The nest emptied. The parents moved in, then out...then basically became my life. Hilarity, frustration and madness ensued. I went from a stay-at-home mom to a stay-at-home daughter. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing.
SIXTY years. That's a long time. Twenty-nine years. That, too, is a long time. On the 27th, my parents celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. Today, my hubby and I celebrate our 29th. Wow.
Looking at my parents, it's somewhat surprising they made it this long. Their marriage was similar to so many of their generation. They were YOUNG - 22 and 21. They knew nothing, hardly knew each other but liked each other well enough. They would go on to live a lifetime of adventures and heartbreaks and celebrations and sadness. Yet somehow, they survived. For some reason, they stuck together and today, I know they're glad they did. I'm glad they did.
For my hubby and I, it was a different story. We were best friends. We talked for HOURS. We knew each other so well. We built our marriage on a foundation of trust and love - solid as a rock. We needed that foundation because we too would have our share of adventure and heartbreak and celebration and sadness. Through it all, we never doubted that we would be wherever we needed to be...for each other.
For my parents' anniversary, our kids recorded one of my favorite songs ever - "Somewhere" from West Side Story. The lyrics speak perfectly to my parents' journey and transition this past year:
There's a place for us Somewhere a place for us Peace and quiet and open air Wait for us Somewhere There's a time for us Some day a time for us Time together With time to spare Time to learn Time to care Someday Somewhere We'll find a new way of living We'll find a way of forgiving Somewhere There's a place for us A time and place for us Hold my hand And we're halfway there Hold my hand And I'll take you there Somehow Someday Somewhere
So, please enjoy this beautiful recording of "Somewhere" performed by our children.
Yesterday, I was visiting my parents and Mom was lamenting about the myriad things she's worried about (Dad's gait, the people they sit with at meals, my sister, the world in general...) and I immediately started feeling bad. My first instinct was to want to fix or address every concern that my Mom had.
That's when it hit me.
I'm my Mom's "person."
Thanks to circumstances and geography and a complete overhaul of my parents' life, I have become Mom's "person" - the one she calls when things go wrong. The one she depends on for....Depends! (Sorry, but it's true.) I'm the person upon whom she dumps her many, MANY worries. That used to be Dad, but I'm quite certain that now it's me.
Yesterday, she needed a hug and the reassurance that everything was going to be OK. She needed me to tell her: "It's OK, I've got this."
Do I really have it? Of course not. Who does? But I instantly knew that that's what she needed to hear at that moment. She needed someone to "hug" a little sense into her.
It's kind of daunting and it's kind of humbling. I've suddenly been entrusted with the care of two more people. Just when I'm at a point of launching my own kids into the big, bad world, God (yep, I'm blaming him) decided I should take on a couple more.
This is, in no way, an attempt to take any measure of credit. If there is credit, it goes to my hubby - MY person. He has, somehow, navigated the cold, cruel world of elder care and cobbled together a safe and caring life for my parents here in Wisconsin. It's my job to do the small things - the shopping trips, the doctor visits, the holiday arrangements. Some days that seems like a big job, but it's not really.
But just like the day you bring your first child home, the thought that you are in charge of a human...or two, or three...is scary. Knowing that you can barely care for yourself and suddenly you should look out for someone else? Crazy.
And yet, I do sometimes see it as a gift. These past few months have been a little insane, but we've managed. And now, we have stories to tell. FUNNY stories. Sad stories. Interesting stories. Our lives are now enriched because we've gone on an unexpected journey. Isn't that when life really happens?
In these days following the horrific tragedy in Newtown, CT, there has been a lot of talk about the heroism of teachers and keeping children safe. I can't imagine how teachers do what they do - lovingly care for, teach and keep children safe. I couldn't do that and I'm in awe of my sister who does. But I did see a connection to my own responsibility watching over my parents.
Yesterday, my daughter asked why I was going to see my parents. "Do they have a doctor's appointment?" she asked. "No," I responded. "I just try to see them twice a week and I only got there once last week." I wasn't saying it to pat myself on the back. But I did want her to understand that sometimes we do things that put other people first.
If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know that a lot of my posts have been about my Dad. I guess I'd attribute this to the fact that my father has always been a huge figure in my life. Prior to this year, I adored my Dad without hesitation. Sure, he had a few annoying habits, but that was nothing compared to how awesome he was, right?
Fast-forward to this spring when my parents moved in with us. All of a sudden, I was completely blindsided and gobsmacked by the combination of a very human/flawed person and an elderly man desperately trying to retain his dignity while, little by little, it was being stripped away. I saw the ugliness of his daily habits. I often forgot about the dementia diagnosis and lashed out when he wouldn't bend to our demands.
Basically, I saw my Dad for who he really was, AFTER being filtered through the prism of decline, decay, dementia and general inertia. The man is aging and yet my stubbornness refuses to let go of the guy that I used to know - the funny, articulate, witty, interesting and engaged individual who taught me work ethic like nobody else. How is it possible that this same person won't even get up out of his chair or worse, won't change the channel on the TV?
My Dad isn't the same person I used to know. Then again, who among us goes unchanged through life?
I inherited a lot from my Dad for which I'm thankful, except for two traits that I wish I could give back - impatience and cynicism. Neither of them are serving me well in my new role of elder careperson. They are also not serving Dad very well at this, unfortunately, sad time of his life.
For me, impatience causes me to wish my parents could walk more quickly, remember things more readily or react to virtually anything with the speed of my peers. It has just occurred to me that I seem unwilling to meet them where they are. Remember months ago, when I wrote this second post about how this all seemingly started with a prayer for patience? I find, more often than not, I haven't really done very well in that department. No doubt another lesson is waiting for me down the road.
Then there's the cynicism that I learned from my Dad. When he and I go on excursions to one of his medical appointments, I have a hard time getting him to talk. My fallback is always to ask his opinion about people or things in the news. More often than not, his answers are short on length and optimism. As prone as I am to being a "Judgy McJudgson," I too find myself expecting the negative or making judgments about people about whom I know so little. Who am I to judge?
I don't have a resolution for any of this. My current relationship with my Dad is tenuous, at best. I'd like to say that I've changed, but I probably haven't. I constantly have to remind myself of how far he's fallen and how difficult that must be for him. My hope is that I can get into the habit of remembering to be patient and non-judgmental, something that does not come easily at all.
Perhaps I'd do well to remember the wise words of Aibileen:
I guess this is it. The way things will be...at least for a while. I'm starting to realize that life is a series of scenes, ever-changing. Things never really "settle down." They just remain stable...for a little while. And then they change again. Because kids grow, parents age, health declines. I'm not depressed, really. I'm just feeling a sense of clarity.
I've been having this interior struggle: The other day, I had this absolutely daunting, overwhelming thought - I've taken over my parents' lives. Although it was done with the blessings of my siblings and with the reluctant acceptance of Mom and Dad, I still realize that they are largely dependent upon me and Hubby. Wow. In some ways, this feels like being a new mom again - kinda scary.
Then again, the Control Freak side of me sort of likes the fact that I can positively affect their life. Is that weird? I just think back to the past several years. So often I would think: Gosh, I wish Mom and Dad lived closer so I could do this with them, or show them this or share this with them. Now I can, within limited means. We're still dealing with physical issues - poor vision, dementia, gait impairment - but there are a few things I can now do because they live closer to us.
So my life has settled into a bit of a routine. I try to go to Mom and Dad's at least two times a week. Mom calls with a shopping list of necessities and I purchase those along with a few treats - candy or other sweets that I know will brighten Dad's eyes. It's not much and most of the time, it feels woefully inadequate, but knowing they're safe and looked-after, is about the best we can do right now.
On the bright side, I'm loving the little chats that I have with Mom when I visit. She's a sharp one - doesn't miss a beat - fills me in on all the hubub at the facility. Some of it kind of funny, some good, but some not-so-good. And when it's not-so-good, that's when the guilt sets in. When she makes comments about how there's not much staff on weekends and it's really quiet - I brush it off, but I never really get rid of it.
