Letting go and letting God

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.

How Ann Curry and NBC are messing with my parents' life

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.

How prayer makes you live longer

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.

How I earned my medical degree and cried in a store

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.

Crabby pants

OK, this post is going to make the boys really uncomfortable. Too bad. That's the thing about caring for your parents. Often, it's uncomfortable. Here goes...

You know what doesn't mix well? Elder care and PMS. Yep, I said it. Yesterday was just that kind of day.

See, here's the problem: Although my parents have been rather flexible, in general, there is a tendency, especially for Dad, to be a bit cranky. That's partially because he's 81 and often feels like crap, but I think some of it is just simply being a crabby old man. He's used to getting what he wants when he wants it. Mom operated under the philosophy of keeping him happy made her happy.

Not me. I've got another agenda. I intend to keep my parents healthy and safe. If they happen to be happy, that's excellent, but it's not my primary goal. (Although I spend a great deal of time worrying about their happiness, as you know.)

Yesterday, nothing was working. Dad wasn't eating his breakfast fruit. I spent an hour or so on the phone making medical appointments and something new developed that Dad will see the doctor about today. (No, I'm not going to make you THAT uncomfortable. I do have standards. Suffice it to say that there are some things that needed to be seen that I cannot unsee.)

All of this, plus PMS made me Crabby McCrabster. It was awful. I had a bit of a meltdown. I yelled a little. I cried a little. I stomped around a lot. And then I did what my husband hates: I gave everyone the silent treatment. Yep, I went there. I just needed to be in my little bubble and not speak to anyone. My poor Mom. She tried about 10 different ways to talk to me, but I just literally had no energy to chat with her. I felt like I was kicking a puppy. I just couldn't do it. She finally went to bed at 8:30 because nobody wanted to talk to her. The poor thing.

Thankfully, my sister and I had a great text chat last night. I could tell her what was going on and she completely understood my need to vent and my need to do it passively. She's the best. Seriously.

Today, I feel better. There's a good chance I won't kill anyone.

Then again, it's still early.

Training Day

"Let me get this straight: You feel accountable not only for your own actions but also for other people's actions? Be careful Karen, you may have a little bit of liberal in you."

This was a snippet of a conversation between me and my personal trainer, a.k.a. "Therapist," yesterday. 

(Of course, he also said, during a particularly tough portion of the workout: "Apparently, I'm a d*ck today so you're just going to have to deal with it.")

But that's why I really like my trainer. He gives it to me straight. While I'm walking the floor of the gym doing some ridiculous lunge combo (the secret to my amazing thighs - KIDDING), he and I chat about life. More often than not, we end up on topics about which I'm obsessing. Yesterday, it was all about how I feel responsible for my parents' happiness. Again, more wisdom from James:

"Look, if your Dad wants to be a crabby ass old man, that's his fault, not yours."

Truth, but hard to accept. Because this is MY house and I've sort of imposed my will and at least SOME of my rules (not that they follow them) on my parents, I feel like it's completely my responsibility to make them happy. And I don't feel like they are happy.

That's it. I feel like I'm the cause of two people's unhappiness and it's killing me, just a little bit...every day.

Yesterday, I needed to get my parents out of the house so the cleaners could do their work. Just a couple hours. I decided to take them to lunch down on the lakefront. Milwaukee has a really pretty lakefront and I was proud to show it off. We dawdled a bit, had a great burger lunch at a beachside snack shop and then I took them home the long way and gave them an impromptu tour of some of the neighborhoods in Milwaukee. I had absolutely no hidden agenda. I was simply killing time. They seemed to enjoy it, although who knows. My Mom can't see and Dad doesn't really talk. I literally babbled for about two hours while driving through town. I have no doubt I sounded like an idiot.

Later in the afternoon, Hubby asked Mom and Dad to get on the phone so that they could apply for some Medicare supplement insurance that Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Illnois was SUPPOSED to help with but didn't. I relayed that tiny fact to Mom in an attempt to explain why she needed to speak to some stranger on the phone.

About an hour later, Mom walked up to me and said:  "Please don't say any more negative things about Illinois."

W. T. F?!

That's right, Mom took my comment about an Illinois insurance company as my complete disrespect of the entire state of Illinois.

*Facepalm*

I talked her down off of that ledge and reassured her that I have no interest in slamming Illinois. Yes, I love Wisconsin and yes, it seems clear that the health care system is going to work more in their favor here, but I am truly not out to convert them to the Church of the Cheesehead.

This morning, before I woke up, I was daydreaming about an assisted living facility. I was imagining Mom and Dad there with lots of people to check in on them and coax them out of their apartment to exercise or socialize or eat a well-balanced meal. Almost as if Mom and Dad had their own personal trainer with whom to talk and vent and get a good workout. I have no idea if this will become a reality, but I can dream a little, can't I?

