Living in the Now with Dad

The first pains to his shoulder were thought to be due to bursitis from an old college injury when he broke his collar bone. A quick shot of cortisone and everything would be fine. Or so his doctor said.

The next week the same intense shoulder pain returned. Off to the doctor and the same diagnosis accompanied by a script for a MRI of the shoulder and possible physical therapy. Or so his doctor said.

The third time the pain was even more intense, but now it was a Sunday evening and he just wanted another shot of cortisone for the pain. As we are walking out to the car, his breaths are becoming strained and short. One red flag goes off in my brain. He has to sit in the kitchen to get his strength to keep walking. Second red flag is raised. We get to the front porch bench and he sits again, stating that the pain is so bad, it is making him break out in a cold sweat. He says he is nauseous. Red flags three and four pop up like jack-in-the-boxes. My brain is filled with a tidal wave of red flags threatening to come crashing down onto Dad. This is not good. This could be really bad. Stay calm I tell myself. Don’t panic. Don’t alarm anyone. And most importantly, just get him to the hospital. I mean, after all it’s just bursitis or arthritis or an old injury paying a call. Or so his doctor said.

That was the beginning of Dad’s heart attacks. Looking back with the hindsight that we can only gain from reviewing the past, I am convinced that the initial shoulder pain episodes were mild heart attacks. I don’t know if I can ever reconcile the anger I have for the quack doc who only saw an aging man with aches and pains creeping in to his life. He never stopped to consider that there may be more serious issues at play. I have to work on this reconciliation.

Two cardiac stents later Dad is back home. I have written up placards detailing the signs of cardiac distress. Hanging them in the various rooms of the house, I attach bags of nitro tabs to the signs. The signs are talismans, preventing any further trouble. I am foolish enough to believe that my efforts will stem the tide of future attacks.

Dad is home for maybe a week when my talisman fails. This time, I know it is a heart attack. Popping a Nitro tab into Dad’s mouth, I call 911. I would like to say that I calmly reported his symptoms, but that would be a lie. My stomach was churning with each question the disembodied voice on the other end asked. I just wanted to scream, “Enough with the questions! He his having a freaking heart attack! Just get the hell over here!”

As Mom and I are riding to the hospital she says, “One of these times, we won’t be bringing him back home with us.” What could I say? Thankful for the darkness hiding my tears, thankful for the sound of the tires riding across the pavement, creating a humming blanket to cover the silence that filled the car, I finally reply, “I know Mom”. I prayed for the strength to get through all of this. I prayed that this time, Dad would come home with us.

Dad did come home, after a third stent was placed in his chest.

As for now…well,…I don’t know. At first I felt like I was mentally crossing off the days till the “big one” lays him out. I hated feeling that way. As if I was one of the Grim Reaper’s minions, hovering and waiting for death to come.

One day I realized that this waiting was toxic for me. Praying for a peaceful existence, while living with the reality of all that had happened in the past five weeks, I found what I was seeking. I need to live in the moment, in the now. For if I don’t do that, I will miss the gift of Dad’s life. A gift I can’t get back once he is gone. That is where my heart lives.

This is not easy for me. I am still on hyper alert for any possible warning signs. But I hold on to my conviction to live for the present. I can not control the future. I can only follow my heart. I can only live in present. And be thankful for Dad’s presence today, for I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

Peace,

Jane Ellen

Momisms

I have been busy with travel, leaving me little time for writing. Now that I have a breather I can write about a few Momisms. You know, the stuff that happens that tells you this is real life, not a commercial where everything is rosy and plastic. When Momisms occur I take a second to look at them and allow myself to chuckle at them. For they are usually signs that Mom is not stabilizing, but is a shade lighter than she was the day before.

I was sitting in my office when the house phone rang. I always listen in on my parents’ conversation. Not to fulfill any voyeurism need I am hiding from everyone. No, I listen, because I worry that one of them will give out personal information over the phone, to a stranger. Mom was giving short answers to someone asking for a charitable contribution. I heard her say, “Yes, I would like to give some money, but how???” Boing! Boing! Boing! Red flags are popping up in my mind. “Oh, you need my credit card number?…hold on, I will have to get it.” I sprang into action like a phone police superwoman. Since I knew the caller was an unknown to Mom, I quickly told her to never give her credit card number to anyone, especially a charitable organization she never heard of. Mom returns to the phone, “I’m sorry I don’t know you and I am sure you are a very nice person, but I can’t give you my credit card number. I am sorry. Can you send me something in the mail?” I guess the person couldn’t do that because she quickly said good bye and hung up. I have to give Mom credit for being nice. I am nasty when it comes to any phone solicitation. I guess I have more Dad in me when it comes to such matters.

