Mother's Day Ambiguity

My mother is alive, my kids and grandkids are healthy and close by, yet Mother’s Day leaves me with a void. It’s the obligatory Hallmark celebration honoring the women who have bred this great nation. Social media is a Taser with constant sparks of people sharing photos and wonderful thoughts of their mothers, living or dead, who are held in a place of honor for doing no wrong. They have raised children who sing praises to the Madonna of the family.

I, on the other hand, have never been a good liar and singing my mother’s praises has turned into an effort much like coughing up a hairball. I avoid responding to comments she makes. “I was a good mother, wasn’t I?”  or “You never wanted for anything, did you?” Instead, I laugh and say, “I never said you weren’t” or “You made sure we were fed and clothed.”

Of course, there is more under the questions and answers. We dare not dig too deep. Even catching the question on a stressful day leaves me answering in sarcastic, bitter tones, to which mom recognizes and sets the guilt trip in motion. “There’s no need in being snippy. You used to love me. Am I really that bad?”

Mom had a less than stellar upbringing herself. I understand where the roots of her parenting foundation began. I recognize her insecurities, her intentions, and her facades. It’s her inability to recognize her faults and seek self-improvement that are an unending frustration for me.

As children, my sister and I dealt with a woman that could be unreasonable and un-nurturing.  Our efforts to seek approval, such as cleaning the house, were met with, “You missed a spot,” or ladened with a huge sigh followed by, “I was going to strip the floor and wax it, but now that you have polished it, I guess I’ll have to wait and do it next week.” 

She smoked incessantly, lied about quitting, and so I have very little sympathy for her chronic COPD. Her alcoholism was another assault to my formative teen years. My father was a type-A workaholic who suffered his first heart attack at the young age of 46.  I was 15, and even then I recognized the stress it put on Mom. Still, she dramatized and distorted facts.  I heard what doctors said, but when mom retold the stories, there was always an extra dollop of “pity me.”

As she got older, she began to somewhat mellow. We had real conversations and enjoyed doing things together. We took a painting class, went on day trips, and she was a rock for me when my marriage faltered. 

Then her mother died, and Mom assumed full responsibility for my grandfather’s care. Initially he was still able to drive, but she, along with my dad, would drive the 30 minutes to visit at least every other day, clean, do his laundry, and ensure he had meals that could be microwaved.  When he fell and broke his hip, he reluctantly moved in with Mom and Dad.  Dad’s health was failing as well, and he was going blind.

Mom was overwhelmed, but she also loaded a lot of burden on herself.  She insisted that everything be done better than average. When my grandfather broke his other hip, his health deteriorated, and he was confined to bed. Hospice was called in, and the nurses remarked about the excellent care my mother gave my grandfather. Mom wanted his approval. For the first time in her life, he told her, “I love you.”

Within a month after his death, Mom had a stroke – an unfortunate by-product of caregiving when the caregiver forgets herself.  She was left with weakness in one side, but more so, I noticed her bravado disappear. She lost the balance in her personality that had come about in her retirement years. Dad passed away six months later, but fortunately he had instigated their move to a retirement community. Mom was mad that he left her there alone, but she was friends with her neighbors.  Still, instead of diving in and associating with others, Mom isolated herself and began being defensive of herself and critical of others – a pattern I recognized from her years when I was a child.  She had other ailments and ultimately moved into the skilled care facility, kicking and screaming every step of the way.

She is kind to the majority of the staff and physicians, though she is more outspoken and frank now. She won’t follow orders, and will try to walk from her bed to the bathroom, taking some nasty spills. Sometimes she tells staff; sometimes she doesn’t.

She is savvy enough to navigate the internet, but has no self-control in ordering any little trinket she thinks is cute. She’s gone on costume jewelry binges, and now is trying to make her own beaded jewelry. She’s half blind and has lost fine finger dexterity in both hands, with little functional use of her left hand – not a good combination for beading.

She creates a lot of her own problems. She has called me at home, insisting I should drive the 30-45 minutes to her room to see why she has no sound from her computer. I equally insisted I could not and would not.  When we checked the next day, she had muted the sound without realizing.  This is only one of the types of instances that occur weekly at a minimum.

I have discussed her over-spending and the wasteful deluge of packages. I have asked, begged, reasoned and threatened every way I know how.  When I tell her that it may be time to remove the computer or her credit card, she threatens to call the police, even though I have medical and financial power of attorney.