Bored

As I said in my last post, it's the little things that'll do me in. Lately, it's entertainment, or lack thereof.

My sister and I are pretty sure that when they were in their home, my parents did almost nothing, all day long. Dad might get in his car and drive to the library or take Mom to a doctor's appointment, but other than that, they did almost nothing. (And yes, the idea of my dementia-diagnosed Dad with wonky legs driving strikes fear in my heart, but we've fixed that, so let's move on.)

Here in my house, my parents are doing almost nothing....and it's driving me crazy.

I think Mom and Dad have earned the right to do almost nothing, but honestly, they look so BORED. It bores me to look at them. I know they're bored because they fall asleep...a lot.

If they're not watching TV, they're reading, which is nice. Reading is good. (Technically, Mom is listening, not reading, but that's not her fault. She can't see, dammit.)

But if they're not watching TV or reading, they're staring...at nothing. It bores me to watch them. I try feebly to engage them in conversation, but honestly, I hate making small talk. I'm terrible at it. I try to suggest we go for a walk, but more often than not, Dad turns me down. And, really, there's nothing worse than begging a person to take the slowest walk ever.

Maybe it's the dog days of summer. It is terribly hot, which is ironic because suddenly, these two people who are always cold won't go outside! Don't they get it? God has turned on a giant space heater! Go bask in it!!! No, they'd rather sit inside wearing blankets.

But anyway, the idea that the oldsters are bored makes me very uneasy. I know, I know, it's not my job to keep them entertained. So then why do I feel so guilty?

This is when I think, no, when I KNOW that my parents would be better off in an assisted living facility.

Little things

On a daily basis, it's the little things that'll do me in.

Our situation - the Senior Sauna - is challenging. It's challenging for my parents, it's challenging for me, my Hubby and our daughter. It's also challenging for my sister and brother who try to stay connected as best they can.

When I face challenging situations, I try to control them in some little way. Here in my home, that way is to clean and put things away. I have no control over the aging bodies that are under my care, but I can keep washing dishes...and boy are there a LOT of dishes.

This is where the little things come in.

I've been trying to make Mom and Dad feel completely at home here. One way to do that is to help Mom navigate in the kitchen and feel like she knows where things are...and where to put them away...including the dishes. For the first couple of weeks, she kept saying: "I want to put things away, like the dirty dishes, but I'm never sure whether the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty." I completely understood and made a giant pink note that said: DISHES IN DISHWASHER ARE CLEAN. The idea being - she shouldn't put dirty dishes in there when the note is out. I reviewed it several times. SEVERAL.

Every day, dirty dishes are put on the counter next to the sink. Sigh.

Dad is up and down in terms of helping pick up after himself. Most of the time, he pushes himself away from the table and leaves his dishes sitting there for Mom or me to pick up. I'm actually OK with that because he's not very stable and I'm afraid he'll drop or spill something. But when he does bring his dishes to the sink, I've told him time and time and time again that the right side of the sink is for clean dishes. Every freaking day he puts dirty dishes in the right side of the sink. EVERY. DAY. And sometimes it's not dishes. Sometimes it's garbage. Sigh.

And then there are the days when he pours himself a cup of coffee to carry back to the library. I specifically bought him a cup with a cover to prevent spills. He doesn't like that cup. He likes a different cup. So one day, I watched him carry a full cup of coffee. Then I followed him with paper towels and wiped up the trail of spilled coffee. I now understand why my parents' living room carpet was always filthy.

But I have to keep it all in perspective. I truly believe that as long as people are happy, then I'm happy. It won't kill me to clean up after these two people.

Heck, at least I'm burning calories, right?

Reflections on Dad

My Dad has never been a very preachy guy. He was never one to offer sage words of advice. Literally the only thing I remember him saying to me was "Quit your bellyaching," which is something I repeated to him the other day when he complained about what "torture" one of his daily walks was.

I'm sure part of it was the fact that his own father passed away when he was only five years old. In terms of father figures that Dad had, it was probably my uncle who was nearly a lifelong bachelor (until a moderately pushy lady married him) and Cubs fan. Dad really had nobody to teach him how to be a father and/or a husband. He did both imperfectly and yet, as well as he could.

No, Dad's way of teaching lessons was usually by example. The only lesson my Dad actually demonstrated was why you shouldn't address an envelope with a felt tip pen. He did so and then ran said envelope under the faucet so I could see the ink run. I'm not sure why he felt that was important to know but it has left an impression on me.

In his daily life, he demonstrated a work ethic unmatched by most. I NEVER remember Dad staying home sick from work. He worked harder than everyone and tried like hell to prove that an art school education was just as good as a college degree.