A couple of weeks ago, Mom went with me to wash windows and do some cleaning at my house. It is almost ready to be put on the market – yea! The really huge YEA! goes to Mike, Laura and family for all of their work on this never ending project. Mom and I arrived at the house. There is a flurry of activity going on: Mike was working downstairs while a construction crew of 3 men were redoing my sidewalk and two retaining walls. We stepped around the wet cement, tools and over a threshold that was in the making. We started cleaning. Mom took a break and then asked me what’s next. She had already informed me, “I don’t do windows. I just pay someone to wash my windows”. OK, Princess Marilyn. She did the final mopping of the hardwood floor. By the time she was done, I had finished the window in the small office. She said she would mop the floor. I reminded her to use the furniture spray, like she did in the other room. Mom started spraying the polish directly on the floor. “Mom!” I yelled in my alarming voice. “Just spray the polish on the mop and then mop the floor so you don’t get too much polish on the floor.” The filter slid down a couple of notches and in the most haughty tone she could muster she replied, “Well, I wasn’t raised to be a maid.” Ooohhhhh….Mom gets in a dig. “I know, Mom. Me neither” I replied.

We started washing the windows in my bedroom, which overlook the side yard. A man walked from the front yard, through the side and into the back. “Who is that man?” Mom asked. “He’s the owner.” I replied, referring to the construction crew working out front when we came in earlier. “He owns this house???” Mom asked. “No, that is the guy who owns the cement company working on the sidewalk.” I answered. Without missing a beat, Mom stated emphatically, “That’s good, because I’m not washing his windows!”. I didn’t bother to explain that we were in my house.

I smile when I recall all of her Momisms. They are gems to be remembered and brought out when things get worse, as they inevitably will. When an exhausting day has drained me of my humanity, it will be the Momisms that will ease away my weariness. I pray that her wit and kindness will remain to the end. That way, some of Mom will stay with me and all of us till her final days.

Peace,

JaneEllen

The Foreboding

My girls and I recently went on vacation for a week to the Jersey Shore. We really needed this time together. Each of them is beginning their senior year, with Adrienne in college and Emily in high school. I just had this tremendous urge to scoop them up and wrap a loving cocoon around them. For I knew that time would whoosh by and suddenly I would be waving goodbye to each of them as they headed off to their respective grad/undergrad schools.

The when or where of the vacation was easy. We have vacationed at Ocean City, NJ for years. We all love it there. In fact, several of this clan’s families have spent time in OC. The stickler for us was what to do with the dog.

A year ago I brought home a puppy. Finnegan, named after the family’s Irish heritage, is a friendly, lovable dog, weighing in at 18 pounds. A lap dog full of fluff hair.

As the most adorable member in this household, everyone just loves Finn. He has been especially beneficial for Mom. She has an object for her love and affection. And boy, does she heap it on him! Finn, in return, naps faithfully with her everyday. He also is a dog who loves to play, give kisses and quietly sit by Mom’s side as she does her crossword puzzle. In short, he is Mom’s therapy dog and our family pet.

Unfortunately, there are many times when Mom will let him out of the house without a leash. Or times when she ties him up outside and then forgets about him. Luckily, either I or Em catch Mom just before she opens the door without leashing him or hear Finn whining outside. Then, there are times when I have been away all day, only to find his water dish empty. None of this is terrible, since its occurrence is sporadic.

Back to the week at the beach dilemma. Worrying about how Finn was faring at home, would not lend itself to a very relaxing time for me at the beach. It was finally decided amongst myself and my girls that we would have Adrienne’s boyfriend’s family take the dog for the week. For several days I told Mom the plan, explaining that they are trying to convince their dad that a dog would be great to have around the house. Each time Mom said OK, but the sadden look on her face just about killed me. Still, I persevered. I didn’t want to worry about the dog all week. I know, I am terrible. I totally sacrificed Mom’s love for the dog for my sanity. I didn’t know any other way. I felt horrible. Even writing this now, I still feel guilty. Shit!

When it was time for Finn to go, I was out running last minute errands for the upcoming week. By all accounts, Mom was pissed, sad and totally confused. At one point she said aloud, to no one in particular, “No one asked me about this!”. Double shit!!