That's when I have to remind myself that in many ways, we're in WAY better shape than so many other families who are struggling with what to do with our parents. Many friends have told me that they are thinking ahead and concerned about what they will do in the next few years. That's when I feel really proud. It wasn't perfect, but we did it. We stepped into my parents' lives and did the best thing we could.
Maybe it's because I'm feeling so impacted (or is it snake bitten?) by this experience, I'm now starting to think ahead...WAY ahead to what will happen to Hubby and me. We're only 52 and 53 years old, but the years speed by. The time to prepare is now, right?
I guess that's my new mission - spreading the message of "preparedness." It's never too early.
So, we went on vacation for a week. That was nice. Got away. Felt like old times. Thought about the folks a little, but I'll be honest - not a lot. And still, while we were gone, Hubby was on the phone with a government agency questioning more of Mom and Dad's bills. I could hear the frustration and concern in his voice. The finances never seem to be the easy part. Seriously, people. Start stockpiling money NOW. Being old is a pricey proposition...at best. A financial juggernaut the size and effect of the Hindenberg and the Titanic all rolled up in one.
Yesterday, I knew I had to call Mom and check in. Asked her if everything was going OK. I was stupid enough to let myself imagine that she'd respond "Oh, everything is great!"
Nope.
Instead, I got a litany of mild to moderate complaints. Here, in no particular order are the things that are of concern to Mom:
- Mom and Dad miss their house...a lot.
- The Assisted Living staff is constantly changing. Mom said the nurses are different every day.
- The generic "Depends" I bought her are terrible.
- Mom and Dad want soup and crackers...because dinners aren't good there.
- They probably can't even vote...or don't know where/how to vote.
- Dad has lots of questions about money, etc. We need to talk to him.
- Mom saw another resident's apartment and it has VALANCES. Clearly, that's the secret to making these apartments look like a home. Apparently, their apartment feels like crap in comparison. (Yes, I inserted adjectives in there.)
- There are rumors of two new couples moving in. She said this in a negative tone...as if this will upset their life in some way.
Honestly, it was a very depressing conversation. I tried my best to let Mom vent. After all, who else can she really talk to? If she's afraid to air her grievances with me, she'll just bottle it up and feel guilty. But it made me feel TERRIBLE. I felt like I was holding them prisoner in this gawdawful place.
I reminded her of why they were there and how I wished I could do something...anything to let them live in their home, but it's not possible. She understood, but I could tell that there was this lingering pall over their life.
Really, this shouldn't be a huge surprise to me. At some point, reality was going to hit them and they would have this melancholy stage. I just underestimated how much I would feel it as well.
"This has been a test of the Emergency Elder Care System." It works.
Last night, I was sitting on the couch, watching TV when the caller ID flashed the name of my parents' Assisted Living facility. "Uh oh," I said. It's the call you don't want, but you have to take.
Turns out, Dad was reaching to close the blinds in the apartment, lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. He didn't hurt himself but he couldn't get up....much like had happened many times before when my parents lived alone.
Fortunately, my Mom or Dad pulled the little cord thingy on the wall and somebody came to help him up. They also took his vital signs to make sure he was OK. Then I was called...twice. Once last night and once this morning. It was reassuring to know that everybody was OK and they had survived this incident.
Phew....sort of.
See, the thing is, although I'm totally relieved that Dad fell in a place that is safe and where they were there to pick him up, the problem is that he still fell. And when will he fall and hurt himself? I know it will happen...eventually. No, I'm not being all Negative Nancy, I'm being Realistic Rita. Because here's the cold, hard truth about all of our parents - Eventually, they will fail. I know it. You know it. We all know it. The question really becomes: Who will be there to pick them up and what's the next step?
It's been way too long since I've posted - over a week - and I know what you're thinking: "Out of sight, out of mind." Well, I admit, that's KIND of true. Now that the parents are in the assisted living facility, I do admit to selfishly enjoying every single damn moment of the empty nest. Dang, this is nice. I love everything about it - making plans with Hubby, NOT making dinner, rarely grocery shopping, coming and going when I please. I admit it, I'm one selfish person. But at least I admit it, right?
Back at the assisted facility, Mom and Dad are adjusting nicely. Is it perfect? No. Apparently Mom gets awakened every morning at 6am to get some of her medication. I guess it's a little unnerving that they just walk into the apartment. Then again, they do this so that some time passes between the time she gets her medication and the time that she eats. Her at our house, she'd simply sit around and not eat for a while. They have a schedule. They can't be feeding people at all times of the day. I'm sure my parents don't love that their meal times are rarely if ever changed, but then again, it's something stable and constant which, in elder care, is really important.
Then there's the food. I've basically been avoiding the topic with my parents. Not that I don't care, but because I can't fix it. I can't change it. It is what it is. Yes, I wish that they loved it, but they don't. They don't hate it, but it's not the be-all, end-all. Mom basically says,"It's not bad, but there's just something missing." So instead, I'm trying to sneak them out for some meals at restaurants when I can. Today, for instance, Hubby and I are taking them to dinner at a nice steak place near them. I'm kind of excited and they are too! Mom asked me when I called her about it: "Are you sure you want to come down here today?" Isn't she too sweet? She also said: "That will really be a treat for us!" Man, if I can make somebody's day by taking them to dinner, life is pretty damn good.
On the negative side, we're having some family fireworks. My sister and I are thick as thieves. We stay connected and work together as much as possible. My brother is another story. I don't want to air the family dirty laundry, but we are no way on the same page. We're not even in the same book. He's frustrated and feeling guilty because he can't do as much to contribute to the cause and so he's flipping things around and making my sister and I feel like we did something wrong. It's maddening. I feel angry and frustrated myself. My first instinct is to lash out at him, but I know, deep down, that won't help anything. I have to swallow my pride and fix it. It's what I do. I'm kind of the family fixer. (I'm a Libra - it's a genetic thing.) The problem is, I'm not sure it can be fixed. But here's the thing: What matters more than anything else to my parents is that we kids get along. It's all they care about. Damn, this is hard.
So that's an update. Nothing special. Nothing earth-shattering, but that's actually good. No news is actually good news.
It's as if God said to me: "Whoa, whoa, WHOA. Don't get TOO comfortable over there!"
Yes, in a stroke of cosmic timing, the hot flashes started last week. When I finally get the parents into Assisted Living and my daughter back to school and really empty out the nest, nature decides to throw me a curve ball and push me into menopause. Sigh.
I know, I know. I'm damn well old enough. Many of my friends started years ago, but I thought I might escape it, somehow. As if I got a pass from the ickiness of old age and I'd quietly descend into my sunset years without incident. Nope. Not gonna happen.
Actually, they're not really hot flashes. A friend wisely called them "surges" and that's exactly how they feel. It's like drinking a pot of hot coffee on a really warm day. Suddenly, you just have this overwhelming urge to remove a layer of clothing...quickly. It's tolerable, just really weird. So that's what's new with me....
So I haven't been posting in a while. Life has generally settled down, except for most Tuesdays and Thursdays when I do the marathon trip to the Assisted Living Facility, pick up Dad, take him to one or two PT appointments, drive him home and then drive me back home. Here are the only two bad things about this whole scene: 1) Dad isn't much of a talker. The car rides are kind of long and awkward. 2) Sciatica. Doesn't hurt unless I'm sitting down...which I am for 2 hours during this commute.
Other than that, it's been pretty good. Except for the fact that I feel like Dad and I are completely wasting our time doing this PT. He does his exercises...sort of. But his shoulder isn't really better and his gait isn't really better. And yet, despite that, he decided to head down to the dining hall without his walker the other day. Even the nurse saw him and offered to go up to their apartment and get it, but he insisted that he didn't need it. I feel like that's not a good thing, but perhaps it might improve his strength?
Here's a nugget from a recent doctor appointment:
Nurse: So, do you have any big plans for the weekend? Dad: Not really...except for sky diving.
He's a trip, isn't he? And Mom is just eating up the Assisted Living lifestyle. She's gone to Bingo, Dice, Church, manicures, Exercise Your Brain Classes, Yoga...she's doing it all. I'm SO proud of her. It's like she was imprisoned and she's been set free. She says she's overwhelmed by the choices and the activities, but I can see that she's come alive. And she says that Dad seems to like it when she leaves him so he can have his peace and quiet. Is he safe there alone? Who knows.
