Mom & Me Four Archive

...as I was preparing the house, and myself, for bed: Maybe this is the miracle. Maybe I'm living the miracle for which I've been asking. Considering my nature, it is, for instance, miraculous that I am here, doing this. Considering the history of my relationships with my sisters, it is even more miraculous that I am estranged from them. It is miraculous that I am no longer fighting this estrangement, nor am I undone by it. It is miraculous that I am, rather, acting in accord with it. It is miraculous that I have no fear in this regard. It is miraculous that, despite the circumstances, despite what they appear to bode for my "future", despite being told, over and over, in many different ways and through many different sources, that what I am doing here is unwise at best and personally disastrous at worst, I remain. Here. Now. Doing this. It is miraculous that even in my worst moments I am the best "thing" for my mother "since sliced bread."
    Miracles, I'm realizing, are not meant to be benign. They are meant to be enigmatic, awe-full. These words surely apply to my life at this time.
    This, here, this is my miracle.
    I thank the gods for small, and big, miracles.

...those of you whose journals I usually visit on a daily basis and often write in response to comments, etc. I don't know what to tell you except that I seem to be continuing to wrap myself more tightly around myself. It feels good, it feels like I need to do this for awhile. It's "A Giving Thing", or, rather, an aberration of "A Giving Thing" called, "I Don't Have Anything Left to Give, Right Now, Not Even Attention." I ask that you not take it personally. Bear with me, please, while I replenish myself a little. I'll be back. I'm just not sure when.

    For this journal and the The Mom & Me One Archive, I set up separate Labels Index pages, linked just below the Archive section. It seems that over at the Archive, the template was becoming so big with the index that publishing it in order to update the index every time I added a new label was becoming close to impossible. The server just wasn't interested, most of the time. I expect the label index on this site will probably experience the same problem, once I start labeling previous posts. The movie site label index doesn't seem to be large enough to present a problem. I rather expect other of the journals won't be a problem, either, but we'll see. Anyway, just wanted to mention that.
    I continue to be distracting myself with reading and labeling the posts over at the archive. No miracles yet, at least not as far as I can tell. I'm not one of those who hunts for oblique signs, though. If the gods don't want to lay it out in front of me, plain as day, well, fuck 'em, I say. When it comes to spirituality, it's got to be easy and either make sense or be interesting enough to attract my desire to be delighted, or it's not worth my time.
    Later.

...if there will come a time in my life when I will "get it" at a higher level, understand something I am now incapable of understanding, everything will become clear and I will smile, beatifically, even laugh, perhaps shed tears of joy, and:

• Not feel the pressure to forgive my sisters because I will consider that they have done nothing needing forgiveness;
• Come together, excitedly, with my sisters and nod in relieved agreement with and gratitude toward them as they tell me, after I apologize for my years of bad behavior toward them as I've been Mom's companion, that they understand and feel there is nothing they need to forgive.
• Dismiss any lingering guilt they have over their distance and lack of help and support as I care for our Mom and be able to tell them, and have this be true for me, that they have no reason to feel guilty, they did what they could, just as I did.

    These are my aspirations, toward my sisters and toward everyone with whom I come into contact these days: Nonjudgmental acceptance and precisely targeted compassion.
    When I write posts that express anger, disappointment and a sense of having been betrayed such as this one, and, even, subtly, this one, I not only want to imagine myself as capable of the above desired of compassion and love, I want to realize it. I'm not there yet. I am painfully aware that I am far, far from it. I believe, though, in order to attain one's visualization of one's future self, in order, in fact, to achieve the amazing surprise of besting one's highest visualizations of one's future self, one must acknowledge, without flinching, with all the detail, where one is.
    So, here I am, ensconced, for the moment, in my pettiness, my anger, my fear and my despair. And, yes, I can't deny, it feels safe here, even as I sense the walls closing in on me. There, though, is where I want to be. This visualization is the light I am throwing around my current position in the hopes of spotting the trailhead to where I want, and intend to go.

