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.

Writing ... again

Starting this blog was something I wanted to do for myself as well as to share insight with others. Unfortunately, when my mother discovered my blog, and I found myself defending my posts, I set my efforts on the proverbial back burner. 

Mom's situation has changed, and though she is still living, she is less likely to stumble on my musings. Too many times, I've said, "I need to write this down," and didn't.  So, armed with fodder and feeling somewhat autonomous, I am going to fluff up the pillows in my imaginary window and write.