Oh but there was a bit of a drama there the other day. Mom said they had a meeting during which all the residents could bring up any complaints. One woman, who Mom said is heavy and Dad said "told us that nobody likes her," apparently monopolized the meeting. Mom said everyone was getting upset with her. And to make matters worse, Mom said this woman sits at their table during meals and "your Father HATES her." Oh boy. But as Mom was telling me this story, One Eyed Marilyn, their other tablemate, came up and told Mom that she'd complained and the disliked woman wouldn't be sitting with them anymore. Like a friend said, it's like Middle School Lunch all over again! I'm glad for Mom and Dad (and Marilyn) but feel kind of bad for that woman. How awful it must feel to be old and unliked!
But all seems good, knock on wood. We're settling into a routine, Mom and Dad seem content and I feel like maybe that's the best I can ask for.
Meanwhile, I'm having a load of fun (insert sarcasm font) with the healthcare system. Holy crap. I'm not awesome, but I can't help but wonder, how do old people who don't have a child or someone to help them, deal with medical appointments and healthcare red tape? It absolutely makes me lose my sh*t. I can't help but feel absolutely daunted by the idea of adding more appointments to my parents' calendar. And yet strangely, that calendar also seems to be the one thing that give my Dad's days purpose. Funny how that works. I guess it's a small price to pay.
I'll leave you with a charming video starring old people. I love this.
This morning, as I was still in bed at 4:50 am, my mind was going 8,000 mph. Here's what I was thinking:
- What if Dad isn't sitting properly?
- What if his pressure sores are coming back?
- What if he's not drinking enough water?
- What if he's not doing his PT exercises?
- What if the nurse at the assisted living facility never responds to my request to watch him do his exercises?
- What if the nurse isn't very good?
- What if they're screwing around with their meds?
- What if it's a creeper nurse who is mean to old people?
- What if Mom doesn't stay relatively healthy?
- What if Mom and Dad grow to hate where they live?
- What if I can't get between PT appointments today AND feed Dad lunch in between?
- Should I move the car in between PT appointments?
- What if I never have time to exercise again?
- What if we do all this PT and then Dad just continues to decline?
- What do I do when Mom has an appointment and Dad doesn't?
- Is Dad safe to leave on his own?
- What am I, crazy?!
- What if the funding doesn't come through and they can no longer afford to stay in their apartment?
- If they have to come back here, will I lose my mind?
- What if we run out of money and our kids have no money and we are old and need care?
- What if I don't have time to do everything this week?
- What if I never have time to do anything ever again?
- If I lose my mind, who will take care of Mom and Dad?
- What if the dog's incision doesn't heal properly? - What if the vet says I can't board her while we're gone this weekend?
- What happens if Dad declines quickly and they are no longer fit to be cared for at this "level" in the assisted living?
- Am I losing my mind?
I'm certain there were more questions, but I think you get it. And yes, you can see a trend - it's all about the future and "what if?" I exhaust myself with all of this. Some days, I have to just go with one hour at a time.
So we're doing the triple-switch move here in our family. No, this is not an Olympic event. It's what happens when you move your parents into Assisted Living, move your sister into your parents' house and then move your daughter into her college apartment. Basically, it's a lot of moving...and lifting...and sorting. It's awful. It makes you say to yourself: "Why did I ever buy ANYTHING?" It makes you want to become a reverse hoarder....or a monk.
I feel the worst for my sister. When Mom and Dad moved in with us, we got them and a bunch of their stuff. Yeah, it was challenging, but we managed to keep it to a minimum. My sister ended up with the remnants of 60 years of marriage. Fortunately, my parents had only lived in that house for about 14 years, but don't underestimate the amount of crap that can be collected in that time.
And along with that crap comes the issues of dealing with a house inhabited by old people...and their poor judgments. For instance, a few years ago, Mom and Dad recarpeted the living room. In that living room, they had a large armoire. Well, they must have hired the least reputable carpet company in the Chicagoland area. Here's what my sister found when the carpet cleaners moved the armoire:
That's right, THE FREAKING CARPET COMPANY LAID CARPET AROUND THE ARMOIRE. I still can't believe it. Who does that? Just for fun, I asked my Dad about this. His response was: "No, I don't remember that, but of course you'd carpet around it." I told my sister that we found out when the dementia began.
But honestly, that's not the most daunting thing. The worst, for my sister is the smell. We've been trying to figure out what it is, but it's definitely unique. And apparently very real. (Click here to read about it.) In any case, that's what Sis has been doing - trying to rid the house of the smell so that she and her family can move into a house that doesn't make them feel like 80 year olds are sitting next to them. She's done a great job thus far and I'm certain that once she and her family are in there, everything will freshen up nicely.
In the meantime, I'm making mental plans to start cleaning out my basement...
Well, life is cruising along....literally. My typical week consists of no less than 4 visits to Mom and Dad at the Assisted Living Facility. That's fine and I'm glad to see them and check in, but I have to say, the drive is a bit overwhelming. The thing is, Dad has a whole bunch of PT appointments set up - with two separate PTs. This week, there are 4 appointments plus a visit from the Family Care nurse. So every time he has to see the PT, I drive 30 minutes to pick him up, 30 minutes back to the appointment, 30 minutes back to the Assisted Living facility and then 30 minutes back home to my house. 120 miles, 4 times a week. I'm gonna need an oil change...and a drink.
But it's OK. It really is. I keep reminding myself of these facts:
- It's a short-term problem. PT won't last forever - just a few weeks.
- The PT gives Dad a bit of a workout.
- It gets Dad out of their apartment and away from the TV.
- It gives me an opportunity to nag him about moving/drinking water/interacting with people while I'm driving and he's passively passengering along.
- It's just driving. It's not moving furniture. On the list of things that are hard to do, driving is pretty far down. (Although the sciatica MUST be fixed - ouch!!)
- Dad and I have the oddest and most interesting conversations:
Me: So how's it going Dad? Dad: OK. Me: Have you done any more of the "Exercise Your Brain" classes? Dad: No. They're lame. Me: But Dad, it's important that you interact with people. It's good for you. Dad: Basically, they're a bunch of old farts. They're all in their 80s. Me: You mean like you? Dad: I mean LATE 80s.
He's a piece of work, isn't he? This conversation confirms what my sister and I believed: Dad doesn't think he's old. Every day, he wakes up and he's surprised that nothing works the way it used to. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe, if you had instant perspective on how old you are and how crushed your body is, you'd just give up. The other day, I had this conversation with Mom:
Me: So how does it work when you get to lunch? Mom: Well, we sit at the same place every time. Me: Do you sit with anyone interesting? Mom: Well, there's this woman, Marilyn. She's pretty sharp. But the poor thing. She only has one eye.
Here's where my Mom is AWESOME. Mom has macular degeneration. She literally can't even see her own face when she looks in the mirror. Marilyn probably has at least one good eye and yet Mom feels bad for her! Priceless.
This week, life was, once again, put in sad perspective. The shooting at the Sikh Temple outside Milwaukee was less than a mile from Mom and Dad's new home. In fact, Dad and I drove past the temple yesterday and will do so every time I pick him up. The families of the victims would give anything to have 30 minutes with their loved ones. I have to remind myself of that every time I complain about my daily commute.
Shhh...do you hear that? The click-clack of a walker? The dull sound of the Today show from a closed-door room? The shuffling of aged feet on a hardwood floor? The slamming of doors by arms that are too old/achy to do it quietly?
I don't hear it either and that makes me smile. It's BLISSFULLY quiet here and I'm enjoying every second.
Remember this line from the song "Big Yellow Taxi?":
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
I sort of feel the opposite. Mom and Dad have been gone 4 days. I know what I've got and I'm soaking up the quiet, the clean, the lack of pill-sorting, the not cooking or preparing food...the normalcy. It's absolute HEAVEN. How did I not appreciate this in the past?