Mom called me several times during the week to ask where Finn was staying. She was convinced that Finn was staying with the parents of one of my friends and they lived up the street. I would explain to Mom where Finn was and that he would be home by Saturday. We live on a hill that ends in a school parking lot. I had visions of Mom wandering around the top of the hill, looking for Finn. My guilt was working overtime.

Upon further thought, I realize that this is only a preview of things to come, should Dad pass away before Mom. She fretted about the dog – a dog, for crying out loud! I can’t imagine how bad it is going to be when Dad dies. My fear is that she won’t have the mental capacity to fully process his death, her mourning and be able to move forward. When your partner of 55+ years passes, moving forward is extremely difficult, in the best of circumstances. In Mom’s case, I doubt it will ever happen. With that, I fear that she will slide into a downward spiral like an inverted tornado, turning her world into never-ending confusion and loss as widowhood whips around her.

I don’t dwell on this image – much. It exists in the dark corners of my mind, a misty air laden heavy with anticipatory grief. I shake it off, for the most part. On days when Dad’s face is completely drained of color, he gasps for breaths and appears confused, a foreboding feeling rises from the murky sadness; I quickly tamp it down. Mom doesn’t notice Dad’s decline, as much. I don’t mention it. It will happen one day. There isn’t any sense in having both of us worry.

Until then, and I pray “then” is a long ways off, I just keep taking it one day at a time in this house where confusion is the norm. I look for the rays of light from God, energizing my soul whenever possible.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Shared History

My parents celebrated their 55th anniversary this past July. To share your life with another person for 55 years is a celebration of love. I truly believe that Mom and Dad not only have a deep abiding love for each other, but they enjoy each other’s company.

Since the demise of my own marriage I have observed many married couples, wondering how they do it. There are the rare few, who like Mom and Dad, are happy in their marriage. There are others where marriage has proven to be an endurance event, just waiting for the other to bail or die. While this latter group may have anniversaries, these are merely signs of another year’s passing.

Living with them, I get to hear snippets of conversation that I never would have heard otherwise. This is where living here is an honor and a privilege. Truths revealed during the flow of conversation, as we pass the salt and pepper around the dinner table, are tucked away in my memory box.

As we ate lunch the subject of marriage came up. Mom and Dad were talking about their wedding day. It was the usual tale, I had heard at least a dozen times before. Then Dad says, “As I knelt at the altar and throughout the whole mass, I prayed and prayed to God that I would never show Marilyn my bad temper. I just kept praying over and over.” There, mingled in with the familiarity, a new, shiny jewel slipped in to my treasure trove.

Dad had always been the “good” Catholic: going to church every Sunday, never missing a Holy Day of Obligation mass, church council member, Sunday school teacher, and a product of 16 years of Catholic education. This much I knew. But what I didn’t expect was this revelation of one of his deepest fears. He loved Mom so much that he feared he would lose her if his temper erupted, spewing volcanic ashes of anger at her.

Mom just looked over at him and smiled. I asked if she knew he had such a bad temper. She acknowledge that she knew it, but he had never directed it at her, “I knew he never would.” Through her love for Dad, trusting in the depth of his love for her, she knew he never would direct his temper at her or any of us.

Their love story will never be made into a movie. It is not a legendary tale. It is not one for the record. It will not be told over and over again for generations to come. It will never be on the NY Times best seller list. They won't be interviewed for television. Other than the readers of this blog, no one will ever know of their love story.

Yet, it is the love story every newlywed couple hopes to have as they embark on their adventure. It is a love borne out of deep respect, mutual love, faith in God and genuine affection for each other. It is a love story that continues until the day one of them parts from this realm. Even then, I am sure their spirits will never truly be separated from each other.

Peace,

JaneEllen

The Aging Roar

The original focus of this blog is Mom. However, I can’t write about Mom without including stories about Dad. After nearly 55 years of marriage, it is difficult to talk solely about Mom, for their lives have been intertwined too long to not include snippets about the love of her life.

I was thinking about an incident with Dad and an image of a lion came to mind. The analogy is so strong that I can not shake it. The male lion is the king of the jungle. The lion is a majestic animal with its powerful body and full mane framing his face. He is surrounded by his pride of lionesses and their cubs. He fights off any male intruders that threaten his position in the pride. While the adult male cubs leave the pride, the females usually remain with the lion. Hmmm…reminds me of saying, “A daughter is a daughter all of her life; a son is a son, till he takes a wife”. Eventually the lion ages, his mane thins out, he may have lost some teeth, and his muscles are no longer capable of chasing off intruders. Another younger, stronger male fights for the pride and dethrones the older male.

