neither of us said anything earth shattering. I remember, though, that we talked about how each of us was "chosen" for this. She related how her mother-in-law had, at one time, stated that she would never want any of her daughters to "take care of" her. The woman said, this was fine with her. She'd always been peculiarly close to her mother-in-law, "for 39 years," she added.
    I mentioned that, of all Mom's daughters, I was shocked when she asked me to be her final companion. "All my sisters had husbands and families and worked; very involved family lives. I was the one who never wanted marriage, never wanted kids," wasn't at all interested in setting up a classically domestic situation for myself, "and, yet, my mother knew, somehow, that I was the right one. She and I had the relationship that would serve her well in her old age. Funny how that happens," I added.
    The woman nodded her vigorous agreement.
    We talked, too, about the risks involved in doing this. It seems, at this time, they are the same for a family as they are for an individual. "I think about it, sometimes," I said, "What I'll have to do when 'it's all over'."
    The woman nodded again. "Knowing you can't just 'go back', I know," she said. "But I think about my life with my mother-in-law and..."
    I know.

    When I arrived home, Mom was up, in the dinette at the table, reading her newspaper. She had leaked, vigorously, last night, but was unaware of this, hadn't, of course, changed out her underwear, but had dressed herself in a skirt (really unusual) and sweater (which were reeking of urine).
    "Gail, is that you?" she called as I entered the house.
    I scurried into the dinette. "I'm so sorry, Mom. It took three hours to get the car shod. I had planned to be back before you awoke. How long have you been up?"
    "Oh, just a few minutes," she said, dismissing my absence at her arousal with typical aplomb; almost, I considered, glee.
    It was obvious that she'd been up much longer than this, but I didn't argue. "Well, I'm glad you're all set up, here. I prefer to be here when you wake up, you know. I was sure I would be."
    "I knew you'd show up sooner or later."
    "Did you remember what I was doing this morning?" I'd briefed her several times yesterday and last night, just in case the morning unfolded exactly as it did.
    "No, but you're never gone long." She leaned across the table and patted my forearm. "I can take care of myself, you know." She said this as though the most absurd joke she can think of is that I'm here taking care of her.
    I laughed. "I know you can, Mom. It's better to do it together though, don't you think?"
    "Oh, definitely, child. I've had enough of living alone. I'm glad you're here." She patted my forearm, again.
    "I've had enough of living alone." This is exactly what she said to me when she asked me to live with her for the rest of her life. Although, unlike my mother, I don't suppose I'll ever get enough of living alone, I will never get enough of my mother, either. Being alone will happen, again, for me. My mother, however, is happening now. This is exactly why I'm here.

    She just awoke from her nap. "What do we have planned for tomorrow?" she asked, still on the toilet.
    "Nothing in particular. Want to plan something?"
    "I think so," she said. "I've been sitting around long enough."
    Aaah-lay-lu-yah! "Anything in mind?"
    "Maybe we could pick up [her dead sister] and go window shopping, have lunch out..."
    These are two of her favorite out-of-home activities. I didn't bother to remind her that getting her sister a pass to cross back over the river Styx for the afternoon might be difficult. "Great idea! I'm sure the mall has their Christmas displays up, there are loads of little restaurants there, we can wander and people watch and eat...remember that store with all those unusual glass ornaments?"
    "Oh yes. We must go there."
    We checked the weather. No more rain tomorrow (today has been one of my beloved rain-rain-rainy days). Temperature up about 10 degrees from yesterday.
    "It's a date, then, Mom. We'll style your hair tonight."
    "Good."
    Will it happen? Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see. If it doesn't happen tomorrow, though, she won't forget being fed up with "sitting around". It'll happen soon.
    Later.