...before I check my email (I notice I have two comments on the last post, which means I have at least two messages waiting for me...no, I haven't yet read the comments, I want to get these posts out first), do some more labeling over at the Mom & Me One Archive and head for bed, somewhat later.
    For the last two evenings, both times after Mom has arisen from her nap, we've had "Who were those two men?" incidents. Although the seemingly ambiguous identities of the men is the least important aspect of the incidents, I am labeling them as such because when my mother asked me this question, last night and tonight, I immediately thought of all the similar reports I've read and heard from caregivers to demented Ancient Ones, particularly those diagnosed with Alzheimer's, about them hallucinating people.
    Both incidents began innocently. My mother, during her Dead Zone forays over the last few days, has been fixated on "Dad [my dad] and [her dead brother]". This is an unusual combination. Most often, if she's been Dead Zone communing with more than one person at a time, they are in the same family. Anyway, apparently these two spent the day before Thanksgiving with us but were unable to stay for the holiday. I learned this when she briefly wondered, Thanksgiving night, why "Dad and [her dead brother]" hadn't been with us for dinner, then immediately corrected herself, "remembering" that they had said they were "visiting Dad's family" for Thanksgiving. Why her brother would be interested in my father's family is beyond me, he never met them, but, of course, in the Dead Zone, everyone is familiar with everyone else.
    Tonight's episode was similar, although it began with Mom wondering if "Dad and [her dead brother]" had mentioned anything to me about whether "they'd be able to make it for Christmas" and whether they knew that "we are going to [MPS's], this year."
    The problem occurred, both nights, when my mother asked me about something that one of the two had mentioned during the visit. She was not clear enough on this piece of information to even be able to align it to subject, so, thinking that it was nonetheless important to establish for both of us what this piece of information was, regardless of its origin, I began to question her around the information, both nights. What followed was pretty much the same both nights.
    She became annoyed that I couldn't remember even as much as she and said, "Well, you were there, your memory is better than mine, you should be able to remember the conversation!"
    At this point I chuckled. Time to dignify both her and me by explaining the difference between our realities. My explanation went something like this: "Mom, the thing is, both of them are dead. They've been dead for a long time. Now, you are in a period in your life when you are able to visit with the dead, continue your relationships with them, gather information from them, but, unfortunately I am not. I don't doubt that Dad and [her dead brother] were here and you had a fine visit with them. I don't doubt that I was sitting in the same area. But, I am unable to have the same experience with the dead that you are. So, I didn't hear the conversation and can't help you."
    As I traversed the above with her, I, as usual, watched her face transform from shock at learning they were dead, to concentration as I explained her special relationship to the dead, to astonishment as I confessed that I am not yet privy to this relationship and, thus, not "there" when events are taking place in The Dead Zone, even if it appears as though I am.
    "But," my mother asked, "will they be here for Christmas? Do they know we're going to MPS's?"
    I assured her that I was sure they would be, in some form, even if I would not be able to confirm their presence. That wouldn't matter, I said, because she would notice them and have yet another good visit with them. I was also careful, both nights, to explain, over and over, that no doubt "Dad and [her dead brother]" had been here, for her anyway, but not for me.
    Despite this, she began to question her own memory and asked me The Question. Who were those men? The first night, they were the men in the car when we were driving someplace. Tonight, they were the men who'd been at dinner with us.
    "Mom," I responded, "if you remember them as Dad and [your dead brother], then I am confident that's who they were. I can't tell you I spoke with them, because I didn't. I can't tell you that I remember them being here, because I didn't experience them being here. But, I believe you experienced them, and I believe you correctly recognized them."
    Last night I expected an argument. I was surprised when none materialized. She readily accepted that she and I share a reality but, within that reality, we also have separate realities that we seem not to be able to share with one another. It's a shame, but, you know, shit happens.
    Tonight, curiously, when I performed my "Your Memory Is Accurate, So Is Mine" song and dance routine, her eyes lit and she said, "Oh, that's right. You told me that last night!"
    Since then, I've been wondering if some of the horror, for the demented, of hallucinatory experiences has to do with how the onlookers react to them, and, if asked, by the demented, to help explain these experiences, how they are explained. I'm sure not all of it is in the reaction of the observers. I've heard and read of people hallucinating menacing strangers and can fairly accurately imagine the distress this might cause. I've also, though, read afterthought explanations by some observers who connect the hallucinated presence to an actual presence experienced by The Demented One previous to the hallucinatory encounter. Thus, one way or another, although the hallucinations may be generated in the knots of a tangled brain, there appear to be real connections, often to real people and real recent experiences.
    My mother, though, experiences Dead Zone hallucinations, it seems, the connections for which exist in the distant past, sometimes a past so distant that it is past me. As well, I cannot argue that she is not "really" meeting with these people. For all I know, she is, and I'm the dolt.
    What struck me tonight, though, is that, for all the Hallucinating People experiences that she has, tells me about and I confirm for her, she has never experienced agitation or anxiety over the actual hallucinations. Neither do I. Instead, I enter into them, as much as I can, and confirm them for her, either by taking her recounting of them at face value, commenting and asking for information as though "you and I" were having a conversation about an event in "your" life, or by the method above. I am so comfortable with living in a home that regularly hosts The Dead and experiences that I am not able to perceive even though I am present during those experiences that, maybe, Mom feels extremely comfortable in such a home, as well. Her experience of our home is that it is benign, safe and immune to anxiety and agitation. It is so because she is not left alone for any length of time of which she is aware; her companion is someone she implicitly trusts, who accepts and trusts her version of her life and so easily and silently orders her life that she is unaware that anyone is ordering it but her. Nothing scary could happen here. And, nothing does.
    I think, further, that The Demented who continue to be able to relate to others (this covers several stages and types of dementia) know, at some level, that they cannot completely trust their version of life, anymore, not even for a minute, and need a filter, at best a familiar filter, in order to feel safe and confident, sometimes in circumstances that are wondrous and peculiar, like hallucinations. This is, perhaps, something that lots of caregivers, particularly professional caregivers, forget. You have to know and acknowledge a person for who they are and what's happening to them, moment to moment, if you want to give good care. You cannot arbitrarily decide that they are "lost" and expect to proceed to give care with any degree of adequacy.
    I think, when we decide we are "losing" an Ancient, Demented loved one, we are the one's defining and directing the loss, not they. When was the last time you heard someone bemoan the fact that the past seven year old who generated the present twenty-one year old is "lost"? If we stop our egos and our needs in their tracks and peer into the eyes of our Ancient Ones, even our Demented Ancient, we will see, I believe, the present person generated from all the people implicit in the history of that person. We will see them for who they are now. And, I believe, this allows us to be better to able respond to them as their needs and their reality dictate. When we can do this, we will, I think, realize, that we never "lose" our loved ones to dementia, we lose them to our inability to see them here, before us, now.
    To paraphrase a famous line of poetry: And this, I believe, can make all the difference.
    Ah, well, I'll definitely read my email, but I think the second post is going to have to wait until I arise, tomorrow, as will continued labeling.
    Later.