He loved learning things and he loved organizing. Oh and when he loved something, he did it repeatedly. He enjoyed things that most would consider best left to youth. Sometimes I would call him and he'd want to talk about the MTV Awards or the Grammys. He'd ask my opinion about pop stars. Some days, he acted younger than me.

Dad never was very demonstrative but you knew that he loved you. To this day, my favorite birthday card was one that he designed when I turned 16 that said: "I'm so proud of the way that you have conducted yourself as a young lady." To think I had impressed him made me happy beyond words.

What truly defined Dad was his career as an amateur race car driver. It was Dad's hobby that sucked all of us in. It made my Dad different than every other kid's dad. It became our vacation plan every summer. It made him feel young and daring. In many ways, it became the most interesting thing about him. It also created a poignant moment when I realized that I had to take his car keys away. Today Dad is a mere shadow of the man that he used to be. I know that it bothers him immensely to feel that he has no strength or that he's just like every other old guy.  To me, he's not.

Miraculously, I managed to marry a guy that not only makes Dad proud because of his intelligence and strength, but also has taken such great care of our kids, me and my parents. I have no doubt that our son has such incredible role models when he becomes a husband and father.

Some days are diamonds

If you've been reading this blog for more than a day or two, you've learned several things:

1. I have no idea what I'm doing.
2. I'm making everything up as I go along.
3. Domesticity is NOT my strong suit.
4. My primary success in this adventure is that I have not (yet) killed anyone.

The best thing about going into the care of your elderly parents is that other people don't expect much of you. They say nice things like: "Oh, you're doing the nicest thing ever." Or: "You'll treasure these days as you look back." Or, my favorite: "Oh boy."

The worst thing about caring for your parents is that you expect a lot out of yourself. You want so bad to do a good job, but so often logistics get in the way...and you fail...on a daily basis.

Yesterday, somehow, the fates aligned and it all, kinda, worked. The primary part in the daily puzzle of elderly care is food. If I've provided three decent "squares" plus snacks, I feel pretty good about myself.

Breakfast and lunch were the standard issue - food on repeat, if you will. Keep in mind, for these two, repeat is good. Remember the reason why I titled this blog Manila Sandwich? Read that here.

Then I had an idea for dinner. A recipe shared by a friend. Homemade Chicken Pot Pie. I said to myself what I say a lot lately: "What the hell."

Somehow, miraculously, it worked. Look:

But the best part of the day was before dinner we went for a walk. Rather than forcing Dad to walk UP our street and our stairs to get back to the house, I drove them to our nearby parkway and walked over a very picturesque bridge and over to the local community pool. On the way back, I had the crazy idea to take a photo of them. (It, of course, blew my Mom's mind that I could take a photo if I hadn't brought my camera. Mom, meet my cell phone.)

So I took a photo. Here were my instructions to them:

"Turn around."
"OK, Smile."
"Wait, stand NEXT to each other."
"OK, now pretend you like each other."

This is the result. As my sister says, THIS is what almost 60 years of marriage looks like. Priceless.

Can I just take a nap?

Spending a lot of time with two elderly people, I've learned many things:

• It's possible to be cold even when it's 85 degrees outside or in a room.
• If there is a way to screw up a television remote control, a senior citizen will find it in less than 3 minutes.
• Napping is ALWAYS an option.

I've noticed that when I leave my parents alone to watch TV or read/listen to a book, at some point, one or both of them will fall asleep. My Dad will do it beginning as early as 9am. He will continue to do it throughout the day if somebody doesn't wake him up.

I'm always torn in these instances. On the one hand, I feel like it's my responsibility to make sure my parents are somewhat socially engaged and, at least a tiny bit, physically active.

On the other hand, after 81 years, haven't they really, truly EARNED a nap? I mean seriously. My Dad worked his butt off for YEARS so that we could have a nice life and go to college. My Mom worked equally as hard making sure there were clean clothes and meals on the table. And even after we moved out, they spent a bit of time worrying about us kids and sometimes babysitting OUR kids or pets.

Sometimes when I wake my Dad up to do something, he opens one eye and glares at me as if to say: "Really? You need me to wake up? Because I can't think of anything you have to offer that's better than watching the inside of my eyelids."

I can't blame him...and most of the time, I want to join him.

I don't know who this Ron Rauss guy is who wrote this book that I found in the box of Cheerios this morning but he's got one thing wrong: There should be an old person on the cover of the book.

Snacks and naps at the Shady Half-Acre

I have often compared my new life with Mom and Dad to that of caring for toddlers....large and less mobile toddlers, but I don't think the analogy is too far off.