...which, I notice, is now yesterday; just as a memory of a very full, interesting day.
    Mom's first words today, immediately upon being roused, were, "I was just carrying a tray of brownies..." she mimed picking up a tray and steadying it for carrying...
    I laughed. "This time, you're dreaming, girl! So, where were you taking the brownies?"
    "Oh, you know. No where."
    "Hmmm. Well, it seems to me that when you're carrying a tray of brownies, you're headed somewhere with them."
    "Oh, you know, to the table."
    "To whom?"
    "No one," she said, with a start. "I was going to eat them."
    "Eat them all, you didn't make them for anyone?"
    "Well, yes! For me."
    "I suppose this means you want brownies, today."
    Her eyes gleamed. "How did you ever guess that?!?"
    "I guess I could make some of those Honey Bear brownies."
    She smacked her lips, to keep the saliva from drooling out the sides of her mouth.
    "Or, you know, we've got some of those Costco brownies, the ones with caramel and pecans, in the freezer." Loads of them. She only ate two and I shaved a little off the cut-into circle to try but they were waaay to sweet and chocolately for me.
    "Mmmm...sounds even better!"
    "Not for breakfast, though. How about, if you don't eat any lunch, we have an early, light dinner, I was thinking of that spaghetti sauce over noodles for tonight, maybe we'll just sample it, then, an hour or so later, I'll give you your pills with a brownie. How's that?"
    "Do we have ice cream?"
    "I've got whipping cream."
    "Oh...you know how I love whipped cream!"
    So, that seemed settled. Until I took her blood glucose. I noticed her intense interest in the meter.
    When it beeped and I looked at it, she surprised me by asking, "What's my blood sugar?"
    Occasionally she'll ask me about this. I always tell her, when she asks, even though she has no referent for the numbers. "It's 143."
    "Is that good?"
    I was even more surprised "Well, it's not bad. The doctor said he'd prefer to see you between 100 and 134 in the morning, but he'd be fine with this, considering the potato chips you had last night. He wants to see your hemoglobin A1c higher, anyway, and this'll help." Probably too much information, I figured, but she prefers to be talked to as though she'll understand anything she hears and she'll ask questions if she's truly interested and doesn't understand. "Those things always raise a person's blood sugar, and you had bread, too. I'd consider it a good reading. Why?"
    She grinned. "Just wanted to make sure I have room for brownies."
    "Mrs. Hudson, I think the official word is that you always have room for brownies."
    Her grin was broader than a cat's, now. "Good to hear it!"
    Curiously, when "early dinner time" arrived, even though she hadn't had any lunch except coffee, she wasn't hungry.
    I reminded her of our plan.
    "Oh, yes, I remember that," she said. "How about a full dinner later tonight, and nothing but brownies for dinner tomorrow night? Then I can have two."
    "Sounds like a plan, Mom."
    "Now, I'm depending on you not to forget."
    "I'm your right brownie hand woman, Mom."

    Although the walkering session was nothing spectacular, she was a little stiff. About a half hour after it ended, I noticed her adjusting her spine repeatedly against the rocker back.
    "Got a hitch in your giddy-up, Mom?" I asked.
    "Oh, just a little kink."
    "Does it hurt?"
    "No, not really, it's just annoying."
    "Want an adult aspirin?"
    "Noooo, it's not that bad."
    I watched her squirm for a few more minutes, then I got an idea. "Mom, here. I'm going to put your TV table in front of you. I want you to lean over it and relax your head on your arms. I'm going to pull your shirt up and unlatch your bra."
    She immediately complied, with an almost secret smile, thinking she was going to get a back massage.
    I had in mind something similar, but better, I was thinking, to begin, which I'd end with a light massage. I wrote the letter "M" on her back. "What did I just draw?" I asked.
    "Do it again...'M'."
    First I spelled "Mom", just to get her used to it and see what her facility would be. It was pretty good. She had a little trouble with the "o", but, as we continued, she sensitized herself. I wrote with increasing difficulty for a good twenty minutes or so: I started with words, then, introduced multi-word phrases by first writing "The Little Girl" and "Mr. Man" (the names of our cats, she got the period with no problem, although I screwed it in to make the point).
    "Mmmm...that feels better than a massage."
    I know. It's an activity Mom started on us early and our whole family performed on each other for many years during our childhoods. I'm not sure why it works better than a straight massage; I do know, though, that it sets up waves of pleasure shivers throughout one's body that massaging doesn't always provoke, even when the massage completely relaxes they body. Something about those shiver waves seems to peform a pleasurable toning that straight massage misses; maybe because the waves stimulate surface nerves that are ignored by the deep touch of muscular massage. When I finished off with a traditional back massage, although Mom appreciated this, she, too, noticed the difference and reported that she was glad I did the back writing, too.
    It occurred to me that this is probably a wonderful way to encourage sense stimulation in the Ancient, even the demented (not to mention the rest of us). If the person is too demented to identify drawn shapes (which is, undoubtedly, an extremely pleasurable way to stimulate brain activity), no problem. Just draw without this purpose. The gods know, none of us ever gets touched enough, once we're past the toddler stage. The Ancient, in particular, suffer this lack.
    I also noticed, much to my chagrin, that, when Mom announced that she was ready to retire, the combination of a very full day and the back drawing/massage seemed to have drained me. Every evening before she retires I make it a point to rub down her legs with lotion. I moved to do this and realized that I wasn't up to it. I'd simply had too much taken out of me and had no more to offer. I explained this to her and apologized. She took it in stride without even a hint of complaint, voiced or silent, but, you know, I was surprised. It's always disconcerting to be confronted by limits to my ability to give. They come up suddenly out of the shadows and I find myself slamming into them without warning.
    Later.