But let's get back to them. Life seems to be settling in for them. I say "seems" because, honestly, I won't quit with the worry. I was talking to my sister-in-law (who blessedly was checking in because she didn't see a post here for days) and we talked about our friends who also have elderly parents who seem to be "waiting for the other shoe to drop." The parents have dementia or bad hips or legs or arms or something and there's been a small incident or two but they're hoping that nothing will happen. But we all know, unfortunately, that something will, and they're/we're just waiting for the next event that will upset the apple cart of life and send them/us into a new phase.
Although Mom and Dad are safely and, seemingly, well-adjusted to the assisted living facility (the photo is a peek at their apartment,) I still have worries. Mom is doing a great job navigating the facility, despite her significant vision challenges. Most importantly, she's figured out who to contact if she needs help or answers. That's huge. It means they're independent again, albeit in a different way. I'm so proud of her for taking in some of the activities there, whether it's the "Exercise Your Brain" class or a game of dice. She chuckles when you ask her about it because I'm sure she was as nervous as a freshman at lunch on the first day of school and yet she just threw herself out there. I never realized she had that moxie. God, I pray I do at her age.
Dad is being...well, Dad. He follows behind her to meals and has made his first request for cereal and milk in their apartment. Mom has wisely discouraged that, knowing that he can get that food in the dining room and if they start that, he won't want to leave the apartment. Again, she's a sage...and my new idol.
They're not crazy about the food, but I'm steering clear of that conversation, mostly because I can't fix or change it. It is what it is. It's probably better than what they made for themselves at their house, but less tasty/interesting than what we served here. (Who would have guessed that anyone would think that about MY cooking?)
Yesterday, they were visited by a podiatrist who took care of "regular maintenance," something that I did here very badly and reluctantly. Hoping the dentist will follow soon as Mom is terribly concerned about that.
The best part is that Mom feels free to leave Dad in the apartment and go and participate in activities. She was so trapped in their house, so this is a new freedom for her. This is where the worry hides: How long will Dad be safe to be left alone? She's in the same building, just downstairs. And yet, it's hanging there, in the back of my mind - likely in the back of hers too.
Dad seems good. I think he's grateful to not feel beholden to someone, living in their home. He's confused how he's able to afford this new life. (Frankly, I am too, but Hubby is the finance guy.) He asks few questions and seems happy sitting in his new chair, channel surfing and staring at the TV. (Which works GREAT, by the way. No remote control issues at all - AMEN.) I'd worry about him more if I could see him, which I, thankfully, don't. Maybe that's best. Is he drinking enough water and moving around enough? Probably not and yet he seems pretty good every time I've checked in on him.
So that's where we are. Living a "new normal." I'm spending a lot of time commuting in my car, but it's worth every second if it means that Mom and Dad can have a new safer, happier, independent life.
Fingers crossed that this will last for a while....
Look at them. They're younger than my kids are now. They have no idea what's in store for them. An entire lifetime of joy, excitement, wonder, discovery, heartbreak, trials, sadness and sometimes, quiet moments of contentedness.
Today, they start the next chapter in their book of life. Sometimes I realize that I think of them as simply a conglomeration of medical issues. They're macular degeneration and dementia. They're osteo-arthritis and vascular Parkinsonism. They're hypertension and diabetes.
Today, the day that they move into their new assisted living apartment, their new "forever home," I want to think about the people inside those withered and beaten-down bodies. Here is who these two people became:
They raised four children as best they could. They lost one of them, a four-year old daughter, to leukemia in 1968. It was a heartbreak so painful, it forever changed them and the family. And yet they moved on. They fulfilled their promise to do something they never did - they gave their kids college educations.
He was a commercial artist. He was talented and ambitious and built his own company that thrived through many years and finally crumbled for too many reasons. And yet, he pulled himself up and managed to survive.
She stayed at home and raised the kids. She cooked, she cleaned...she took care of everyone...except herself.
He used to own horses and then his obsession turned to race cars. That hobby would be the backdrop of their family life. Fun, danger, excitement - a team effort that made him the star.
She learned to cook and sew and garden and consumed books with a passion until her eyes gave out. Her Polish heritage never really left her. She often translated for her neighbors and their cleaning ladies. But mostly, when we all left, she took care of him.
Today, they will no longer live in my house. They'll forever be in my care, but now they'll have at least an approximation of their former independence. Funny, but they started out in an apartment and now they are back in one. It may seem like a step back, but I'm hoping they'll find it to be a step forward. I'm praying that they find the peace, safety, stability, comfort and joy that they deserve.
I should clarify. It's FURNITURE moving day. But seriously, this is a HUGE step. It puts a big, fat exclamation point on a process that has been nothing short of stressful, terrifying, trying, scary, fingers-crossing...hopeful.
Yesterday, Mom and Dad signed all of their admissions documents and Dad said it best: "Those numbers scare me. I don't know where this is all coming from."
Amen, Dad. This costs a LOT of money. There are a lot of moving pieces that need to fall into place in order for this to happen. A lottery win would help everyone immensely. But the odds of that happening are between none and none. So we're going on a wink, a prayer and a plan.
The interesting thing is that along the way, this changed from something we want/desperately need to something my parents' want/desperately need. They can taste their independence and I want SO badly to make it happen for them.
If you're the praying type, please say one or two that this all can happen...without strained backs, pulled muscles or herniated discs. Also say another one that somehow, some way, we can pull together enough resources to keep my parents in a happy place.
Things are still progressing forward toward the big move. I'd like to
say it's all good, but that would be a lie. I'm just a mixed up jumble
of nerves and concern and worry and stress.
My sister is down in Illinois, sorting through furniture to move to my parents' new apartment and making a valiant attempt to clean up their house so that she and her family can finally move in. She arranged for carpet cleaners to come on Monday. Several years ago, my parents recarpeted the living room. In that living room, was a large armoire. When the carpet cleaner moved it away from the wall, she discovered that THEY HAD CARPETED AROUND THE ARMOIRE. That's right. Under the armoire is old carpet. Who does that?! I told my sister: "I think we've discovered the beginning of the dementia."
In the meantime, I've turned into the Water Nazi with Dad. Since he was found to have too low of a blood pressure, we were told that he needed to hydrate more. And so I follow him around telling him to drink water. In response, he nods in agreement and promptly ignores me. Yesterday, he pretended that his Fresca was a glass of water. If I hadn't picked up his glass and noticed that it was cloudy, he would have gotten away with it.
Seriously, he doesn't care at all to listen to anyone. Doesn't matter if we warn him that he needs to do something in order to stay healthy, get stronger, improve the quality of his life. He does not care. He's using the logic of a toddler. I'm not being mean. I'm being truthful.
Yesterday, Dad had his appointment with the neuro PT. We were sitting in the waiting room prior to the appointment. He looked at me and said: "Karen, what am I complaining about?" Geez, Dad. That's a loaded question. What AREN'T you complaining about? But what he meant was to ask why he was there. I explained that the PT will address his poor/wonky gait. And she did...and he was fine...while under her watch...and then went back to his old habits the minute we left that office.
I'm terrified what will happen when I can't see what Dad is doing all the time. Yesterday, after breakfast, he started walking toward the bathroom with his bowl full of leftover milk and the few Cheerios that were floating in it. I stopped him and asked what he was doing. "What do you think? I'm dumping this down the toilet so it doesn't clog the sink." I said: "Dad, we don't do that." He replied: "What are you talking about? We do that all the time. I thought it was a nice gesture." Huh, what? I told Mom about this exchange and she was equally mystified, but she actually doesn't notice these things like I do. What if he starts doing odd things like this in assisted living? What if he starts doing them so often that they question his safety?
These are the things that keep me up at night. These are the things that make me think that we're headed for trouble. God, I hope I'm wrong, but this is what I worry about....constantly.
Here's a peek inside my brain right now: "What if they don't like it? What if they don't find nice people there? What if the staff isn't kind/nice/helpful to them? What if the food isn't good? What if Dad gets all crazy there? What if they get lost going to the dining hall? What if assisted living facilities are cliquey? What if Dad gets lost IN the apartment and falls? What if I lose my mind driving down there constantly? What if they call me all the time because they're confused or worried about something? What if they can't figure out how to work the remote for the TV? What if the finances fall through? What if one or both of them becomes seriously ill? What if they/we just can't make it all work?"