For my father’s generation the man is the head of the household. He reigns over his “jungle”. I remember Dad roaring when frustrated with a home project that wasn’t going according to plan. Oh, how his temper would flare, the French curses bellowing and whatever tool was in his hand would be thrown into a corner. Mind you, he never took his temper out on any of us. He never threw anything at us. But we knew to back off when he roared. As for his “pride”, Dad is a family man, first and foremost. Mom is his lioness. Living here, with my girls, completes the analogy. Scary, huh?

I have never doubted that Dad would defend his family with every ounce of strength he could muster, if provoked. Outside violence never touched our family, but I saw him defend us in terms of keeping us safe. There was the time when we moved to the Cumberland Mountains of western Maryland. I was five and curious. Our backyard dropped off to a cliff, 50 feet above the road below. The first thing he said was for us to not go near the edge of the cliff. He was planning on installing a fence as soon as possible. I had other plans. I just had to see what the edge looked like. I quietly walked up to the edge. Just as I was about to peer over the side of the cliff I felt a jerking of the back of my shirt. Dad yanked at me so hard, worried that I would fall off the cliff. Yep, his worry came out in the form of a roar that continues to echo in my memory! To this day, I can’t stand at the edge of anything over 10 feet tall unless there is a sturdy fence there to protect me from falling.

Earlier this week the old lion roared, but it wasn’t as loud or as effective. Or maybe I am older and have learned to roar back. Dad’s car is in the shop for a couple of weeks, for repairs. The annual two week beach trip is coming up and he is planning to drive the rental car to the Jersey Shore, which is a two hour drive, at best. To top it off, he is the only driver registered for the rental. I remind him that he hasn’t driven to the Shore for a number of years. “Yes I Have!!!”. Stepping up to match him roar-for-roar, I reply “No You Haven’t!” Lowering my tone I continue, “I’m just saying… you might want to put someone else on the rental.” The roar, weaker, but still detectable, “I will be fine to drive!”. I walk to my desk and continue working. Ten minutes later, in a tone of quiet defeat he states, “Well, maybe we can put Lynn on the rental, too…pause….And she can drive the car”.

I have so many mixed emotions. I am relieved that he is not attempting to drive to the Shore. At the same time my heart hurts for him. The lion is aging and I don’t want him to. And I am not in the mood to be told that this is the nature of things. The “great circle of life” is for others. It is not for my Dad. Intellectually, I know that we are only here for a brief moment. But at this moment, this slice of time, a million miles separate my heart from my brain. Placing a hand over my chest, my heart hurts for him and for me.

Dad’s mane is balding, his teeth are chewed down and stained, his breathing is labored after walking a short distance, his eyesight is gone in one eye and he takes a pharmacy of pills on a daily basis. These are tangible signs of the aging lion. I see it with my eyes, even if the little girl in me wants to deny it.

There are snatches of time, where reality hits harder than normal. It is like the pace of life has ratcheted up a notch and his footing is not as steady, not as strong as it had once been. Those days of clarity make me wish there was many more years with the of my childhood. The lion who would wrestle with us as children, gave piggy back rides to his grandchildren and would even stand on his head to make them roll on the floor with laughter.

Dad turns 80 this Friday. It is a celebration of the lion that still roars, laughs and loves me.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Rooster or Tiger?

The word humility has been buzzing around my head like an annoying fly. For the last two weeks I have come across this word through my readings and in the sermons at church. God must be sending me a message. And like most of my messages from God, it takes more than one "mailing" to get through to me. God, I hear you – humility….now I have to decipher the code. As everyone knows, Jesus spoke in code, aka parables, so why would his Father be any different???

Humility is defined as absence of pride or self-assertion, according to Webster’s. Well there’s a double whammy. While I am not a boastful person, I do have a strong sense of pride. My pride is bundle together with my possessions, one of which is the my house. I never realized, until I moved in with my folks, how much value I placed on my house. Just as a job is one facet of my identity, so is my house. I had supported myself and my girls in my house for seven years. I had made improvements to the house. Many more were needed, but college tuition was looming over the house, causing me to shift priorities.

Yet, I was proud of the home I created for my girls and myself. It was our house. And now, I don’t have a house – well, as soon as it is sold, anyway. I would have been the first person to say that I don’t attach emotions to my house. But I do! Pride is in the front of the emotion line.