On a daily basis, one of my primary goals is to provide nutrition, perhaps some activity, rest and more nutrition. Since Dad is a diabetic and Mom's torso is shrinking and caving into her pelvic, (not really a medical condition, but perhaps better food could help) I feel like I should push the fruits and vegetables as much as possible.

Our day is divided as follows: Breakfast, snack, lunch, nap, snack, dinner and dessert.

Yesterday, I was going to be gone during morning snack and lunch and so I prepared them ahead of time. You can see the results above. Snack was red grapes and low-fat string cheese. Lunch was a half a turkey sandwich with low-fat mayo, carrot sticks, pita chips and hummus. I was pretty damn proud of my efforts. So proud that I took a picture. 

I know what you're saying: "Karen, ANYONE could make that lunch." You know what? You're right. But the point is that I made it, on time, and I felt some odd bit of comfort knowing that I got through the day and fed people without killing them.  And to answer your question - yes, I'm celebrating very tiny victories. A lunch well made - BOOYAH.

The other day I was bragging about how I've got some of this down to a science. I get people fed, encourage physical therapy exercise, perhaps get the residents out for a walk, sit outside with them and talk about the good ole days.

HOT DAMN, I SHOULD OPEN AN ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY!

Seriously, I could get funding for that, couldn't I? Perhaps we could bring other old people to Mom and Dad instead of the other way around. Yes, my house would be crawling with caregivers, but at this point, what's a few more bodies? My Dad could sit with other oldsters, make loud inappropriate comments and raid the freezer for ice cream bars when they think we're not watching.

We could hire a cook to make massive meals for the "residents." We'd bring in therapists galore - physical, occupational, music - you need therapy, we've got therapists. Heck, we already have a therapy dog. What's a few more people petting her and feeding her snacks?

And I'd call my Assisted Living facility the Shady Half Acre.  Weak name? Too damn bad. This is MY facility.

We could get a medication cart from which drugs would be dispensed. I'm already doing this several times a day. I've mastered the art of putting the pills in a tiny bowl and then checking said bowl to make sure drugs have been taken. 

Around 3pm, we'd have nap time at the Shady Half Acre. No, they don't have mats upon which they nap. Are you kidding? Have you ever tried to get an 80+ year old on the floor and back up again? Everyone reclines where they are, which is usually on the couch or in a comfy chair. Yes, the sound of snoring is annoying. But snoring residents mean I can get some work done - again, just like when toddlers go down for a nap.

We could have outings. I already know the best handicap-accessible restaurants in the area. I've mastered the art of walking slowly behind old people in case they stumble or fall. (Note: Walking behind an old person is sort of like walking backwards. It's tricky...and not for the impatient.) We could go to the mall and I can point out mundane details and make things up. (What? These people don't have Google. They're not going to fact-check anything I say.)

The best part? Everyone is in bed by 8pm. The Shady Half-Acre is at rest and we can sit back with a glass of wine or two.

I love it when a plan comes together...

Sometimes it's better not to ask.

Last night, I noticed several times that Dad was walking around with the scissors that we usually keep in the kitchen. So, I had to ask:

Me: Dad, whatcha doing with the scissors?
Dad: Cutting.
Me: What are you cutting?
Dad: Nose hairs.

Cut to Dad putting the scissors back in the kitchen. 

*facepalm*

Paying the piper

Last night, Mom and I sat on the deck and chatted. She keeps asking me about the Assisted Living places that we've toured. She wants details. She wants to be kept informed. She wants to know about the place that she will eventually call home. I completely understand, but I'm not really ready to share all of the details because I haven't yet found the perfect place. Honestly, I don't know if the perfect place exists. I pray it does, but I'm losing hope.

Actually, the perfect place does exist, but we can't afford it. Sigh.

When I tell her about the place we want them to live, I want to be excited about it. I want to paint a pretty picture filled with happiness and love. Here's what you need to know about me: I'm a terrible liar. I don't know that I can sell my parents on a place that I don't entirely love. If I feel like they're unhappy, will I ever be able to be happy?

How did we get to this perfect storm of awfulness? I'll tell you how - poor financial decisions. Along the way, choices were made and now, here we are in 2012, making living arrangements based on the poor choices. I'm not assigning blame, I'm simply telling a cautionary tale: Be prudent. Be frugal. Seek advice.

Mom was starting to see that last night and I could tell she was angry. She and I talked about the past and how they got to where they are now. She was venting a bit about money that was spent, perhaps foolishly. She has been Dad's staunchest ally for nearly 60 years. She stood by him through some pretty rough waters. Now, when they are both in a fragile state, we might be headed for a tsunami.

Our choices are few and far between and turning back the clock is not one of them. 