It’s a battle, and I have my own life with daily struggles. My only hope is that I have seen how she is, and make every effort to not be that way to my children.  I’ve learned coping skills, and I tell my kids I love them – often. I also encourage talking. If there’s a problem, let’s deal with it.

I love my mom because of our blood relationship. I continually send positive energy her way and am sad she has never found a way to be happy with herself or her surroundings. Even though it’s Mother’s Day, I find it hard to celebrate and am envious of those that revel in the shadow of their family matriarch.  I can thank my mother for giving me strength in questioning myself and learning how to overcome obstacles that we are given. Perhaps that is her gift to me, her sacrifice in this life to help me move forward in my own. 

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Being Thankful

Part of what makes people human is the range of emotions they experience. In some situations, our emotions are somewhat predictable. Elizabeth Kübler Ross identified the five stages of grief that can apply to any situation involving loss: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Other emotional stages have been identified and associated with recovery, pregnancy, change, and retirement; Freud, Jung, Darwin, and many others also weighed in on the development, meaning, and expression of emotions. 

Caregivers are not immune to emotions, though it is easy to try to suppress or ignore them. Even worse is feeling guilty for the emotions that are felt. 

In a previous post, I discussed anger. Those feelings were very real, and I know others that have experienced the same frustrations. At the same time, emotions can be layered.  While I may get angry, at the same time, I never forget all for which I am thankful. By balancing the anger with recognition of blessings, I can recognize sadness without plunging into hopeless despair. I've been in that pit before, and the negativity is like mental quicksand. Being thankful is easy when I accept the gifts I am given:

• I am thankful for my sister. She is on the other side of the country, but is on the phone when I need her. She listens and understands.  The best gift she gave me was the promise to not jump to conclusions when Mom tells her stories. Just as children try to manipulate parents, our mom manipulates us. 
• I am thankful for my friends that let me rant and growl without judging me. They have relatives, parents, or spouses that have been in their care and understand me even when I may not have the right words.
• I am thankful for friends on Facebook. While many may consider the website to be a folly, I can connect with so many people easily. Some provide humor, others provide motivation, and others appreciate my input.  I feel more connected to the world through Facebook because real people are behind the words. 
• I am thankful for my cat. He's good company, wakes up with me in the morning, and talks to me.
• I am thankful for my guardian angels. I am fortunate to have met them, seen them, and recognize they are there for me - always. (And they are pleased that I included them here.)
• I am thankful for my writing. I heard someone say that very few, if any, writers love writing.  Writing is hard. Instead it is the end result that writers love so much.  The work is the means to the self-satisfaction. I agree. 
• I am thankful for my mom. She can be a real pain in the ass at times, but she's my pain in the ass.  I miss the person she had grown to be. She and I had planned on enjoying special events and day trips together. She and I were communicating better than we ever did in my entire life. Her declining health has taken away so much of the progress we both had made. Much of my anger comes from the grief I have over losing that part of her. Still, I love her.

Most of all ....

• I am thankful for the journey of life. I have learned so much along the way, with much joy and much sadness, but when I pay attention, the lessons are incredible.

Angry Caregiver

As a caregiver, I do my best to find the lighter, funnier side of events. I don't want to be angry; anger is not good for the soul. Yet, bottling up the emotion isn't good either. As I sat in Mom's hospital room today, I was glad she is doing better.  However, I also found myself making a list in my head of things I am angry about.
She was alert and ready to go home though she is not medically ready to leave.  Of course, what the doctors say doesn't matter - she has her own opinion.  She wouldn't even be IN the hospital if someone had just given her a laxative.  The fact is, she doesn't even remember how sick she was.
So now, I get stuck restating why she can't have just anything she wants to eat; I tell her not to get up from the chair to move to the bed on her own; I remind her why she is in the hospital; I bear the brunt of her verbal abuse.
I love my mom, and she doesn't even realize that half of what she says to me is hurtful. She has a way of turning words into back-handed compliments. She is an expert in passive-aggressive phrasing. When I arrived, she had convinced herself that she probably would have gotten to go home today, but the doctor on call saw her instead of the admitting physician, and "He just didn't want to take responsibility for releasing me until the other doctor is back on duty."
If I don't respond, she prods until I do.  "Well,  that's right, isn't it?" I tried to keep it light and said, "No, I think there are a number of things to consider before letting you be discharged."  Her retort was basically, "You don't know- you weren't here."
So as I sat there, trying to avoid much discussion of anything, the list in my head continued to grow ...