This feels just like sending my kids off to college...only worse.
It's been a while. Yeah, not much has been happening.
WHAT?! WHO AM I KIDDING?!
Here's a clue.
Look at this photo.
Yep, that's what you think it is. Keys....on a stretchy wrist keychain thingy. A symbol of the senior lifestyle.
This can only mean one thing.
MOM AND DAD MIGHT BE MOVING INTO THEIR OWN ASSISTED LIVING APARTMENT.
Wait, why did I say "might?" Why? Well, because I don't trust life and fate and circumstances and health and government. Yes, we need all those things to work together in order that this might happen.
Oh and in case you think my parents might be ambivalent or unhappy about this move, think again. Last night this exchange happened:
Me: "Next week - Olympics!!!" *claps hands in joy* Mom: "Next week - Moving!!!" *claps hands in joy*
So, now this is important not only for our/my sanity, it's really important for my parents' happiness too! We've been to the apartment multiple times now and both of them are very excited....or as excited as two old, frail people can be.
But a lot of stuff has to fall into place....in a ridiculously short time-span. I need my brother and my sister to help a LOT on their end with moving some of Mom and Dad's stuff up here to Wisconsin. That's going to be Herculean....and awful...but hopefully a pain that is short-lived. I'm hoping we can make this happen without strained backs or hurt feelings. I just need to pray...a lot.
In the meantime, Dad goes up and down in terms of lucidity and health. Some days, he's bopping around the house, stealing candy from the freezer, giggling like a kid. Other days, he can't remember where he lives or who I'm married to or he's putting his adding machine into paper bags from Chinese takeout orders. Sigh.
Today, Hubby and I are going rummaging to see if we can pick up a small kitchen table and perhaps a few other things that Mom and Dad might need. I'm not a rummage sale person, but we can't afford to go high end on any of this stuff. And Mom and Dad are perfectly fine with that.
If you're one of the 2 or 3 people that read this, say a prayer...or ten...that somehow, some way, we can work this out. If this is going to happen, Mom and Dad are going to leave our house in the same way that they arrived - on a wing and a prayer.
Every sweatshirt Dad wears looks exactly like the one you see here. And Dad has a sweatshirt in every color imaginable....including day-glo orange...which he wears...in public.
Oh and you need to know something else: We are currently in the middle of a drought caused by a heat wave. Today it will be 102 degrees. It's been this way for WEEKS.
And yet, Dad still wears a sweatshirt.
Every. Single. Day.
A few weeks ago, Hubby took Dad for a haircut. The stylist said to him: "How are you liking this heat and how's the sweatshirt?"
Mom and I have tried to convince Dad to wear something cooler. He also owns a large collection of Polo shirts which sit in a dresser drawer, unworn.
Truth be told, he wears a sweatshirt every day because I am blessed to have air conditioning and I am ballsy enough to keep it on every single day during this heat wave. So, it's almost a little chilly in our house, even though I have the downstairs air conditioning set to 80 degrees. Compared to what's happening outside, it's kinda cool. And I love it.
Do you remember back in April, when Mom and Dad first moved in with us and Dad was cold and this happened? Well, that's why I have no problem with Dad wearing a sweatshirt. It's his way of surviving my need to have air conditioning. It's also one of the few clothing items he can put on with little help.
There's another side to the sweatshirt - the fashion side, or lack thereof. I'm used to sweatshirts because Dad has worn them forever. When I was growing up, he wore them in the garage while working on his race car. They're sort of his thing. Dad without a sweatshirt just seems wrong. And yet some people might think Dad seems wrong IN the sweatshirt.
Yesterday, we went to my brother's house for my nephew's birthday party. My sister-in-law's family is kinda swanky. They dress well. REALLY well. So well that Mom came up to me last night after we got home and said: "Do I look like a dork?" We then had a conversation about how well that family dresses and then I had to remind her that they are not better than us because their clothes cost more.
Anyway, Dad was there in a bright yellow sweatshirt...and I could see the looks. And you know what? F*** 'em. All of 'em. I kinda liked that they were there, all designer-ed up and I was there, dressed head to toe in Target and Dad was there in his crewneck glory.
Because here's what living in the Senior Sauna has finally taught me: The little things don't matter. And Dad dressed in a sweatshirt doesn't matter. He can no longer embarrass me with his odd and weather-inappropriate clothing choice. It's such a small thing. The comfort and functionality of the sweatshirt - the fact that it's stable and something upon which Dad can depend every day - is perfect.
I realized yesterday that I used to look at people that were caring for and transporting old people around and think: "Poor bastards. That must really suck." Now I see us, with our Old People Train walking verrrrrrrryyyyyy slowwwwwllllyy in and out of places, and I realized that I've finally relaxed. I finally have learned to just chill. Not about everything, but about a lot of things. And all it took was two old people invading my life. All it took was putting my life on hold and creating a new home for people that gave me my first home.
I'll start with the good news: I'M LEAVING TOMORROW FOR GIRLS' WEEKEND!!!!
This is my annual trip - 7 women, 1 cottage, 1 lake. We've been doing this for about 22 years and it's nothing short of amazing. In the past, I've been whiny about the fact that there's no air conditioning. This year, I'd almost sleep in a tent. I need this weekend SO BADLY. I need girl talk and book reading and NO PILL-SORTING. I'm going despite living with the guilt of saddling my Hubby with my parents for 2-1/2 days. I really do feel bad about this, but I'm afraid if I don't go, I might kill my Dad.
Yeah, it's getting bad.
Here's the bad news: Caring for your parents might make you feel differently about them...not in a good way. Allow me to explain.
I always worshiped my Dad. Despite his flaws, I looked up to him. I loved his sense of humor and his work ethic. I liked the way his mind worked. I was always so proud of the life that he built without a college education. And then when life beat him down and he lost his business, I loved how he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and never whined. His beautiful home was taken away and he and Mom had to move multiple times and he had to drive halfway across Chicago to work for someone else.
Now, after living with him for 3 months. I don't like him. I've forgotten what I ever liked about him. I'm just being honest. I now see what my Mom has put up with for 60 years. Her vigilant care of him masked his selfishness and his lack of any interest in anyone other than himself. Maybe he's not really like this and maybe age and poor health has simply stripped him down to only the negatives. I'm not sure, but I feel really sad about the fact that I don't like this person that is living in my house. How awful am I?
Here's the rub: I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Yesterday, I got on Dad's case about getting up and moving. I told him, in no uncertain terms that he needed to get up more and move around the house. It's starting to piss him off and, well, you already know how I feel about that. Well, he snapped at me again. And then I snapped back:
Dad: I moved, OK? You told me to move and I did. Where do you want me to go? Me: Never mind. I give up. Do what you want.
*Cut to me walking away and Dad shuffling away in disgust.*
After that, he sort of stopped talking to me. And I was OK with that...but not really. (I'm a people-pleaser. Even people that I don't like. It's a horrible quality. I don't recommend it.) Suddenly, this silent pall fell over the house and it was icky and sad. I want to fix it all and I can't. I'm digging so freaking deep to find compassion and patience and kindness and the well has simply run dry. This is why I need to go away...before the damage is so bad that my relationship with my Dad is beyond repair.
But let's be glass-half-full about this: I now adore my Mom. She's now my new hero. Life has consistently dished out lemons to her and yet, to this day, she continues to be optimistic, sweet and pleasant. My new fear is that I won't be like her when I'm old. Her simple kindness is nothing short of endearing.
While I spend my days fuming about Dad's general lack of interest in life, I also look for ways to tell my Mom that she's awesome...because I don't think that anybody has ever told her that. Despite all the sh*t that she dealt with during her 81 years on earth, she finds the grace to be amazing. I hope someday to be the same.
In the meantime, I'm off to the woods - drink in hand, book on lap, friends nearby. Sanctuary.