Closing doors and opening windows

I've never been good at goodbyes.

I actually kind of love change. I love new starts and new places and new things, but I don't like ending things...at all. I've even been known to skip a goodbye or two. I sometimes let myself think too far ahead about the fact that I may never see someone or someplace again in my life. For me, that's pretty hard to take.

Let's be honest about what we're doing with my parents. We are helping them say goodbye forever to their old life. (Let's also be honest and say that their old life was not safe, but we have to respect the fact that it was THEIR life.)

Because of the circumstances, we didn't really give Mom and Dad much time to say goodbye. Dad had ZERO opportunity to go back to his house. This was intentional. We knew that if he were allowed back in the house, we'd NEVER get him out. Mom had a night or two to pack up her life and bid farewell. I kind of distracted her from thinking too far ahead or looking too far behind for fear that she'd just fall apart. I wouldn't blame her if she did.

Dad has stopped talking about going home. I'm not sure if he's accepted the fact that he lives in Wisconsin or if the dementia has forced him to forget that he can't go back. Either way, I'm taking that as a positive step. 

Yesterday we closed a door on Mom and Dad's life. We told my Dad that my sister and her family are moving into his house. He was DELIGHTED.

*Breathe a huge sigh of relief.*

Dad has always wanted sis to have the house. Years ago, he offered to trade homes with her which she, politely, declined. Now, circumstances are such that she and her hubby are kind enough to uproot themselves and become caretakers of Mom and Dad's home. It's such a grand and generous gesture for which I am SO grateful.

I'm not sure if Dad realizes it, but this means that he can't go home. Door closed. Somebody is living there now. It's somebody that he loves, but it's no longer his home. Another item on the list of things taken away.

There's a sappy line in The Sound of Music about "when God closes a door he opens a window." The window we are looking for for my parents is not filled with rainbows and sunshine. It's filled with old people and less privacy and new people dispensing medications. I will make damn sure it's filled with love, care and compassion, but I'm not entirely sure how attractive I can make this seem - mostly because it's also filled with goodbyes. Goodbyes to a former life and to former abilities and independence. I can't ignore that. It will keep me honest and accountable about how serious this job is and the fact that one day, it will be MY doors that are closing.

Sobering thoughts.

Killing the cats

Last night I had a BIZARRE dream about killing cats. For a while, it seemed perfectly logical. Although it's true that I am not a big cat fan, we used to own a cat and I am, in general, not a cruel and horrible person. (Although I cannot vouch for anything that I do while suffering from PMS.)

Anyhoo, there were two cats - one was calico, the other black and it was my job to exterminate them. They apparently were part of our family - not our house, but our family. (Yeah, makes no sense. I know. Just stick with me for a bit.) Somehow, I got both of them into two separate cat carriers. (Sidenote: Try saying CAT CARRIERS fast, three times.) The cat carriers were covered up somehow, so the cats were literally and figuratively in the dark.

I then met up with, I think, my sister, and we discussed the extermination of the cats. I had decided that the cats would be drowned, but then sis and I decided that would be kind of cruel. So then we agreed that I'd just let them loose and they'd figure out life on their own.

W. T. F. ?!

So then I got up this morning and thought about this dream which, as I mentioned, seemed perfectly sane while I was dreaming it. All of a sudden, I realized what this dream meant. Are you ready? Here it goes:

MY PARENTS ARE THE CATS.

Yep, that's what I came up with. Here's why I think that: Yesterday, Hubby and I visited another assisted living facility. This one was MUCH better than the last, with the only real downside being that their "apartment" would be basically just a single room with attached bathroom. No kitchen. All meals would have to be taken with the community, which is very nice. The staff seemed super sweet and a lady whose mom lives there saw us touring and, unprompted, said: "This place ROCKS." All in all, it was nice, although slightly too much of the "assisted" with not much independence. I'm not sure that's the right fit, not that Mom and Dad aren't in need of a lot of assistance and less independence.

But I guess I was thinking about what kind of place I was willing to "leave" them at. My sister and I were comparing this process to dropping your kid off at college. You want to make sure the fit is perfect so that you don't get one of those phone calls that says: "I hate this place. Come and get me, PLEASE." It's a very tricky dynamic, to say the least.

So that's why I think that, in my dream, my parents are the cats. I'm trying to re-situate my parents (for THEIR well-being) and feel pretty guilty about it, like, in a way, I'm slowly killing them. I know, that's overly dramatic, but I kind of feel that way. I take this VERY seriously. I can't do anything to them that I wouldn't do to myself.

Yep, cats.

I feel bad about....everything.