• I am angry because I have so much to do for work - two jobs actually - and am here instead.
• I am angry because Mom will not listen - she's never listened.
• I am angry because Mom was practically a chain smoker, subjected me to second hand smoke when growing up, and I am certain my own breathing has been affected.
• I am angry because Mom now has COPD as a direct result of her smoking, but will still talk about how much she loved to smoke.
• I am angry because my grown children come to me when they need something, but depending on them for help is not an option for me. 
• I am angry because Mom will not ask for help from anyone else.
• I am angry because Mom doesn't recognize what I do do for her, but points out any thing I don't get done.
• I am angry because I go through this ordeal alone.

and ... most of all ...

• I am angry at myself for being angry.

Laughter: The Best Medicine

I am fortunate that most of the doctors that deal with Mom have a good sense of humor. Mom was taken to the hospital for what turned out to be a bowel obstruction. While waiting for the hospital to admit her, the nurses suggested I take a break for lunch. In the meantime, they would put an NG tube (through the nose, down the throat, into the stomach) in Mom in order to try to remove contents and gas. When I returned, the admitting physician came into the room and was asking about Mom's NG tubing, which was laying across her bed, not in her nose.  Mom, who had been given morphine, was a bit testy and admitted to taking out the tubing.
When we told her it was supposed to stay in, she retorted, "Well the nurse left me here, and I was hurting. I'm 80 years old, and I figured I didn't have to put up with hurting, so I didn't!  I took it out!" She's proud that she just had a birthday.
The doctor laughed heartily while I scolded Mom.
Give a woman a birthday and some good drugs, and she will go wild.

Ma Bell

Mom has a phone, and she's not afraid to use it. She may not have the same skill set she once had, but she manages to plunder through. She has her own land line in her room at the skilled care facility. She had a cell phone until she lost it. I'll save that explanation for another post.

She rarely answers her phone, and I'm not sure if it's because she is not in her room at the time it rings, or if she doesn't hear it. Another reason could be that the handset doesn't get recharged because she forgets to put it back in the cradle. As a result, her voice mailbox stays full, and she can't remember to dial *88 to retrieve the messages.

Actually, the full mailbox is just as well - it seems her friends that call do not understand that I only recorded the message they hear. For some reason, they believe they have called me instead. They leave messages like, "Oh, Iris!  I didn't know I called you ... Well, anyway, would you let your mother know I called? This is ____.  Thank you.  Oh and I hope you are doing well!  Byeeee!" 

Other messages usually are from solicitors for things Mom doesn't need. I think Life Alert finally stopped calling after I answered the phone while there. "No thank you - we are paying through the nose to have a call button by her bed."
Recently, Mom called me late at night, several nights in a row.  I stay up late, so that's not a problem. However, her reasons were odd. She called to remind me of something that I had already taken care of, and another call was just to make sure I was alright. Then, she'd want to chat a while. Talking with Mom is like conversing with Darth Vader. I know she can't help having COPD, (though it was her fault she smoked like a steam engine for 50 years) but it is very frustrating to hear the air from her oxygen blowing into the phone, combined with her breathing through her mouth. As she talks, she gets out of breath, so her talking becomes more labored. The depletion of air intake has a direct correlation with her cognitive abilities. The more she talks, the less reasoning capability she has.  It's a vicious cycle.

My sister called the other day and said that Mom had called while my sister was out and left a message. "I know this is terrible to say, but the message was ..." Deborah paused.  

"Funny?"  I asked.

"Well, yeah," she said. "The first thing I heard was 'sschhhllllllllllhhhhhhhh.' Then, 'ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..'"

"Yup, that's Mom," I chuckled. 

After another second or two, Mom starts puffing our words like a bingo machine ejecting balls. "Deborah - Call me -- when you get a chance. - Thank you - This is your mother."  Mom punctuates her messages with "This is your mother," as if we wouldn't have a clue to her identity otherwise. 

If there was a way to have the "Imperial March" play every time Mom picked up her phone, I think I would look forward to her calls more.

Texas Pete heats up seniors

Years ago, Mom almost died from a bleeding ulcer. She's never been a huge fan of really spicy foods, but she has been known to get an upset stomach from taking medicine without eating something. After she was in skilled care a few months, she formed a few friendships, and usually eats meals with the same women.

One day, mom asked if I would pick up some hot sauce for her at the store. Surprised, I asked why; she said that one of the women liked it. 

Sometimes talking to mom is like getting details from a five year old. 