If I think of all of the things that bother me about our new roomies, most of them are just me being the crabbiest and least flexible or kind person on earth. I like things a certain way and there's no way anybody, least of all two 81 year olds, will fit into my idea of the perfect roommate.
But the staring gets me every time. After 3 months, I can can tell you, definitively, OLD PEOPLE SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING.
It drives me mad. I sit next to my hubby on the couch, look out on the deck and see my Dad sitting, not reading or sleeping, but staring at NOTHING. Then here's the conversation that takes place:
Me: Look at him. How does he do that? Hubby: Do what? Me: SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING? Hubby: It's his life, why does it matter? Me: Because his life is now in MY house and it drives me CRAZY!
Sometimes my parents sit together and stare at nothing...together. They don't talk. They just sit and stare. Then my Mom will punctuate the silence with a question of my Dad. Typically an inane question that really requires no answer...and usually receives none.
But the worst...the ABSOLUTE WORST...is when I go in the library and Dad is sitting in there alone. The TV is on but muted. He's staring at the screen. And then this conversation takes place:
Me: Dad, what are you watching? Dad: NCIS Me: Why is it muted? Dad: Because I've seen this one and I don't want to watch it. Me: Then why don't you watch something else? Dad: Because I don't want to.
*Cut to me walking away, shaking head in disbelief.*
I know that while they are sitting and staring, they are sometimes thinking about things. I know this because sometimes, after a mini stare-fest, my Mom will make a beeline toward me and then ask some crazy question about the Assisted Living facility where they will, hopefully, move in a few weeks (more about this later.) Or, more typically, she will talk about her belongings and then simply say: "I need to sort through some things." I swear to God, she has said that sentence at least 50 times in the past week. For God's sake, Woman, SORT, SORT, SORT!!!
But I guess therein lies the mystery of old people. They have thoughts, but the execution of those thoughts and/or desires is simply beyond their abilities.
Or, as Little Feat said in the great song "Old Folks Boogie:
And you know that you're over the hill When your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill
There's a video that's gone viral. It's a guy talking to his 12-year old self. It's kind of cute..and awkward. Here, you can watch it:
Well, this got me thinking. What would I say to myself in 30 years? What would I say to my 81 year old self - i.e. me, at the exact same age my parents are at?
Well, I won't torture you with a video. I haven't yet showered and I don't look all perty. But I'll do it in a letter form. Here goes:
Dear Karen, Hey, how's it going? 81, huh? Can you believe it? Do you remember what it was like when Mom and Dad were 81? Do you remember those months that they lived with you? They seemed endless, didn't they? And yet, looking back, they were actually just the blink of an eye. Kind of like everything else in your life - you made a gigantic freakin' deal out of it all and, in reality, it was over fairly quickly. You were always such a drama queen.
The kids turned out pretty well, didn't they? All that worry paid off. Or is it that they were destined to be great and you just wasted so much time worrying? I don't know that we'll ever know.
And aren't the grandkids AMAZING? Yes, you finally have grandkids, although for a while, it felt like you never would. But that's just you - impatient as always. Both a good and bad thing. Good because you made things happen. You did things. Not always the right things, but at least you didn't sit back and never make decisions. I'm proud of you for that.
I'm curious how your health is? You finally got healthy when you hit 50. (About damn time. What were you waiting for?) It's paying off a little now, isn't it? Too bad you didn't buckle down and read more. Your brain would be better off, but then again, that's more of that impatient thing again. The internet is oh so tempting. Too easy to check Twitter 50 times a day instead of reading a few pages of a book. Remember Twitter? Yeah, that was pretty stupid. So was Pinterest, but that's for another time.
So now is the time to relax and enjoy things. Enjoy the family. Enjoy the friends. You kept your friends, right? God, I hope so. Talk to people. Ask questions. Let people wait on you a little bit. You've certainly earned it. Spread some wisdom around - you've certainly earned THAT. Here's my most important message: I'm guessing that you have some aches, pains and health issues. Don't dwell on them. They will be there regardless. Fine, talk about them with the old people you know, but talk about young people things too. Be that old person that young people love to be around. Be the old person that still craves happiness - just like Mom was. Not like Dad. I know he couldn't help it, but still, make that your goal. Achieve happiness. You've earned THAT.
Now go take a nap. You've earned that too. Love, Karen
Now that I've written that, it's more like a letter to my 51 year old self. I realize now, reading that, that if I want all of those things, I have to start now. Being a great old person takes years of work.
I'm going to get a little Preachy McPreachster. I have seen end results and they're not pretty.
Ready? Here goes: No matter how old you are, exercise. Exercise right now and don't stop....EVER.
No doubt about it, getting old kind of sucks. Some things you can't prevent. Some things you can. But here's something I have seen personally - IF YOU GET UP AND MOVE AROUND, YOU'LL BE BETTER OFF WHEN YOU'RE OLD.
Caring for my 81 year old parents these past 3 months I've seen, up close, the effects of no exercise (my Dad) and moderate exercise (my Mom.) Despite the fact that Mom has had both a hip and knee replacement, along with a few other unearned maladies, she's in pretty darn good shape. She's happier and much more vibrant.
Dad chooses to move very little. I have to beg him to take a short walk and even that, for him, is agonizing. I've told him time and time and time again: GET UP AND MOVE AROUND. YOU WILL FEEL BETTER. He chooses not to listen and, therefore, he chooses to be unhappy and miserable.
Everyone has seen the studies that show that exercise prevents aging. The truth is, we are all going to age, but I'm here to tell you that it really, really, REALLY does matter how you age. What you do or don't do now - if you're 20, 30, 40, 50 or 60 - will pay off when you're 80. And I'm not talking about running marathons or working out like a mad person. I'm talking about REGULAR, moderate exercise. It all counts and it all adds up.
And if you have kids or plan to have kids or have family and care about them at all, make that your motivation. Because eventually, your kids or somebody in your family will, in some way, be caring for you. The less you move now, the harder you make it for them down the road. That's right. You can choose not to exercise at all and think that it effects only you, but eventually somebody else will have to pay for your sedentary lifestyle.
Here's an idea. Think of life as a game. He/She who has the most points, wins. Points are given for exercise. The less points you have, the worse you feel, in the end. Got it? OK, then move it.
To me, the 4th of July was always just that - the 4th of July. This year, today, it's most definitely Independence Day.
This summer, I really understand that word - independence - so much better. I know that our Founding Fathers had a much different idea of independence. They wanted to be free from tyranny, injustice, religious and political persecution, inequality and so much more.
Here, today, in our house, independence has a softer, more basic meaning - the ability to live on your own.
We talk a lot with my parents about independence. For nearly 60 years, they lived independently. Circumstances crashed into each other and they lost that independence. (If you're new to this blog, click here for the story.) It was taken away, by us, albeit for reasons filled with love and caring. It's a classic elder care story. "I love you. I care about you. This is not what you want, but it's for the best." Tough choices, tough actions.
We're working hard to restore some independence to my parents' lives. We've found a lovely assisted living facility. They've been assessed and have qualified. But it's not that easy. We need a whole bunch of things to fall into place (i.e. $$$) in order for this to work. But the important thing is that we now all have the same goal - to find them a place where they can live "on their own." We want it, but most importantly, they want it.
The easiest way to find out what matters is to have it taken away. My parents valued their independence. They pulled themselves up by their bootstraps time and time again. Finally, we had to reach in and do some bootstrap pulling for them. Sometimes, the hardest thing of all is asking for help. That is exactly how they ended up here, in our house.
Sure, we've lost some independence ourselves. Prior to them living here, our nest was empty and pretty darn cushy. I came and went as I pleased. I cooked hardly at all. The only pills I sorted were my own daily vitamins. The only being who was completely dependent upon me was our Golden Retriever.
My how things have changed.
I have to be honest and say I miss a lot. I miss my friends. I miss my freedom. I miss my quiet house. I miss making plans. I miss my family - I feel like we're relay runners passing the elder care baton between each other.
And yet, I also have to say, that there's something compelling about feeling needed. It's been a long time since I've had that. Since our daughter was very young, so nearly 20 years. I never felt totally competent back then and I still feel pretty iffy right now. But everyone knows that. We're all doing the best we can with what we have.