Guilt. I have this magical way of inserting it into every moment of my life. My kids do something wrong or struggle with something in their lives? I blame myself or figure it was my inadequate parenting skills. My husband is in a bad mood? (Which he NEVER is, dammit.) I assume it's my fault. And yes, I've managed to include guilt as part of the "elder care package."

Mom's hip has been bothering her lately. I'm not sure if it's her bionic (a.k.a. "replaced") hip or her old one. Either way, I'm worried. I'm certain it's because she's sleeping on an Aero Bed in the bedroom while Dad, um, hogs, the queen size bed. They had a king size bed at home and so they just don't fit together in this new bed. Dad is sleeping quite well, thank you, but Mom is definitely not. She just got up at 6:15 am made a beeline straight for the Tylenol...because she's in pain...because she's sleeping on a blow-up mattress.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Last night, she and I had a talk about the possibility of them moving into assisted living. We sat on the deck in the lovely weather last night and discussed their future. She was really fine with it and I assured her that wherever it is has to be good enough for me in order for it to be good enough for them. Well, this morning she woke up and said: "How are we going to afford assisted living? Because I'm worried about how much we can afford because your Dad won't be happy unless it's a nice place." I talked her down off the ledge and ASSURED her that Hubby and I are working on those details and she shouldn't worry at all about it. I didn't lie to her, but I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say that I too worry about those things.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

I already feel bad that I ripped them out of their house and dragged them up here. OK, that's overly dramatic, but sometimes it feels that way. The transition has been challenging, to say the least. I know it was for their own good, but try keeping someone at your house when they don't want to be there. Not easy and not fun.

The only thing that made me feel a tad bit better was that Mom said she's MUCH more relaxed now that she's living with us and the blood pressure reading at her last doctor's appointment was STELLAR. Phew.

Oh but I feel guilty when I sneak out and have a fun night out with Hubby or my friends. I feel badly that I didn't provide an equally fun night for my parents.

I know, I know, I shouldn't feel guilty. But this is someone's life we're working with here. Actually, TWO people's lives. And, their "sunset" years, to boot. I feel a tremendous responsibility to "do the right thing." I have a very small window in which to give them comfort, love and happiness and I honestly feel like I'm woefully short. Mom is so easily placated that I often feel like I take advantage of her overly flexible demeanor.

On any given day, I feel badly about five or six things as they relate to my parents: unhealthy food, lack of exercise, lack of stimulation, not providing them with a closet because I'm too lazy to empty out the guest room closet, not sitting and talking with them enough, allowing the TV to be their babysitter.....

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

It only hurts when I laugh

Skipped a day without posting because not much happened....ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

(Warning: This post may make little or no sense because it will mirror the current state of my life.)

So, the other day, Dad fell again. Actually, he slipped on our hardwood floor while I was at the pharmacy picking up one of his medications. I pulled in the driveway and got a text from my daughter: "Grandpa fell. I helped Grandma get him up, but just so you know." I went barreling in the door and found him in his usual chair complaining that his arm hurt, but he was generally OK. Thank GOD my daughter was there to help.

To make a long story short, he fell on his shoulder and was bruised but not broken. I know this because the first thing he said in the morning was: "Wanna make a trip to the Emergency room?" Thus began my day. We didn't go to the Emergency Room because when I asked him how bad his pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, he said a 2. Turns out, he thinks 1 is the worst.

*Facepalm*

Instead of going to the Emergency Room, I called his doctor's office and asked for some guidance. This doctor has an Urgent Care as part of their office. Basically, they set it up so that existing patients can get in same day just like an Urgent Care but it's in the regular office. I set up an appointment and then a few minutes later his new primary care doc called. I had just been told that he wasn't on duty, so I was confused. But he called to check in, say he was sorry to hear that Dad had fallen and to reassure me that he'll check on the report after Dad has been seen by his colleague. Wow. I can't tell you how impressive this was. I'm so used to health care being cold and impersonal.

So, Dad and I spent about 3 hours in the doc's office, then getting x-rays, then going back to the doc's office. During this time, he was completely Mr. Sassy Pants. At one point, he looked down at his shoes and said something about needing to get a shoe shine because the suede part of his new shoes wasn't shiny enough. Oh and when the doc asked if his arm hurt, he said "only when I laugh." Jeez, Dad, answer the question. But the Doc got it and did a little back and forth with him. I love that these people understand old people and treat them with dignity and humor. Thank God we've found the right place.