I prodded more and learned that one of Mom's friends keeps a bottle of Texas Pete in a holster on her walker. She uses the sauce daily, and evidently provides her own. Mom has noticed that several people will used this friend's sauce at different times, but never offer to replace or replenish the woman's supply. It seems that Mom wanted to pay homage to the woman's generosity while demonstrating how someone with good manners would not take advantage of that generosity.

I can appreciate my mom wanting to do something nice for someone; however, her reasoning and gesture was somewhat questionable.  I suggested that if Mom wanted get the woman at gift at Christmas, we could consider that option, but to buy a bottle out of the blue seemed a bit obvious.

Also, in an effort to prove that not everyone engages in martyrdom,  I mentioned perhaps the facility provided the bottle, and because the woman likes it so much, they let her carry it around. Texas Pete is not something commonly put on the dining room table for haberdashery by the elderly. Surely, though, they kept it in stock along with other condiments.

Mom wasn't completely satisfied.

Finally, I told Mom that she need not get involved in the hot sauce debacle and said, "Mom, the woman is an adult. If she wants to share her hot sauce, she can.  If she feels she is being taken advantage of, she can say 'No.' If her family thinks she is running through her supply quickly, they will check on it. For all you know, she has a whole case stashed in her closet."

Mom conceded, but I knew she was upset with me for squashing her visions of a high noon hot sauce shoot out against the varmints squatting on her friend's proprietary vessel of elixir. 

Salt and Predilection

The advertising phrase "When it rains, it pours" has been around almost 100 years, signifying Morton's Salt will not succumb to the elements of humid or damp weather. The words of the ad are, in turn, used more than the original proverb "It never rains, but it pours" to signify how troubles seem to occur in excess. If salt clumps in a shaker, a few grains of rice added to the non-Morton's salt can remedy the problem.  A few grains of salt, however, can perhaps remedy the excess of troubles.
Mom, who lives in a skilled care facility, called me the other day asking if I had any rice and could she have a couple of tablespoons. The salt had clumped up in the shaker at her usual table in the community dining room, and she thought she would add a few grains of rice to all the shakers. I told her I'd bring some rice, but after giving the issue thought, realized the simplest solution was to ask the staff for a different shaker.
On my next visit, I explained to Mom that bringing in rice from an outside source is not considered sanitary, would be a health code violation, and that all she needs to do is ask for a replacement.  She acknowledged I was probably right.
Rather than focus on her own needs and ask for help when she needs it, Mom prefers to fix everyone else's problems. While this seems altruistic, her contrived notions of healing the world, or at least all the problems - real or imagined - on her wing of the facility, leaves me with the task of negotiating with her. Even though she may understand my logic at the time, she later will comment on how I won't let her do what she wants.
In dealing with the salt issue, I found irony in how I often am dealing with multiple "Mom" issues, hence, when it rains it pours. Yet, if I take the troubles or Mom's antics with a grain of salt, I find them much easier to handle.
Even more intriguing are the salt related idioms that can apply to caregivers:
Rub salt in a wound - Often felt when the one in our care points out any deficits in the care we give.
Salt of the earth - The humble caregiver who needs to recognize his or her own value.

The return

When I started this blog, I didn't tell my mother about it because I knew she'd think I was writing her life's story. I hoped that she'd not find it, and knew that there was nothing to be ashamed of if she did. Still, when she did discover it, I brushed it off nonchalantly while feeling like a teenager caught with porn under the mattress.
I took a hiatus, but feel drawn to writing about the issues surrounding the aging process, the fears and hopes I have, and the number of wonderful stories shared by various people I have worked with and friends I have known. So, I'm back - and Mom - if you read this, I love you!
Speaking of mom, I have mentioned before that I had high hopes for her retirement years, yet she has withstood so many setbacks. It seems that when she is just recuperating, she gets hit by another malady.
During the last quarter of 2009, she was able to get long overdue physical therapy to help her gain strength and balance for fall prevention. She diligently worked out three times a week with a therapist in the fitness room of her independent living center. Her sessions ended in January, but the benefit was remarkable. Mom felt the best she has felt in almost two years; her balance was better; she even has shoes that help her balance, are comfy, and attractive.
Then she was hit with a bout of bronchitis. A round with a Z-Pak helped, though the cough lingered. Mom complained about her breathing, but I never really made a connection. I attributed the problems to weather, overexertion, and other issues. Kudos to mom for taking the initiative to make an appointment with her lung specialist. Fortunately they had a cancellation and were able to see her quickly. During her visit, the doctor declared Mom had "extreme bronchitis" and took a chest x-ray. She was put on a stronger antibiotic and steroids. The next day, the doctor's office called and confirmed: mom has pneumonia.
I was kicking myself for not picking up on the symptoms sooner, but thanks to my sister for reassuring me that I did nothing wrong. Still, it's hard not to beat myself up for not being at mom's more. I think about things I could do to be more in tune. I envision writing everything down on a calendar so that I have a visual map of mom's complaints, medication changes, doctor's appointments, falls, dietary intake -perhaps even have her record her output and the dog's stats as well! While that is hardly realistic, I am plagued with "what ifs" and "should haves."
At the same time, I admire mom's perseverance. She feels like crap, but she keeps trying. She's a fighter; she has her own goals, things she wants to accomplish, and activities she enjoys. Today, my son and I went to mom's with pizza and the movie "G-Force." Mom wanted to see the flick when it was in the theatres, but we never could seem to find time to get there. I was determined she'd see it, so I rented it.
The movie and pizza were good - the time with mom was priceless.

