What a Difference a Day (or Two) Makes

I am blessed that, for me, dark days do pass.  I don’t always remember that, but even in my deepest holes, I think that somewhere in the corners of my brain I do know that this will not last forever, or, at the very least, I have the kind of friends who will stop and the top of the hole and bellow down for me to get my sorry butt out. 

It doesn’t make the hole any less deep, but at some point in my misery the thought will emerge that I need go in search of a ladder.  I need to let someone wrap their arms around me and say it will be OK.  I need to listen to the voices of those who have been there; who know the pain and also know that it gets better.  I need to take their offers to help. 

It’s amazing what happens when I look up out of the hole.

When I look out of my hole I realize that I can begin to reshape friendships that no longer have the benefit of geographic proximity and form them into something that capitalizes on the distance; that revels in their new experiences.

Even though I cannot change the course of my mother’s illness and I cannot change the timeline, when I look past the gloom I can remind myself that I am here because I long ago decided that this was the choice I could best live with in the long run; regardless of the challenges in the near-term. 

I also remember that I am not alone in this vigil; that 14 million families in the U.S. alone are in this boat with me; that millions more have done this before me; many without the support of their families, the benefit of understanding the process, the ability to distinguish between the illness and their loved one, or the means to get assistance.

When I let the beast get close enough, I am reminded that she does have some endearing qualities.  I find out that she can be good.  She can listen… and, given the chance, the girl can snuggle.  Her being curled up next to me, breathing on my ice-cold feet came as a potent reminder that I didn’t really want to give her away or give up on her. 

So now I just need to get writing again.  Then, maybe, I will have put last week behind me.

Mirror, Mirror

In big and small ways each of us effect the environment around us.

If the Captain has a temper, the whole crew will be tense.  If the Captain is happy and fun-loving; the ship will be more relaxed (although it may, quite possibly, also be aground…).  If the Captain expects perfection, recognizes when his crew performs and capitalizes on those less than perfect moments as teaching opportunities; the crew will be proud and accomplished.

If the ladies are freaking out over not having their places taken and their BINGO cards in front of them for 20 solid minutes before the game was to begin, the mood on the floor will be a little frazzled.  Even those who had no intention of playing BINGO become worried that something has gone terribly wrong.

If the mood on the floor is sour, my mother will stare at the ceiling.

I broke my own cardinal rule the other day.  I allowed less than happy thoughts to dominate a conversation I had in front of my mother.   Last week, I took advantage of the presence of a number of staff on my mother’s floor to voice a concern I had.  It is a long-standing concern and has been the subject of a number of conversations I have had….and it had come up again that day.

So, to be fair, I did more than voice that concern, yet again. 

I took the staff to task for their response, which was to make sure to get the word out.  I called that response naive.  With notes in my mother’s chart, on her care plan and taped to her *expletive deleted* bathroom mirror, “the word” was, to my way of thinking, out.  We don’t need the word to get out, I said.  We need people to be held accountable for doing their job. 

In short, I was pissed.  And it showed.

And my mother stared fixedly at the ceiling for the rest of the day.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall.  Whose the grumpiest of us all?” you might ask.

It’s a trick question.  Grumpy is, apparently, contagious.

Managing Anxiety

Paradoxically, I worry about my mother worrying. 

Her general health and occasional aches and pains are managed by the staff of the nursing home where she is a resident.  They also do a pretty good job of watching out for her emotional well-being, too, but, where they are mindful of it, I am maniacal about it.  I change luncheon discussion topics.  I take other visitors to task for not bringing only happy thoughts with them.  I lie.

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that the best thing I can say when people ask about my mother is that she is content.  If I have anything to say about it, she’s gonna stay that way, dammit.

In other words, I lie a lot.

Without a mental continuum, my mother doesn’t always process inputs the way you might expect.  She doesn’t necessarily draw straight lines from input to conclusion, either.  I have written previously of my minor grumblings about carrying two mortgages while trying to sell my condo.  Days later, I found my mother nearly in tears because, as she related to me, she couldn’t pay her bills.

In recent years, I have invested no small amount of energy in offering reassurance.  There is no need to worry; “the bills have been paid”, “dinner is taken care of”, ”you already sent them a card” or “the nurse will remind you, I promise”.  I offer reassurance for things I don’t even understand; my all-time personal favorite; “the thingy in the/to the/at the what????  Oh no, Mom.  We did that yesterday, remember?”

This morning, I arrived to find Miss M. rubbing her hands and looking a little agitated; never a good sign.  I kissed my mother hello, asked how she was, waited for her to assure me she was OK and then asked Miss M. what she was doing.

“My palms keep itchin”, was the reply.

“Doesn’t that mean someone is going to give you money?” I asked.

Miss M. looked at me like she was trying to decide if I was making fun of her. 

My mother looked at me quite seriously and declared “I have loads of money.”

I was drinking coffee at the time.  Loads of it came out my nose.