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.