Define Caregiver

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Anyone with an ounce of humility often scoffs when called a caregiver. "I am only doing what I am supposed to do," or "I love my (parent, child, spouse), so of course I'm going to do what I can" are the typical responses. So how does one know if he or she is a caregiver?
Definitions vary, but the common thread is, if you are caring for someone in some way, that aids in their well-being, you are a caregiver. Assistance may come from near or far, may be done in your home or the loved one's home, may be provided 24/7 or only on occasion.
Care usually involves helping a person with tasks that are typically done independently. Tasks can range from checking in by phone, running errands or shopping to cooking, cleaning, handling documents and bills, or aiding in day-to-day physical care needs. The amount of time and tasks done related to caregiving are as varied as each individual.
Caregivers vary in age depending on who they help. A child may actually take on the responsibility of seeing that a parent with mental illness, alcoholism or drug addiction receives necessary care. A parent may have to care for needs of a physically challenged child. An adult may check in on a neighbor regularly by carrying mail or a newspaper to the door. Others may care for an aging parent by ensuring the environment is safe and that the parent is cared for in his or her own home or some level of facility care.
Regardless of your caregiving status, take pride in knowing that you are not just doing what you are supposed to do. Accepting the title of "caregiver" doesn't mean you do something because you have to; you do it because you love the other person.

Martyrdom

In caring for the people we love, caregivers will fall into self-destructive behaviors. We exhaust ourselves from stress, worry and overexertion, or we feel guilty for being angry, tired, and not doing a "better job." In between the excessive anxiety, we sandwich in work, children, grandchildren, maintaining our homes, or stress because we aren't able to coordinate all these things. We don't eat right, we don't sleep well, we don't go to the doctor when we should because we already spend time there with our loved ones. The guilt and pressure are unending, yet we drag them around like we are loaded jackasses.

I certainly do not claim to have the magic answers, but there are a few things that I try to remember, making the burden a bit lighter.

1) Take care of thyself FIRST. If the caregiver gets sick, the house of cards falls. Eat right to keep up your energy, nutrients, and avoid headaches! Rest or your body WILL wear out. Get medical attention when needed. An ounce of prevention is truly worth a pound of cure.

2) Breathe! When we stress, our breathing becomes shallow, our muscles tense up, we get headaches, and our thinking clouds. Five minutes on the deck, backyard, or in a favorite corner can be an oasis when the soul needs rest. Take a deep breath in through the nose, exhale slowly out the mouth.

3) While breathing, stretch a minute. Stand or sit up straight, lift your shoulders towards your ears, relax; lift again. Now, roll your shoulders in a circle, rotate forward a few times, then backward. Make a fist and then stretch out your fingers. Repeat several times. Look straight ahead and bring your chin to your chest - feel the stretch down your neck and spine. Bring your head up, tilt your right ear towards the right shoulder, then the left ear to the left shoulder. All movements should be slow and painless.

4) Take responsibility for your own feelings. This may be hard to believe, but it is true: No one "makes" you feel like you do. Reactions are learned and we can unlearn them. Do not allow your loved one to manipulate your own behavior. By taking a step back, and viewing a situation objectively, we are less likely to lose our tempers or become upset. When a child throws a tantrum, the parent can get angry, or be matter-of-fact. Generally, by the parent being in control, the child calms down. The same is true for those we care for. (I did NOT say treat them like children - the issue is about the caregiver's behavior!).

