Coming to grips

come to grips - to deal with (a problem or a subject); to handle, manage, care, deal - be in charge of, act on, or dispose of

A week ago the doctors at the Oaks put in a referral for my mom to get some inpatient treatment at Park Ridge Geropsychiatric Unit.  Today she was transferred there.  While I know it is necessary, and that they are probably the only ones who can help her adjust to living out the rest of her days in a nursing home, I have ambivalent feelings all jumbled up in my head.   Guilt.  Validation.  Betrayal. Sadness. Relief. Uncertainty.  Anticipation.  Fear.  

I am coming to grips with having a mom who has mental health challenges AND dementia AND physical problems. Coming to grips with not apologizing for admitting these facts to myself and others; with being the one who has to make unpopular and unsavory decisions; with not being able to discuss mom's care with my sisters; with having to put on a front when I talk to or visit mom.  

Yes, I handle, manage, care, deal, am in charge of, act on, and dispose of.  And strangely, I enjoy doing it.  I delight in this duty of honoring my parent.  I have no delusions that she will be cured, or fixed, or pain free, or even happy. She will be angry with me, and my sisters will accuse me of exaggerating, controlling, fabricating, and manipulating. I do know, though, that she will be safe and cared for and this new phase will help the caregiving team understand her needs, and deal with her behavior. It is not easy. Or fun. But I enjoy this duty. I actually delight in this duty. I can, as James, brother of Jesus, said:  "Count it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, when you meet trials of various kinds." (James 1:2). And the more I love, the more I pursue the JOY of fulfilling God's purpose in my life.  

This has become even clearer to me as I read John Piper's The Dangerous Duty of Delight.  (I started out reading Piper's Desiring God, but my son-in-law wisely suggested I read the smaller book first...good advice!)  "Funny" how reading these books just "happened" to coincide with caregiving decisions for my mom, with my internal emotional struggle with those decisions.  

Such a journey I am on.  Such an opportunity to grow and glorify God and pursue him in joy.  For, as Piper puts it, "Love is the overflow and expansion of joy in God, which gladly meets the need of others."  

Quips

Kids say the darnedest things.  And our granddaughters say the CUTEST things EVER!  (Or "evuh" if you are Molly)
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"Bye girls.  We are driving down to see Pop Pop's parents."

Lydia:  "Pop Pop has parrots!?"

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"Molly, lay down on your pillow and go to sleep, sweetie."

"I can't.  I'm a grasshopper.  Grasshoppers don't use pillows."

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Isabella:  "Love you, stinky face!"

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Lydia and Molly:  "Hey that car has one of those "wee-o, wee-o" things on it"

(the light on top of emergency vehicles...you know, the vehicles that have a siren that goes, "WEE-O, WEE-O, WEE-O")

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And then there is the "spicy meatball" craze, started by Pop Pop....here are a couple clips

Humor in the ER

Watching parents get old, more infirm, sick, and suffering from the effects of aging, dementia, and arthritis, is not, to put it mildly, fun.  Lots of serious stuff, hard questions to answer, and even harder decisions to make.  So when something happens that makes me laugh out loud, well, it's a memorable moment that brightens my day, that makes me realize to not take myself (or my situation) so seriously.

I had one of those precious moments two days ago, when, for the second time in less than a week, I accompanied Mom from the Oaks to the local emergency room.  She'd fallen again and bumped her head pretty good, and needed stitches.  With her history of dizziness, confusion, and worsening dementia, it's normal for emergency medical workers to ask several questions to assess her state of mind. 

"Hi, ma'am.  How are you doing today?"
     "What?"
"HI MA'AM...HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?"
      "Well how do you think I am doing? I have a gash in my head"
"Do you know where we are?"
     "The ER"
"Which ER?"
            "Transylvania!"
"What year and month is it?"
         "2016, April,May,whatever"
"Can you tell me who the president is?"
         "Shit-head knucklehead"
"Yup, that'll do"

The rest of the visit was boring after that.

Stirring the pot

What the heck is it about an aging parent that makes siblings act like a bunch of four year olds? I have been trying to figure this out...have read articles and books, talked to counselors and eldercare experts, attended caregiver support groups.   Emotionally charged, being in denial, disagreements on care decisions, guilt, helplessness. All these terms might explain the reactions, but they do not make it any easier to deal with the pain. When the aging parent is a model mother, much loved and respected by her children, even-tempered and Christian, always the center and the heart of the home, it makes sense for her adult children to have trouble accepting mom is frail and needs more help than they can give. They want to keep the idea and image of their sweet, strong, capable mom alive.  

But in our case, Mom has always been difficult, to put it mildly. Confrontational, mercurial, with serious mental health issues, most of us had no delusions about the person Mom really was. Her life was littered with failed relationships and a look at her past showed dozens, if not hundreds, of failed attempts to escape reality. She thrived on rancor and strife, loved playing the martyr, and would frequently stir the pot of sibling rivalries, pitting one against the other, so much so that we grew up laughingly wondering who was the "black sheep of the month." So it was natural for me, as I came to grips with the fact she would never change, to believe my sisters and I would be on the same page when it came to agreeing she needed help. That the biggest issue would be deciding which one of us would be stuck with it.  

