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.

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)

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.”