    I found it by surprise when, in the morning, I headed out to look for some acceptably sweet tomatoes, as my mother has not forgotten her disappointment over the the cardboard flavor and consistency of the tomato we used a few days ago in a BLT dinner and has been suggesting a more suitable repeat since then. The weekend farmer's market, here, had nothing. The closest natural foods market was featuring tomatoes that were hard and lacked fragrance. Although I expected no success at our usual grocery, I had to replenish my supply of half and half, anyway, so stopped there on my way home. I picked up a container of what I knew would be reliably sweet (because of the brand) grape tomatoes, wandered over to the dairy section and there they were, shelves of my thick, eggy, generic eggnog. My favorite seasons have begun. Too bad I'm not also in my favorite state, but there are easily found pleasures for me where we are and if the extended weather casts are correct in predicting a cool, precipitous El Niño winter, soon we'll be living in a Christmas Card, again, of which neither of us ever tires.
    Although Mom's been alternately revved and relaxed over the last week or so, we've been having good days, full of small, delightful surprises. I've gotten her formally walkering a couple of times. The weather is bright, so Mom has been able to sun bathe in our living room to her heart's content. The wind has settled. We've been receiving, through our mail video service, a raft of videos that have perked Mom's interest in the last couple of weeks, to the point where, after breakfast, it is habitual for her to ask, "So, what are we going to watch, today?" I've always had a fair facility at picking videos for her, but I've become better at it, and, as well, her ability to be captured by a wider range of subject matter has flexed itself since April. I've become less inhibited about ordering videos that I formerly thought would be of interest only to me because, well, now, I just never know. Today I'm going to try her on Annie Hall. Lately I've had a yen to watch this movie again. It's been years since I've seen it. I read the description to Mom off the sleeve, yesterday, she said, "Let's give it a try. Sounds fun."
    The most successful videos, so far, though, have been a series I decided to try on a hunch, the Sister Wendy series about the history of painting. They enrapture my mother. The color and quick flow of the programs are perfect for her attention span. The background information on the artists and the ages elicit frequent video pauses for conversation between Mom and me. The design and color of the filming rivet her. Last night she expressed disappointment that the works weren't on screen long enough to really look at. The videos include the ability to move, during the program, to a section where each work can be contemplated for as long as the viewer likes before returning to the program. I hadn't thought to trigger this because it didn't occur to me that Mom would be interested. Turns out, this is one of her favorite aspects of the series. I believe, too, that she has fallen in love with Sister Wendy, in equal parts, I think, because of Sister Wendy's unprepossessing charisma, her age and her "just between you and me" delivery. We watched the entire series beginning with The Golden Ages up through Andy Warhol last night, while doing dinner and washing my mother's hair. At the end of the last segment, when I pushed the open/close button on the DVD, my mother said, "Is that all?!?"
    "We've seen all the segments, Mom, but, if you want, we can start them over."
    "Oh, yes," she gushed. "You know, I like that woman."
    Not insignificantly, the show's theme casts a spell on my mother; thus, if I have a chore to do outside of the living room here or there during the playing of the series, I can rest the video on the menu between segments, attend to the necessities and return to find my mother gently, beatifically conducting the theme with her right hand. As well, the theme is attractive and evocative enough so that multiple repetitions don't drive me out of my mind, as do the themes for, for instance, Murder, She Wrote and M*A*S*H, which are also repeated almost daily in our household.
    I've other things to report but, you know...
    ...later.