We will have our independence back. At what cost, I don't know. But we will get it and we will give it as best as we can.
My parents' independence will be us passing that baton on to professionals - a helping hand, if you will. Easier said than done.
Then again, independence is never really independent, is it?
The other day, for about the 5th time, I sat in a meeting in which the following question was asked of one of my parents:
"So, do you have an advance directive set up?"
The person asking the question then explains (in kind of a patronizing way) that an advance directive (or Living Will) is an instruction to loved ones and to medical personnel regarding doing CPR or any type of resuscitation in case their heart stopped.
Later, my Mom said to me: "Why do they keep asking me this? It's starting to freak me out."
I couldn't agree more. Look, I understand WHY they are asking this of the elderly. They are the most likely to NEED a Living Will in the near future. Apparently, a memo went out to health care providers to start asking elderly patients, early and often, whether they have an advance directive. Here's what this question makes old people think: THEY ARE DYING....RIGHT NOW.
Seriously, isn't there a better way and time to ask this? Or, if they've already set up an advance directive, can we give them a sticker or a bracelet so people stop asking?!
Elderly people KNOW their clock is ticking. What they don't need is a constant reminder that time is of the essence. If they didn't feel like crap before they were asked this question, they sure do now.
Imagine someone asking you, Mr./Ms. Healthy Person, if you want to be resuscitated. You think for a minute and then ask yourself "Am I ready to die?" Regardless of your answer, it's a little unsettling to be asked, isn't it?
How about if we ask people this question when they turn 50...when death seems to be WAY in the distance and not such a disturbing notion. Asking the elderly just seems mean.
The coffee made me snap - both the fact that I had two cups and the fact that it was all over the sink...and the counter...and the clean dishes.
I want to kill him. At this moment, right now, I can't take it. Yes, I CAN take it and I will continue to take it as long as everything properly falls into place, but this morning, about 15 minutes ago, I completely lost it. Actually, correction, I held it in enough to walk out on the deck and try to cool off and also enough that I didn't march into the library and yell at my Dad.
Here's a little background - Dad somehow thinks a kitchen sink is like a garbage can. Things that he wants to get rid of, go in or near the sink. I can't explain this. I have two kitchen sinks. The one on the right has a dish drainer. I've told him REPEATEDLY that the right-hand sink is where I keep clean dishes that are drying. And yet today, again, for about the 25th time, he dumped his leftover coffee in the right sink. Leftover coffee that I knew he would dump out when I poured it for him. Coffee he only wanted because he got up at 6:15 am for some God-knows-what reason. Coffee that, besides going all over my clean dishes, spilled out onto the countertop as well and sat there.
I was putting away dishes and didn't notice it at first. Then I grabbed a supposedly clean dish and looked into that right-hand sink.
Coffee, everywhere.
I. Completely. Lost. It.
If my daughter weren't still sleeping, I think I would have screamed. I held back slightly only so my Mom wouldn't absorb the guilt of the situation. (Earlier this morning I asked her to make sure Dad didn't slam doors because our daughter was still sleeping. I realized too late that Mom would now obsess about this and then feel bad. Mom feels bad about EVERYTHING.) The most I could do was throw a sponge. Hubby told me to go upstairs and he'd finish up. I ignored him. I needed to clean it up and brood a bit more.
The coffee isn't the only offending "sink invader." Dad is addicted to ice cream bars. (I buy him "no sugar added" bars that won't spike his blood sugar too much.) For some reason, he takes off the wrapper and throws it in the sink. I'm sorry but WTF?! How hard is it to open the garbage that's right next to the sink? He does this because he KNOWS that somebody else will pick up his crap. To be perfectly honest, I'm really getting pissed off about picking up his crap. Seriously.
Look, I know what you're thinking. He's got dementia. Give him a break. Here's what I'm thinking: It's dementia, not a learning disability. Because he's 81 and is mentally compromised, I should let him be a complete self-centered slob? I'm sorry, but no. I'm not buying it. I've been applying buckets of compassion to this situation but here today, I completely lost my shit. Yep, I said it.
My Mom can't see anything and yet she walks around as pleasant and sweet and flexible as anybody in the entire world. If there's anyone that has a right to be self-centered, it's Mom. She can't even see her own face in the morning, for God's sake. And yet instead of thinking about herself, she caters to Dad. Yes, she created that dementia-addled, wonky-walking, self-centered animal. But I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with his crap.
I guess everyone ages differently. My Mom has become a sweet, gentle, compliant person who loves talking to anyone and everyone. My Dad, on the other hand, has become, for lack of a better word, boorish. In fact, if I think about it, their roles have sort of reversed.
I remember Mom being kind of crabby all the time when I was growing up. No doubt that was in large part due to having a moody, abrasive and self-centered daughter like me. I admit it. I was probably not very pleasant to be around. What I didn't realize is that her crabbiness could very much also be due to waiting hand and foot on my Dad.
Back in the day, Dad was probably one of the stereotypical "Mad Men." He made his living in advertising. Although not as classically handsome as Don Draper, he was all about the 3 martini lunches (although in his case it was scotch & soda) and the ordering around of the women-folk in his world. Funny, but I remember him as being extremely polite and generous almost to a fault. I watched him interact with others and he was socially a bit shy, but always took an interest in things around him. If I asked Mom, I think he spent a fair amount of time ordering her around. Not in a mean way but rather to sort of guide her through life. She deferred to him because he had an art degree and she had only a high school diploma. (Truth be told, she may have been the smarter one of the two.) She looked up to him and wanted to keep him happy. He was, perhaps, a taskmaster at home, but gracious and affable in public.
Today, here in our house and with us, he's anything but that. When we go out to eat, he practically steps over my Mom's words to place his food order first. It's such a weird vibe from him now - practically unrecognizable. As I do with so many things now, I try to find the source of anything negative. What makes him unhappy? Why does he look depressed? (If you think about it, I've taken on my Mom's role from the 1960's.)
To put it bluntly, Dad is mad. He's mad that he can't remember things. He's mad that things hurt. He's mad that he's not living in his own house. He's mad that he's got a 51-year old woman ordering him around and questioning whether he really did wash his hands. Basically, he's mad that he's old. When did that happen? When did he lose the funny, creative guy that he used to be? When did he wake up to find that absolutely nothing in his life is of any interest at all?
I've been pretty honest about several things: A) I'm not a saint. B) I believe in God. C) My faith is, at best, shaky. (I know. B and C contradict each other.) I believe in God because it's all I've ever known. I grew up attending Catholic schools. I've been brainwashed like every good Catholic child that came out of the 60s - in other words, I know NOTHING about the Bible but know that God is watching EVERYTHING I do - a daunting concept if there ever was one.
(True confession: Way back in 1997, I saw the movie Contact and it threw me, headfirst, into a years' long faith crisis.)
Because I spend a lot of time with my parents, I spend a fair amount of it thinking about death. Not to be morbid, but we know that's around the corner for them. I hope it's a long, country block and they won't get there soon, but I'm nothing if not truthful with myself about the future. My job here is to make that journey around the block be safe and, hopefully, happy.
In any case, I sometimes daydream about the "ever after." Other times, I daydream about the "here and now." In both cases, I have what feels like no control. Once we're dead, it's out of our hands. Here, on earth, especially in my current situation, I often feel like life is spinning wildly out of control and my only best option is to do laundry and dishes.
And so I pray. I don't pray like my mother-in-law prays, but I spend a lot of time talking to God. I ask him for guidance. I pray that he tells me what the right thing to do or say is in an awkward situation. I ask him for patience and wisdom, because I feel woefully short of both. I ask him to hold me back from wanting to kill my father because, honestly, sometimes he drives me flippin' crazy. I beg that he will give my Dad motivation to get up and out of the chair and turn off the damn TV. I ask him to forgive me for not having the grace to spend more time talking with my Mom who wants to chat about the most boring things ever. Sometimes I remember to thank him for the tiny blessings - the smiles, the funny stories, the good days and the meals shared. And every day, several times, I say softly to myself: "Please God, help me do the right thing, whatever that is."