I realized about eight years ago that my mom could no longer care for herself--she needed help with finances, cooking, healthcare, transportation, hygiene, and nutrition. My two sisters agreed, and they willingly stepped aside to let me carry the load. Or so I thought. Four years into the first attempt, sister #1 stepped in and whisked Mom and her husband away to another state, just as I had gotten approval for Mom to receive state-funded assisted living. No discussion. Mom had stirred the pot. Called her and told her how awful I was. Pleaded for "rescue." Alex and I vainly tried to change their minds (my mom's and my sister's), all to no avail.  

Fast forward 18 months--Mom was widowed and out of money. Bills were piling up.  Her health was horrible. She had a permanent colostomy. Neither sister #1 or sister #2 were equipped to help. We took it on. Again. Moved her here. Realized she needed 24/7, skilled nursing care. Got her settled. Made a few false steps with my sisters--old habits die hard so I fell into the sibling rivalry squabbles as, you guessed it, sweet little Mom stirred her Cafe Vienna and the pot. Pitted one against the other. Then two against one.   

Not fair, I said. Please understand, I'd say. I am doing what Mom needs, I'd cry.  Please support me in this, I begged. Silence.Then accusations. Bitter texts. Horrible words. Hateful shouting matches. Secret keeping. Against each other. Got so bad I blocked them from my phone, my social media, from my conversations with my dad. Because even though my dad HATES my mom, my sisters are constantly whispering in his ear how I am being a "dictator," and a horrible daughter and sister, exaggerating my missteps.  

Mom just got back to the nursing home from a short stay in the hospital, a result of going on hunger strike to get attention. After weeks of no word from either sister, I still let them know Mom was okay but hospitalized. Foolishly followed Mom's wishes of only having Alex and me allowed to get medical info. What followed was a flurry of nasty texts, ranting and ravings, and false accusations from sister #1, and a painfully loud silence from sister #2.  And all the while, Mom is asking me to fix the relationship with my sisters. Asking me innocently if I had talked to them, when she knew all the while she had stirred this pot. That she tells them things that will get them upset with me. That will put me alone against the three of them. I feel all alone. Helpless. Sad. Why can't they see she is using us all? That this is her way of coping with the inevitable?  

I will drive myself insane trying to ascertain the answers to those questions. So I will rest on the assurance that God is here with me, that although I will get relief from only some troubles in this life, I will find relief from ALL troubles in the next life.  

"Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God.  I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."  Isaiah 41:10

Pinball wizards

After over three months at the Oaks, my mom finally got transferred to the Long Term Care wing--it took this long because they had to find a suitable roommate.  And that is no easy task.  But the staff did it.  I was out of town when she was transferred...she called me to tell me she had moved, and her voice just sounded, well, broken.  Like she'd given up. 

Yep, I knew the signs, so I called the nurses and told them to keep an eye on her.  Once I got back, we visited daily. Helplessly watched as she refused to eat or drink.  Watched as she stayed in bed 20, then 22, then finally 24 hours a day, not taking care of even the most basic hygiene. Watched as she went from being irritable and confrontational with the staff to being withdrawn and hunkered down in her bed, not talking to anyone. By the ten day point, she was emptying her ostomy bag in her bed and on the floor,  was no longer dressing herself, and had pretty much given up.  I'd seen this before at least three times in the past year--this was her cry for attention. So, I demanded they call the doctor, order some labs--less than 12 hours later, she was on her way to the hospital ER. Then admitted for pneumonia and dehydration.  

Simultaneously, Alex's dad was on his way to an ER in Tampa after suffering yet another fall, this time dislocating his shoulder. Just a couple days ago he had fallen in the shower and had to go to the ER for some stitches, but had gone back to his nursing home all patched up. Then he falls again...luckily Alex's brother Dave is nearby to take care of those issues. And at least now my sweet mother-in-law is doing better and living in the same facility as her husband.  

But really, what is it with Bud and my mom going into hospitals on the same day?  Are they trying to make us crazy? Maybe we already are crazy.  I feel crazy sometimes.  I have been sick for three weeks with a stupid cough, a cough so bad that by now my throat feels like raw hamburger.  Alex and I have been apart longer than we have been together this year. We have been pinging from one crisis to another, sometimes several crises at one time, and then in between making time for Disney trips with our grandkids, visits to see our newest granddaughter, and doing things around the house.  

The best analogy I can think of is that of a pinball table, where Alex and I are the little silver balls and we just keep getting bounced around on different bumpers and bells, with no rhyme or reason. We just bounce around and hit all the bumpers and try to stay in the game. There are no rules to this game. And we don't know what bumper we are running into next.