While I am not homeless, I find it necessary to tell people that my parents asked me to move in with them. This is quickly followed by: my mother has Alzheimer’s; my dad has spent seven of his nine lives; they need help with dinner, shopping, dr. appointments, yada, yada, yada…. I am clever in how I do this, weaving this "confession" into the conversation, making it nearly impossible to detect any boasting or pride. After all, I don’t want people to think that I am one of those single moms who has to move back home with her parents to support her kids. No, not me!! And the nod of sympathy for me, is just a little extra built-in perk. I am such a fraud!

I assert my pride at every opportunity. Oh yea, did you catch the "assert" in that statement? Part two of humility is the lack of self-assertion. This lack is not referring to allowing people to take your rights or not speaking up for yourself. No, this is a matter of puffing out your feathers like a rooster strutting in front hens.

Now that I have figured out how un-humble I am, how does this tie in with taking care of Mom???

I have been gnawing on this for a while, looking at it from different angles. Growing old, with or without dementia, just plain sucks, at times. Aging can be a limiting process where one can not drive at night, arthritis may stiffen the limbs or fingers, movement is restricted, aches and pains once ignored are now a constant reminder of an old injury. I know there are benefits from aging, too: wisdom, inner peace, joy of grand parenting, retirement. At this point, Mom’s joys are diminished by her dementia.

This is where humility, on my part, comes in. The verb form, humiliate, is a hungry tiger ready to pounce at any opportunity. When your mind no longer performs as it should, humiliation can occur on a regular basis. It is hard, oh so hard, not to scream when Mom asks me for the zillionth time about dinner, or where one of the girls is staying for the night, or when I am coming to the beach this summer, or any other item that pops into her head.

To scream at her, to remind her how she has asked the same question over and over, is a form of humiliation. Mom’s core spirit is humiliated if I hold up the dementia mirror to her. That is not loving. That is not honoring her. That is revenge for taking care of her. And that is not where my heart is. Or rather that is not where I want my heart to be. If I go to that place on a regular basis, then I will not like who I see when I turn the mirror on myself.

I have read books where people take care of others with debilitating conditions. In each case, the author writes how he/she has become a more humble person because of the experience. I am beginning to see how this happens. Watching Mom struggle with the loss of cognition, memory, and some day, basic functions is humbling in and of itself. How I love her while she travels down the path of Alzheimer’s is my ongoing lesson in humility.

Humility….Well God, is this the message? Or part of the message? Or am I completely missing Your message? Well if I have missed the mark, I have no doubt that there will be several more encores on "humility". One thing I have learned about God is that He never gives up. He just keeps knocking, until I finally open the door.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Confessions of an Internal Screamer

When people learn that I am living with my parents to help them out because Mom has Alzheimer’s, I hear, “Oh, that must be hard. You are such a good person to do it.” This is accompanied by a look mixed with concern and sympathy. Truth be told, I lose my patience – a lot. I try not to show it. But hell, I am not perfect. I am very far from perfection. When I hear this sentiment expressed over and over, I place an unrealistic expectation on myself that I have to strive to be perfect. Since the last human who walked on water lived over 2,000 years ago, I seriously doubt that perfection is an attainable goal. More to the point if I am perfect, then I am no longer authentic; no longer real; no longer a person with needs; no longer me. Yet, there are those nagging thoughts that I have to have the patience of Job. Ok, I am not there. It is not in me. What is in me is layers of patience that are slowly erode like sand on a beach. Eventually, a wave washes away my last thin layer of patience and ugliness rises to the surface. It comes in the form of extreme verbal exasperation. Well, maybe not extreme, but noticeable to me.

This past weekend was a wonderful time spent with family and friends. It was also exhausting. I was trying to keep everything organized and running smoothly. I am, by my own admission, an A type person. Organization and control are second nature to me. In the midst of my soaring “A”, there was a car accident. You know, nothing derails an “A” plan like a car accident. No one was hurt, thankfully. However it really cut into my mood. I gave this disruption power. I was grumpy on the inside and not so patient on the outside. In short, my “A” game was off. That was Saturday afternoon.

On Sunday, I had to pack and leave for a 3 day work trip. This was the third overnight trip in 3 weeks. I was not thrilled about traveling. On top of this, I had to call the insurance company, report the accident and find a rental car for Dad. Yep, it was his car in the accident and it was parked in the lot of the auto body shop. Shit! Despite repeatedly telling Mom and Dad where I was going, they continually ask me where I was headed. My patience was down to zip. Gone – spent – finito!