After I got Dad home, settled and enjoying a lunch he proclaimed was the "best ever," I went upstairs and was doing something. Suddenly, I hear Mom shouting for me. I dropped my dental floss (look, SOMETHING in my life has to be good, it may as well be my teeth) and ran downstairs. Mom said: "Your father is outside." I look outside where he has walked out, left the door open, went down the stairs and is reaching in the mailbox. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. This is bad on so many levels: A) He walked out AGAIN. B) He went down the stairs AGAIN. C) He went looking for the mail which, as you know, we've been kind of keeping away from him. I tried to distract him while admonishing him. It kinda worked, but later, he shuffled up to me and mentioned that he hasn't gotten any mail in weeks. I said something about how there have only been bills and Hubby has been paying those with the online bill pay system (not a lie) and that we didn't want to worry him. I felt terrible for betraying his trust, even though it seriously is completely for his own good. If we let him open and rip up mail, we may have further insurance issues. Sigh.

Hubby arrived home and then he and I went to visit an Assisted Living option for Mom and Dad. We've been looking into this with the expectation that we hope to eventually give them back some independence but it has to be in a safe and VERY caring place. The place we visited was nice on the assisted living side. Small apartments that allow Mom and Dad to be together and yet still be safe and independent. Only 23 residents so it doesn't seem like a giant "facility."

Then we looked at the attached nursing home. The first thing I noticed was that it smelled like pee. I had told Hubby that there is no way in hell that I will put my parents in a place that smells like pee. It had a completely different vibe than the assisted living side and I didn't like it. In the car, on the way home, I burst into tears. Hubby agreed, completely understood and held my hand while I wiped my nose and sniffled. He promised that we'd find a place that would be better. We can't afford the Hilton, but we won't put them in Motel 6. Thank God.

We returned home after that depressing outing and Dad seemed really good. He asked if I'd take a walk with him to the fire station the next day. "Um, sure, I'd be honored," I responded. I have no idea why he chose that destination, but he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about it. Who knows if he'll remember it today.

I had a blessed evening of tennis last night where I escaped the stresses of home. I got back and Hubby told me that Dad fell down onto the floor TWICE and he was there to help him up. Such a mixed bag of feelings from hearing this - Thank God Hubby was home, we are right to search for assisted living, how is he declining so quickly and oh, crap. My mind is spinning.

I have no pithy way to end this. ________________ (Insert your own entertaining comment here.)

Ignorance is bliss

The other day, Hubby and I went to one of our beloved neighborhood restaurants. For obvious reasons, we haven't been there in a while. Our favorite server asked what was new: "My parents moved in with us," I replied. There was a long pause and then a quiet "OH MY."

Seriously, if you told people that a new puppy or an adopted child moved in with you, they'd get all excited and congratulate you. But when you tell them that old people have moved with you, it's Debbie Downer time.

I find this reaction amusing. It's as if we told people __________ (insert horrible situation here.) Universally, they feel TERRIBLE.

Part of me is grateful for the sympathy. It's nice for people to acknowledge that I'm not whining without reason.

Another part of me wants to run up to them and ask: "Wait, you mean it's not going to get better?!" Everyone ASSUMES that what we have going on here is AWFUL.

Look, I'll be honest, this IS challenging. On a daily basis, we are worrying about at least five things. But it's not unlike the beginning of the parenting cycle. Things are crazy. You work out some fixes. There are good days and bad days and you feel a little fist pump of victory when the old folks are fed and put to bed without incident.

Although I tend to be rather pessimistic, there's no way I could get through every day if I didn't feel like we were managing pretty well and people were happy.

Then again, it's entirely possible that I'm completely ignoring the big picture, which is that we have old people living with us, they drive us a little crazy, they are in moderate to poor health and they're going to decline.

It's all in how you look at it....or not look at it.

Is this Christmas?

Yesterday morning, I heard Dad's walker clicking around at the usual time. I met him in the library with a cup of coffee.

He grimaced a bit as he was sitting down, looked up at me and said: "Is this Christmas?" I calmly responded: "Nope, it's June."

As I've mentioned before, the maddening thing about dementia is that in its early stages, the "patient" drifts in and out of lucidity. There are days when Dad seems crystal clear on everything. There are other times, like this moment, when I know that I'm the one who's not losing it.

I feel a little guilty saying this, but those moments are reassuring to me. Why? Because sometimes I feel like we're jumping through an awful lot of hoops for two people who would MUCH rather be in their own home. I feel like I'm literally holding them captive against their will.

But then Mom will need daily help sorting through her medications and Dad will take a left turn into Crazy Town and I get an instant reminder of why we are doing what we are doing.

I'm not saying we are doing it well. As I tell people, we are simply the last, best option.

If this is Christmas, where are my presents?

The checkup

Yesterday I took Dad to see his new primary care doc. I thought it would be a brief appointment, because seriously, when was the last time you had a "checkup" that lasted more than 30 minutes?

