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.

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.”