We are just playing the game. I need a rule book

Mother's Day

Two weeks ago was Mother's Day...probably my least favorite holiday of the year.  I actually hate Mother's Day. Always have.  I never understood what all the fuss was about, why there was so much advertising dedicated to selling flowers, candy, and cards for mothers. From the ripe young age of five, school activities in late April were centered on that one day-- we were told to make Mother's Day cards or coupon books or decorate little flower pots for our moms, so we could present these handmade treasures to a grateful, loving, tearful mom. Hollywood and Hallmark alike portrayed the scene like this: Wearing an apron and a pretty dress, she'd bend down and ooh and ahhh over her darling child's gift, clutching her heart, eyes welling up with tears. Her darling husband would surprise her with a beautiful necklace, her kids would serve her breakfast in bed-- burnt toast and runny eggs on a tray with handpicked flowers in a vase--and she'd love it.

Yeah, not in my world. And no, I am not seeking pity or sympathy or validation. I had a crappy childhood.  My mother is anything but the doting sweet apron-wearing lady I would see on cards and TV and billboards. I have grown up wondering what it is like to have a mom for a friend, to have someone who always has your back no matter what, who will always love you, who will always put you first. As a child, then as a teenager, a young woman, a mother myself, and now a grandmother, I still have no idea what it must be like to look forward to seeing my mom, to trusting my mom with secrets, asking her advice, letting her watch my children. I have watched this mother-daughter relationship in countless homes of friends, and it baffled me. I hated shopping for cards for my mom--it was anathema to think of NOT getting her a card--but trying to find one that was loving but not too loving, sweet but in a neutral way, praising her but only with vague praises, was exhausting. I would pick up card after card after card, reading lie after lie after lie, saying "nope" and putting them back, until I happened on just the right, "generic" card with pretty purple flowers that I wouldn't feel like a hypocrite to sign.

Then I had my own children. I loved them from their conception, and have never stopped. I poured my whole being into them, into keeping them safe, loving them, teaching them. I celebrated my own Mother's Day, year after year, and gladly and lovingly received precious handmade cards and gifts. Then as they grew older, and they realized I was no longer the center of their universe, I was afraid I had not been a good enough mother. That my children hated Mother's Day as well, that they struggled in the card aisle looking for the right card. I would read the cards, handwritten or store-bought, over and over again, looking for a hidden message, something that said they really just bought me the card or gift out of obligation, out of duty. If one of my daughters didn't get me a card, or called their mother-in-law "Mom," or did anything to even hint that I was not the central mother character in their lives, I would be a mess.

Then my children had children. And are celebrating their own Mother's Days now.  This year I received a beautiful handmade photo of my youngest daughter holding her newborn baby, with the words "The best moms get promoted to grandma" written on the side of the photo. And I got a darling, hand-written card from my oldest, written while she was watching her girls play in a mud puddle. And I did not get either of them a card this year, for their Mother's Day. And when I mentioned this to the oldest, she said "Mom, its okay...I am not big on cards at all. I know you are, though. That's why I made you one." And I felt ashamed and elated at the same time

Ashamed for all the times I second-guessed their intentions. Elated that their intentions were innocent and sweet and done out of love

Ashamed for making such a big deal out of a piece of paper. Elated my daughters loved making gifts and cards sparing no ink penning the right words.

Ashamed for wearing my mother's sins on my sleeves, for thinking I had to pay the penalty. Elated I could finally break free of the bondage of guilt I had worn for 60 years.

Ashamed for transferring my neurotic need for validation as a "good mom" to my daughters. Elated to have been blessed with such beautiful, wonderful Godly women who honestly love their mother

Ashamed of how I used to resent my mom, how I used to wish I had a different mom. Elated to fulfill God's purpose in my life with the mother He gave me.

In search of peace and quiet

It's been quite a while since my last entry. Been a bit busy. Visited my in-laws in Tampa in separate senior care centers. Came back home. Volunteered at the store a couple days. Had an attorney appointment to get our affairs in order (doing a trust vs a will). Took my three granddaughters and their parents to Disney for a week. Had a blast. Went back home by myself. Volunteered about 16 hours. Alex back home for two days. Birthday dinner with Alexs brother and Mother's Day visits to my mom. Now we are headed down to Georgia to watch those lovelies for a few days. Ballet recital. Back home. Then to San Antonio for my BFFs  daughter's first birthday.  Home  again. Get ready for Isabella's birthday party--she'll be two on May 26. A puppy themed party. And carefully choreographed visits from my parents and Isabella's other grandparents. A chance in June to breathe for a couple of weeks. Maybe. Then more friends visit, and both daughters and families for the Fourth of July week. Mandy goes back to India after that, and takes those precious three babies with her.  I've been so busy since December I feel like I'm running nonstop, always moving, always looking to the next task or event on the calendar and still feeling like I'm not getting anything accomplished. It seems it was December just last month, but it's already May. Things I've looked forward to are either past or nearly over. A new granddaughter -- already three months old.  Mandy  and family stateside for six months after three years in India--four months gone.  I keep trying to get into a routine. I joined a local gym. Volunteer at a local domestic violence victim store. Excited about spring planting. But sometimes I just forget to slow down and talk to my God. To not just do something--to sit here. And listen. And breathe. And look. And praise Him. For everything. No wonder I'm tired. My strength comes from the Lord.  

"For thus saith the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel; in returning and rest shall you be saved, in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength." 

Isaiah 30:15