Well I was wrong. NINETY minutes. This guy was thorough. UNBELIEVABLY thorough. He checked EVERYTHING. And he asked questions....lots and lots of questions. He asked Dad about whether he was sad. Dad said no and I nodded my head yes. He asked Dad if he's lost interest in doing things. Dad said yes. (Victory!) The doctor asked him what things he used to do that he stopped doing. Dad said "working on cars." (Um, Dad hasn't worked on cars in over 10 years.) The doc asked how long it's been that he lost interest in working on cars. Dad said "Six months." Oy.

The doc spent a lot of time on Dad's feet and arms and it was obvious there was concern. He said that Dad has suspicious joint stiffness that may or may not be the beginning signs of Parkinson's Disease. We'll make a follow-up with a neurologist to check that out too.

Toward the end of the appointment, Dad pointed to me and asked me to bring out the driver's license revocation appeal letter from the Illinois Secretary of State. I handed it to him and he gave it to the doctor and asked him to fill it out and send it in. The doctor said: "I will, but it's not going to be good news." He then explained, in-depth, why Dad should no longer drive. He talked about his dementia, the neuropathy in his feet, the stiffness in his arms and how all of this together leads to poor reaction times in driving and, how he could hurt himself and someone else.

The doctor stepped out of the office and Dad and I had this conversation:

Dad: This guy is good, REALLY good.
Me: Yeah, he is. Very thorough. So Dad, why do you want your driver's license back?
Dad: Because I want to drive. Duh. That's a stupid question.
Me: Jeez, you don't have to be mean. I was just wondering. By the way, I'm not going to let you drive.
Dad: Oh yeah? Then you're going to have to throw yourself in front of the car. You can't stop me.
Me: Dad, did you hear what the doctor said about how you shouldn't drive?
Dad: You know what? This guy is SO good, he could find something wrong with YOU so that YOU wouldn't be able to drive.
Me: Is that what you think happened? That the doctor is so good that he was looking for things that were wrong with you?
Dad: Yes I do.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands.

The doctor came back in and I decided to be bold:

Me: So, doctor, just to confirm, you do not think that Dad should drive, right?
Dad: Jeez, don't go and ruin everything! 
Doctor: That is right. I do not think it is safe for him to drive. 

*Dad shoots me daggers while inside I do a little victory dance.

I literally don't think that Dad heard that last part. I think he truly thinks he has a shot to get his license back. I also have this small fear that somebody will be asleep in the Secretary of State's office and will just give him the license back. But we'll deal with that if and when it happens.

In any case, Dad was pretty happy with his new doctor, although he was also quite annoyed that we had to set up a follow-up appointment in three months. He said to me: "You know what my philosophy about doctors is? Don't go see a doctor until you have to."

Sure, Dad. How's that working out for you?

Groundhog day

I'm all for consistency. It's comforting knowing that something will happen on a regular basis. But sometimes, consistency can get irritating...and repetitive.

Lately, in our house, the theme is: Get the license back. Yep, as in: Dad is intent on appealing his driver's license revocation.

Yesterday I was gone until about 9:30 am. Due to a late-starting meeting, Hubby was home during that time. Dad sat him down and said that he wants to go back to Illinois, hire an attorney to set up all the services that Hubby his worked his a** off to get and get his doctors and his license back.

I'm so glad I wasn't home. Hubby calmly told him why that won't work. Dad walked away seemingly depressed. Hubby cornered me the minute I walked in the house to tell me about the conversation. We were both concerned and ready to sit down with Dad together again.

We went downstairs. Dad came out of the bedroom and asked Hubby where the letter from the Secretary of State was because he's going to apply to get his license back.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands. 

Hubby calmly said: "You'll have to get a doctor to sign off on that." Dad nodded in agreement.

Later, during dinner, I reminded Dad that we have an appointment with his new primary care doctor this morning. He brought up the license thing AGAIN. After dinner he sat down, filled out the license revocation appeal and put a stamp and a return address on the envelope. He set it out for us to bring to the doctor.

He is completely and totally focused on this license thing. I don't even think he remembers why he wants a license, but this has become his new mission. It's almost at an absurd level.

Hubby has done some research into dealing with dementia and found that studies show that you're supposed to "meet the dementia patient where they are." In other words, don't argue with their logic, or lack thereof. Thus far, I have not done this, but I've started when dealing with "License-Gate." 

Yesterday afternoon, I called the doctor's office and gave them a heads-up that Dad was going to ask about the license and that he wants to return home to Illinois. I said that I could really use the doctor's help in dealing with this. Given the fact that this new doctor is in a Memory Care clinic, I'm PRAYING that they will help me deal with this.


I'm not sure I can wake up tomorrow to another round of: "Karen, where's that letter from the Secretary of State?"


Then again, maybe I can....