5) Don't be a martyr. There's a saying, "Get off the cross, someone else needs the wood." No one expects a caregiver to be a robot or to be perfect. Life is still happening and you have every right to be a part of it. Everything does not have to be done perfectly; if you are anal about how things are done, admit it, and get out of the way when others try to help! I have learned to close my eyes and be thankful that I have help. I have even said, "It's my problem, not yours, so I will leave you alone - call me if you need me."

6) Ask for help; share the load! If a friend says, "tell me what I can do," take him or her up on the offer. Can the friend stay for an hour while you pamper yourself with a bubble bath? Maybe she will do your laundry or cook a meal - even just having someone help fold towels one day makes the burden lighter. If they haven't offered to help in a while - ask anyway!

7) Even far away family members can help. My sister lives 700 miles away and said, "If I can ever do anything ..." I've held her to it, and she has come through! When mom was selling her home, I was overwhelmed with other issues like taking her to various medical appointments, tying up lose ends at the house, and filing my father's will with the local courthouse. My sister has worked for attorneys and real estate agents, so when questions arose about negotiating the best offer, I called Deborah and said, "Handle this!" She made the calls, gathered information, and clarified points that mom had misunderstood from the real estate agent. Together, the three of us were able to make sound decisions in selling mom's home, and the stress was off of me. My sister was pleased that I included her, and actually needed her. Deborah also makes an extra effort to call mom regularly, and, thankfully, backs me up when mom complains about my being bossy!

8) Don't lose yourself in the process. We get so overwhelmed at times that we become machines. We will never have regrets if we don't vacuum the floor or leave a few dishes in the sink. We will regret the times we didn't sit and have a good laugh with our loved ones, or didn't take time to share stories, read, or see a good movie together.

9) AARP has great resources for caregivers. Spend some time at their website.

10) Take time for you! It is possible if you follow a few of the steps above. By taking time for you, you will feel better and can be a better caretaker for yourself and the one you love.

Snow Storm Elicits Flurry of Thoughts

Mom called this afternoon to be sure I arrived home safely from work. Snow had begun to blanket the east coast and roads in our hometown were being closed. She then began to relay her upheavals because of the weather.

In her retirement community, there is a community dining room that offers lunch and dinner. Normally she drives the short distance there, either in her car or on a golf cart. Just recently, the facility started offering shuttle service for the cottage residents. In order to send the staff home before getting snowed in, the dining room served a buffet today and everyone was asked to come during the lunch service time. Mom took the shuttle over to the main building and a friend wondered why Mom didn't drive. Mom said, "If I drove and had an accident in this weather, my family would kill me!" The friend said, "Oh, I'm sure if you had an accident, your family would just be happy that you were alright. They wouldn't be concerned about a wreck in this weather." Mom replied, "You don't know my family!" Mom knows us too well.

As our conversation continued, Mom began to lament some of the items lost in downsizing to her smaller home. "You know, I don't have any candles or matches," she complained. I reminded her that I bought her flameless candles - she is on oxygen and is not supposed to have an open flame nearby. "But if the power goes out in this storm, I will need candles and matches!" I decided to give into the argument, rather than have an aneurysm over a non-issue. "I am sure that if such an emergency occurred, you could call security and one of those guys would bring you a match." Mom replied: "Oh, that's okay, I already got some matches." One of her neighbors apparently produced the incendiary devices. Now, I wonder, what would she burn?

She also was concerned about the lack of heat if there were a widespread power outage.

"MOM - that's why you are living on the retirement campus!" I said. "If the power goes out, they will make sure you are taken care of. You will not go without heat, food, or light!"

I am not sure of the exact procedure, but I assured her they would, at the very least, take her to the main building. She agreed, and then worried about her cockatiel. "I can take Missy (the dog) with me to the other building, but I can't take Mickey." Her rendition of the storm began to resemble scenes from "The Day after Tomorrow." I suggested she cover the cage to keep the damn bird warm and he'd be fine for 24 hours alone. We live in the south - snow doesn't survive well here. Al Gore has not declared a national emergency, and while I am concerned about global warming, I don't think we've reached the Apocalypse - yet.

She then began discussing Missy's reaction to the snow, and how, when the dog squatted to pee, she bounced back up because the snow was freezing her butt.

As if there wasn't enough for mom to be concerned with on a normal day, the snow has brought it's own blizzard of mental diversions. I, in the meantime, should step out on the back deck and "chill."

Behavior Modification

Raising children is exhausting because a parent constantly monitors kids' behaviors in an effort to keep them safe and healthy. One can never be completely braced for the transition that occurs when she turns monitoring away from her children, towards an aging parent. The similarities are remarkable, yet there is still the revere that is held towards elders.