By the time I left I was snapping out curt replies; my internal scream had become a very audible grunt. I felt horrible, but couldn’t help it. I wonder, at times like this, if is it simply easier for them to ask the same question over and over, than to take a nano second to think and remember for themselves. As with every trip I posted my itinerary on the kitchen cupboard, but they still ask. Why do I bother with the itinerary?!?! That is when the grunting and snapping is at its peak.

Recently, I was in the pediatrician’s office, listening to the nurse practioner pontificate about patience when dealing with my mother. Apparently, her mother had Alzheimer’s, thus making her a self-appointed authority on the subject of living with Alzheimer’s. She kept saying how she was sooooo patient with her mother. On the tip of my tongue was the question, “Did she live with you?” I quickly realized that her mother was in a nursing home, making it infinitely easier to be patient during a visit, as opposed to the 24/7 experience that we live. That I live.

There you have it. The confessions of an internal screamer. Luckily, most days are not like this. Luckily, I have a supportive cadre of family and friends who are willing to listen to my rants. The best part is they just listen, for that is all I need at that moment. Luckily, there is God, who listens to my rants, continues to love me, helping me to re-center myself so I can take the step on my journey with Mom. I couldn’t do it without Him or the loving people He has placed in my life. You know who you are…thank you ever so much for your love, hugs and support.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Clickety Clack Goes the Train

Unlike the rest of us, who can logically work through a complex or even simple issue, Mom can not. From what I have read about Alzheimer’s, plaque forms around the neurons, preventing neuron A from “connecting” to neuron B. In more medical terms the synapse (space between adjoining neurons) is nonexistent. In short, the connection is broken. I liken this to a train track where the track suddenly comes to an end. The train reverses itself and travels back over the intact track. Once the train returns to the station, it travels forward again, stopping again where the track ends. In essence the train just keeps going back and forth over and over the same piece of track. This is Mom’s brain. It never reaches a logical conclusion, but it keeps chugging on and on. She ruminates over ideas for hours, perhaps days.

On this particular day, Mom is ruminating about homosexuality. This may have come about because I had recently gone to an evening of Gay Bingo in Philly. By the way, this is a fun evening that raises funds for those living with AIDS. Anyway, the train begins to chug along the track.

It is just the two of us in the kitchen, fixing dinner. She looks at me and asks, “How do you know if you are a homosexual?”. OK…..this one is for the book. It is a conversation I never imagined having with my 77 year old mother. Plus, she stretched out the word so it sounded like ho—mo—sex—ual. She never used the word Gay or any other word.

Me: “Well, homosexuals are people who are attracted to someone of the same sex.”
Mom: “A man likes a man and a woman likes a woman,”
“Yes, that’s it”, I reply, figuring that would be it. After all, we have had many discussions on Gay marriages, so I am still surprised by her question.

Here is where the train backs up, returns to the station and repeats the trip many times over.

“But,” Mom adds, “I have girlfriends who I love, does that mean I am a homosexual?”

“Mom,” my voice is stern, “Do you want to have intimate physical relations with any of them?”

Mom takes on the look of a stumped Edith Bunker, slowly replying with a “Nnnnoooo. But I am attracted to them. So when does a person know if they are a homosexual?”

“Do you get a feeling of ‘Ooooohhhh’ deep within when you think of your friends – like you do when you think of Dad?”

Mom pauses to think…”Nnnnoooo”.

“Well, Mom, my guess is that you are not homosexual. Given that you had five kids, you’re not a homosexual.”

A variation of this conversation repeats three more times. Clickety clack, clickety clack, the train keeps moving, never fully resting.

I don’t know if the issue ever resolves itself for Mom. What I do know, is that she is not critical of Gays. She is trying to sort through a lifestyle that she is not familiar with nor understands, but somewhere in her mind there is an awareness.

It is her tolerance of others, even those she doesn’t fully understand, that is one of Mom’s core truths. It is this value that made her an awesome teacher of her special ed students, who often fell outside the norm.

In spite of the slow erosion of her brain cells, the mom I have known and admired, continues to be true to her core self. Recognizing Mom in the midst of all her confusion is God’s gift to me and all of the family.

I know the clickety clack of the train will grow louder over time. I keep the hope that Mom’s core will remain for as long as possible. This is the hope of all who are walking along the tracks with their loved ones. We are not alone in our walk.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Capturing the Feathers

They say laughter is the best medicine…well yes and no. Humor allows us to see the humanity in a situation, if we are open to it. There are times when we are too low to see the humor and thus only see it as another affirmation of our sadden state.