This is where the doubt creeps in. Who's on the receiving end of those prayers? Who is God? (Whoa. Sorry you started reading this?) Does he really answer prayers or simply listen, kick back and say: "Yeah, that's not going to happen." I honestly have no idea if the 51 years of my faith life have all been a nice idea, with not much substance or the truth for which so many people search.
And yet still, despite all of the questions that plague me, I find myself continuing to nag God on a daily basis.
Some days, no most days, when I have ZERO idea what I'm doing. I give it all up and give it to God. Because sometimes that's all I have.
As an observer of all things old, I'm starting to learn more and more about life in the "sunset years." I have acquired an especially keen understanding of what old people don't like. And among all the things that old people don't like, there is one that is particularly egregious. Are you ready? It's earth-shattering, so I hope you're sitting down.
CHANGE is the enemy of old people.
(And no, I"m not talking about pocket change. Old people, especially old men, LOVE pocket change. I used to have an Uncle Bob who jiggled pocket change like his life depended on it. When he did this, I was always tempted to go all "Terry Tate" on him and do an Office Linebacker, but I held back.)
No, I'm talking about things that change. It can be small things like how the refrigerator is arranged or how the dishes are put away. Or sometimes it's big things like ANN CURRY. That's right, I'm talking about the NBC Today Show host Ann Curry. If you haven't seen the news, Ann Curry is getting booted from the Today Show. Honestly, in MY life, that ranks about as interesting as what I had for breakfast. I could care less. It bores me. My parents, on the other hand, are OBSESSED with Ann Curry's departure. We have literally had at least THREE conversations about Ann Curry, and it wasn't about her overuse of the words "Good Morning:"
No, my parents are obsessed with Ann Curry leaving the Today Show because it means that a BIG part of their morning routine will change. Sure, in the past, Ann went on vacation once in a while and somebody filled in...and they almost always had an opinion about that person. But they always knew Ann was coming back. But now, Ann Curry is leaving. How dare NBC go and change my parents' life!
I know they'll survive this change, but it makes me think about everything else in their life. As much as it drives me insane how little they do in a typical day, I'm gradually figuring out that lack of change is their safety net. It's predictable, while their bodies falling apart is not. They may wake up tomorrow and something doesn't work or something hurts or someone their age is dead. The comfort in knowing that Ann Curry and Matt Lauer and Al Roker will still be there every morning is like a beloved stuffed animal.
When I think about what I've put my parents through these past few months, it's nothing short of miraculous how they've handled it. For two people who are really challenged by change, my parents have generally been pretty darn flexible. Kudos to them for that.
If NBC is trying to figure out who to put on the Today Show, they should call my parents. The have a strong opinion...or twelve.
Today, my mother-in-law turns 90. (No, don't worry, she's not moving in with us. Although there IS an extra bedroom available...KIDDING.) When you think about it, that's nothing short of AMAZING.
No, she's not in extraordinary shape. Nine children, thousands of volunteer hours and years of kneeling and prayer have taken their toll on her body. And yet today, she starts her 10th decade of life. How is that even possible?
When you think about it, nobody from her generation should last that long. She lived through people smoking everywhere - restaurants, airplanes, elevators....She also lived through driving without seat belts and artificial sweeteners with carcinogens and eating casseroles that tipped the calorie scale in excess. She likely drank out of plastic containers that were filled with BPA. She probably went to a school that was lined with asbestos.
Seriously, how the hell does anyone from the greatest generation last this long?
I think it's prayer and faith.
How else to explain how anybody could survive the Depression and years of failed medical and scientific studies to be here today in 2012? My mother-in-law prays like it's nobody's business. Honestly, she makes me feel rather inadequate in my personal faith because she believes so deeply and profoundly in God that there isn't even room for a question. Me? I'm one big ball of doubt. Occasionally I see a glimpse of the greater good, but more often than not, I'm questioning every last move that God is making. I could be his most annoying person on earth.
And yet, there are two giant positives that have come from having my parents live with us: 1) I'm no longer afraid of old people. I used to fear being around them for any length of time. They're old and wrinkly and move slowly. Now, it's really no big deal. 2) My faith has been strengthened. Yes, I just got done telling you that I'm a big ball of doubt. But often, sometimes, no - on a DAILY basis, I pray. I ask God for help getting through the day...or maybe just the hour ahead of me. Who else would listen to me?
Happy 90th birthday, Weezie. I pray that someday I'll be 1/10th of the person you are.
This elder care thing is not for the faint of heart. It's not the for the weak-kneed, the squeamish or the namby-pambies, either. Nope. You gotta go full in, guns blazin' and it's going to get ugly...fast.
This past week, we ended on a down note. As much as I hate to reveal super personal things about my parents, I'm doing so today only to help somebody that might end up in this situation. I'm paying it forward, so to speak. I know I said I have standards. I do. But sh*t happens and it might help you prepare if I tell you about ours.
I mentioned the other day that Dad yelled at me. To be more specific, when I asked what hurt, I expected that he'd either say his tailbone or his arm hurt. Instead, he very specifically said, in a very loud voice: MY ASS HURTS. Again, thinking it was his tailbone, I further inquired, fully prepared to dismiss this constant phantom tailbone pain. "My skin is raw and it HURTS."
Oh crap. What now? But I still didn't panic. I figured it was hemmorhoids, which, I figured would happen. So, I asked Mom to take a look, trying to preserve some of Dad's dignity. Now, I know. This was a ridiculous request. Mom has macular degeneration. She can't see a damn thing. But if somebody's going to look at my Dad's butt, it should be his wife, first and foremost, right? She looked, as best as she could and confirmed the raw skin complaint. I told Dad that we needed to see the doctor so that this didn't turn into an infection.
The next morning, I was asking Mom further about the "area in question." She was trying to describe it, but was doing so very poorly. Not her fault. I finally got frustrated and decided that I needed to look. Yep, I had to go there. Look, I don't care. I need to see what we're discussing with the doctor. Truthfully, I was a little scared. We were crossing over a line. But I had to put on my big girl pants and get right in there and find out what the problem was. And then I diagnosed it...perfectly.
We went to the doctor - all three of us - me, Dad and Mom. We are now like an old person train. We take FOREVER. Mom sat in the waiting room and I took Dad in. The doctor was trying to figure out a way to get a good look at the "area in question" and Dad just dropped his pants. Totally cracked me up. The doctor looked at it and then said, in his adorable Argentinian accent: "You have what we call pressure ulcers." He then gave a long explanation. I cut to the quick and said: "Is this the sitting equivalent of bed sores?" He quickly answered: "Yes, exactly."
Yes folks. I called it. I told Mom that I believed that Dad's problem stemmed from sitting on his ass all freaking day long watching TV and not moving. As my Mom later asked me: "Are you sure you don't have a medical degree?"
*Pats self on back.*
So the doctor prescribed this bizarre combination of bandages (for a place that is virtually "unbandageable") and diaper cream. Yep, if Dad thought he had any dignity, the tube of diaper cream I brought home was going to rip that away.
But here's where pathos plays into my story and restores my faith in humanity: I went to a medical supply store. I thought I was just going for the weird/quirky/expensive bandages. I explained the problem. (Surely these people have heard worse.) The first person grabbed a guy who worked there. I reexplained the problem. He patted me on the back and then said: "My dad had the exact same problem." He then gave a perfect description of what was going on and explained why it was happening (because Dad sits slouched) and what I was going to have to do to fix this or it was going to get worse. This man not only explained what was going on, he also talked about the phantom tailbone pain and the need to watch TV constantly and the lack of motivation to do anything.
And then I started crying. I kinda held back, but right there, right then, in that medical supply store, I was getting all weepy because this one person in the entire world understood this craptastic mess we were in and how difficult it was. He told me how to deal with it (screw the weird bandages and diaper cream) and it seemed, miraculously, manageable. It wasn't going to be pretty or fun, but those days are behind me.
Today, on a Sunday, a visiting nurse will come and tell us whether what we are doing is a waste or perhaps, at least, pointing us in the right direction. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. It's not perfect, but it's the best we've got.