When my own children were growing up, I remember learning that, when given choices, kids feel more autonomous. Instead of issuing a direct order, "Eat your vegetables," offer alternatives, "Would you rather eat all of the carrots, or eat half the carrots and half the peas?" I tried, but it got tiresome. Eventually, I resorted to telling the kids, "Okay, you have a choice: Clean your room OR I'll beat your ass ,and you still have to clean your room." My children grew to understand, if not appreciate, my warped sense of humor.

Years later, my mother was having her own battles with her father. He was always a strong-willed man with a commanding presence, and mom never broke loose from his control. Even as a woman over the age of 70, she constantly sought approval from him, and was hurt by his lack of appreciation for her extraordinary efforts. Yet, she never gave up.

After he fell and broke a hip, he moved into my parents' home. He recouperated well for a 96-year-old man, and was able to walk and climb stairs. A year later, he fell out of bed in the middle of the night, and injured his other hip. Mom called for an ambulance; the technicians were able to get my grandfather back in bed, but he refused to go to the hospital. The next day, mom called me at work. She was concerned because he had a huge bruise on his lower back, he couldn't move without pain, and he certainly couldn't get out of bed. I said, "Well, he might not like it, but call the ambulance anyway!" Mom was fearful that her father would be mad at her. She was just as scared as he was stubborn.

I left work, drove to mom's, and went straight up to see my grandfather. "Hey there," I said. "I hear you have fallen and you can't get up!" He laughed, "Yeah, well, I'll be alright." I sat on the bed next to him and held his hand. "Papa, that's the problem - we don't think you'll be alright if you stay here." I began to outline the impending doom. "If you lay in this bed, you will not get better. Your joints will stiffen up. You have a terrible bruise, the size of a dinner plate, that could cause a clot to go to your lungs or heart. When you don't move, your lungs do not work as well. They will fill up with fluid; it will get infected; you will then have pneumonia, and at your age you WILL die." My grandfather cut his eyes at me, but managed a skeptical smile. I explained that we could not take him to the doctor to be checked because he could not walk down the stairs, and we certainly couldn't carry him. Even if we did manage to get him to the car, he couldn't sit. The only option was to call an ambulance. "Papa, laying here and dying is not an option," I said. "Mom doesn't want you to be mad at her, so I have come to negotiate." He laughed. I went in for the bottom line offer: "We are going to call an ambulance. Period. You can like it, or not, but it would be nice if you'd cooperate and agree to us calling them."

"Well," he said, "If you put it like that ... yeah, I guess you may as well call them."

I felt like I had been through NATO negotiations.

When the ambulance arrived, they had to call for back-up from the local fire department. The stretcher couldn't be negotiated around the steps and carrying my grandfather with a bedsheet was going to take extra hands. My personal thrill came when four muscle-bound men walked through the front door - Greensboro's finest I fondly dubbed Mr. January, Mr. February, Mr. March, and Mr. April ... but I digress. My point is, to reduce the chances of impending insanity, I look for a silver lining whenever possible. Mom, dad, and I stood in the foyer while these young bucks strode up the stairs. I didn't hesitate. "Wow, Mom," I said, "Who knew that when we got up this morning, we'd have this great eye candy to consume today!" The men blushed, and mom laughed. She earned it.

My grandfather passed away almost two years ago, and now I find myself in similar situations with mom. No longer am I the mediator; instead, I am in the authority of reason. Mom thinks I am a dictator. More on our adventures later ...

(Photo: My grandfather holding my granddaughter - his great-great-granddaughter, September 2007. He was 98; she was a few weeks old)

Holiday Illumination

Holidays can be stressful enough, but add caregiver woes to the mix and the result is heavier than any fruitcake I've ever used as a doorstop!

Last Christmas was mom's first in her new down-sized abode. She wanted to deck the halls, but between the smallness of her home and giving up a lot of decorations in the move, we had to negotiate the trimmings. For years, she and dad had put a 4-foot tree on a small table in their living room. The arrangement gave them the height of a larger tree, without taking up the floor space. With space now at an even higher premium, I suggested a small 2-foot tabletop tree with filament lighting. Mom seemed quite happy with the new tree. Once it was joined by a couple of poinsettias, a wreath, and a few other holiday touches, her home was comfortably festive.


She had just a few things in a storage building, including the 4-foot tree, which she wasn't ready to give up. I offered to store them in my own building, freeing her of that monthly fee, and all seemed well - until last week.