Other times life’s absurdities just makes me giggle – yes, I do giggle.

My situation shifts across the poles of this continuum. Sometimes I am open to the humor and other times, when the dark clouds move in, I can’t see the humor at all. That is when I know I need to pray, vent to a friend and get back to a healthier mode.

Humor. It floats in like a feather wafting down, landing on your shoulder, just waiting to be noticed. You have to be careful, for like a feather that flies away with the tiniest of breezes, the comedic moment lasts but for a second. The trick is to capture it, place in it your memory and let it tickle your heart. Then whenever the clouds begin forming on the horizon, you can always pull it out for your spirit to float again, like the feather.

Ok, enough philosophical meandering. Two of the stories are about Mom and one is about Dad. This stuff cracks me up. I hope you get a laugh out of it.

I have written how Mom is starting to mix up words, coming close to the what she wants to say, but not quite. As an old history teacher use to say, “Right church, wrong pew”. Well now it is starting with food. Here are her two stories.

One night I wanted to go to the gym before I ate dinner, so it would be leftover night. I told them about the chicken and the rice that just needed reheating. There was salad and of course the ever present ice cream for dessert. “No problem,” they replied. When I returned home they were just cleaning up the dishes, putting away any leftovers and getting ready for dessert.

Mom tells Dad, “I’m throwing out this rice. It was really crunchy”. Hmmm…. I look over and see her dumping the rice into the sink. Here’s the thing, Mom had dumped the leftover, cooked rice into the frying pan and thought she was making fried rice. She didn’t add anything to it. Just cold rice in the pan and add heat. No wonder it was crunchy! To confirm my suspicions, I asked her if she had made Fried Rice. “Yes, but it is too hard and crunchy!”. There you go folks…if you are going to make fried rice you need to add oil, sauté onions, fry a couple of eggs and then add the rice and soy sauce. You can’t just throw it in the pan and switch on the burner. Mom just kept saying how crunchy it was. It makes me laugh, still.

Food faux pas #2
This is a rice vs. potato mix up. Adrienne made hash brown potatoes as a side dish for dinner. Mom kept calling it rice. Adrienne would correct her and tell her she was making hash browns. These were the shredded hash brown potatoes, so it kind of look like rice – if you really stretch your imagination, or if you have Alzheimer’s and you can’t remember squat. All through dinner Mom would comment that she thought the rice tasted funny. Guess so…it was hash brown potatoes. She threw the leftovers out, ‘cause the “rice” was bad.

Dad’s story….
Dad has a tough time in terms of flexibility, especially when using his right hand. He has arthritis in his shoulder, so he can’t reach down to his toes. It happens to most older folks and will probably happen to all of us.

It is around 10:30pm and Mom and I are watching TV. Dad walks in and asks Mom to get the wire cutters in the garage so she can cut his toe nails. I am actually stunned into silence. There is so much craziness in that one sentence that my brain was doing loop-de-loops trying to sort it out. I think my gears froze up.

For one thing, Mom has no clue what wire cutters look like, nor where to look in the vastness of the garage. Her role has been to do the traditional wife duties, which have never included the use of wire cutters.

Problem #2 with this scenario….cutting toe nails with a wire cutter!?!?! What is he smoking????

Problem #3: Dad has diabetes, which leaves him more prone to infections, especially in the toes. And he thinks wire cutters will cut only his nails and not knick/cut his skin.

I put an end to this little party and said we would make an appointment with a podiatrist for this task. Dad agreed to this. Mom like the idea more than Dad. I am still shaking my head about this one.

These are just recent stories. I will save another post to talk about Mom’s questions about homosexuality and how can you tell if you are homosexual. Trust me, I did not start this conversation, but clearly she had been giving it a great deal of thought.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Which Witch?

Mom’s depression has not improved. She perks up intermittently, but it is a small spurt followed by long intervals of depression. After writing the last blog, I looked up depression on the Alzheimer’s web site.

To be considered clinically depressed, the individual must have at least 2 of the symptoms listed. Mom has at least 3 of the symptoms. There is a list of antidepressants that are effective for Alzheimer’s patients. Mom’s antidepressant is not listed. Hmmm….could be why she isn’t improving.