Mom called me, saying she wanted to visit a local home and garden store to buy a new tree for the front porch. Some of the other neighbors put large trees on their porches last year, where they could enjoy the lights from indoors, without taking up indoor space. The following conversation ensued:



Me: Well, Mom, before you go buy a tree, remember I have your old tree stored here.


Mom: That's right! But that one goes inside.


Me: But you don't have room inside.


Mom: Yes I do.


Me: We worked this out last year - remember? That's why we got the little tree.


Mom: Well, the one from the house isn't very big. We used to put it on a tabletop.


Me: Yes, but your ceilings are lower in the cottage, and the tree I have stored takes up more area.


Mom: It doesn't take up that much room. Why did I give it to you to store if I'm not going to use it?

Me: (wishing I knew the answer to that question because I wondered the same thing) Okay, then ... where would you put it?

Mom: Where Mickey's (the bird) cage is.


Me: And where will Mickey go?


Mom: In my bedroom, where the computer is.


Me: And where will the computer go?
Mom: I can put it on the floor.


Me: MOM - you barely have room to get around as it is now! You don't need to be tripping over things in the floor. There's no reason to go thru all this when you have an adorable little tree you got last year. Why do you want to go to all that trouble of moving things around?


Mom: I'm not asking you to do any of this.


Me: Well, you can't do it! You don't need to move Mickey's cage around, or the computer! Who else is going to do it? I don't MIND doing it, but I'm saying, you have enough issues with finding room for things without adding to the chaos.

At this point, she stopped arguing, only because she had already made her decision. A few days later, my son took mom to the home and garden store. Mom proudly announced to me that she bought a new tree for the front porch. She has been tinkering with putting it up herself, and I haven't fussed. It keeps her busy - like a two-year-old playing in the Tupperware cabinet. She's happy, it's not hurting anything, so I let her be.


Mom is a dear, sweet, intelligent woman, and I try to realize that she has limited control in her life. Her ailments control her, preventing the freedoms she used to enjoy. She took excellent care of my grandfather and father during their years of ailing health. She mourned my grandfather's passing, wondering if she could have done more (even Hospice was amazed by the high quality care my mother gave him!). Instead of being able to reclaim some time for herself, she was immediately hit with a series of illnesses. Too often, caregivers neglect their own health, wear themselves down, and fall ill.


As she and I continue our journey together, I will just have to remind myself that the battles aren't over Christmas trees, but instead, are her efforts at independence and survival.

An Introduction

I have begun this blog because I’ve been thrust into the role of caretaker for my aging mother, a part that I never dreamed I’d have to play. Mom was always so independent; she took care of everyone else -- except herself.

She smoked too much and even tried to hide her addiction when dad had to quit due to his own heart and lung problems. When she finally did quit, it was too late. Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) was settling into her body and now has her panting for air when she exerts herself the least bit. She’s on oxygen, with which she maintains a love-hate relationship. A stroke near her brain stem has affected her balance. The doctor says she is fortunate because 30 percent of people die from similar strokes; the remainder are left incapacitated. At least she is still mobile. Another odd disease causes her bone marrow to produce too many red blood cells.

Unrelated to the COPD, her body believes she is not getting enough oxygen, so it creates an excess of red blood cells, leaving her circulation sluggish, which in turn, perpetuates the lack of O2. Compound the issue with the COPD and the problem worsens. In addition, the thickened blood puts her at a higher risk of a different kind of stroke.

This frail, sick woman has just enough spunk remaining, that she has quickly turned into her father – a man she swore not to emulate due to the troubles he caused when under her care. Recalling the incident of my 92-year-old grandfather cutting a tree with a chainsaw makes me thankful that I have my mother’s chainsaw locked away in my storage building. I have no doubt she would try to do the same, given the opportunity.

A few weeks before my father died, my parents moved into an independent living community. They downsized from a four-bedroom, two-story house to the cottage which has one bedroom, a living room, tiny kitchen, laundry room, and bathroom. The move was completed in October 2008, but mom still complains about things she didn’t bring, things that she believes were done without her knowledge, and things that she thinks she should have.

While many of my experiences are common place, I hope this blog will help some people know they are not alone. Perhaps others will find a bit of humor to brighten their day. Along the way, I’ll impart resources and information I gathered as a former senior center director. I planned programs for active senior citizens in a local community and part of my job was to maintain a database and offer programs to help caregivers and those they care about. At that time, I provided mom information to help in dealing with her father, not realizing I would soon be in the exact same position. Rule #1: Never say “never.”