You may remember that Mom calls her neurologist the “Witch Doctor”, because he was the first doctor that told her not to drive. And he limited her alcohol consumption to one glass of wine per day. Well she isn’t driving and now the alcohol limit is down to none. Yet, he is still the Witch Doctor.

I called his office and left a message describing Mom’s condition and her current, ineffective, medication. The nurse called back and stated that it is very important for her to be seen. So we are off to the Witch Doctor on Tuesday morning.

Dad told Mom that she needed to see Dr. C, she asked which doctor he was. Dad pointed to his head and said the “head doctor”. She just nodded and said “Oh”.

It will be interesting to see if Mom remembers who he is, once she sees him.

Should be fun…

Peace,

JaneEllen

Mom Is Depressed

It has been a tough couple of weeks. The upside is that Mom did not suffer any brain trauma, i.e. stroke, TIA or infarct. The downside is that the dizziness continues to plague her on an intermittent basis. But that is not the worse of it.

Mom is depressed. That is the short and simple version. The lengthier text is full of episodes where she doesn’t want to get out of bed, stating that she is tired. Mom doesn’t want to get dress, because in her words, “I’m just going back to bed and going to wrinkle my clothes”. The episodes stretch from morning till night, linking together to form the word d_e_p_r_e_s_s_i_o_n. The links encircle her world, making it difficult for any of us to enter her life.

It is hardest, by far on Dad. At times he completely denies she has Alzheimer’s – “But the doctor never said she has it” he states unconvincingly with apprehension written across his face. I reply as softly as I can because this dialog is a rerun performance that is aired once every six weeks. “You know Dad, Mom is on two meds prescribed and approved specifically for the treatment of Alzheimer’s. Just because the doctor doesn’t say the ‘A’ word, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have it. You take Advandia for diabetes and have it, even if the doctor never told you that you have diabetes. It is the same with Mom. He is treating her for Alzheimer’s, regardless of whether he has said it.” His heart is drained and he quickly changes the subject.

Now depression is on board and we go through a similar conversation. Again, my impatient/imperfect self is snippy. But I quickly take a step back and try to walk with him as he watches his life partner fade in front of him. This totally sucks.

Have you ever seen the commercial for Aricept, where the daughter talks about her mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Then her mother is on Aricept and the world is a little brighter. I want to scream at that commercial. Madison Avenue has made Alzheimer’s into this passive world of resignation where a little dose of the advertise med and all is on even keel. Not even close!

Back to the discussion at hand – depression. This past Monday, Mom said she was tired of feeling this way and was going to get out of bed earlier the next day and stay up. I know she meant that with all her heart in that moment. For when Tuesday dawned, Mom stayed in bed till her usual 11am. I traveled on Wednesday, so it was no different for Mom. On Thursday, as I was walking out of the bathroom, having just showered, Mom was back up stairs. I asked her if she was going to get dressed. No with the wrinkle clothes excuse. I decided to confront her with my concerns, thouogh confront is much harsher than what I said. Softly touching her shoulder, I told her I thought she was depressed and that maybe….getting dressed would help her feel better. She said, “Maybe after my nap”. Not letting up, I replied, “Good. Then you and Dad can play Yahtzee, later on.” “We’ll see” was her reply as she turned to go back to bed.

This saga continues for several blogs…..

Peace,

JaneEllen

You Never Know About Tomorrow….

You never know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe that is one of life’s lessons that I repeatedly learn living with Mom. Some days she is better and other days she is more foggy. The past couple of days have been worrisome, to say the least.

Last Friday I heard a very loud thump-thump coming from the front hall. Rushing upstairs from the basement we found Mom sitting on the floor. She said that she had been bending over to get her purse out of the closet, felt dizzy and fell backwards. She didn’t want to move at first, reporting that she had hit her head on the steps, scraped her arm and hurt hip. I made sure she could move everything before helping her to her feet. Other than being shook up a little, she seemed fine. That was Friday.

Throughout the weekend she became dizzy and didn’t want to get out of bed. She ate, albeit less than usual, but was not nauseous. The exception was when she would try to sit up, would become dizzy and then woozy after that. Consulting Betty, we both concluded that the dizziness could be from her sinuses, labrynthitis, which she had a couple of years ago, or just from laying down so much. Whatever the reason I, called the doc on Monday for an appointment.

I was off on a business trip Monday afternoon, so Mike and Allison, along with Dad took Mom to the doc. She was sick prior to leaving for the docs. The doc was concerned that she may be dehydrated, ordered a CT scan and off to the hospital they went.

It is now Tuesday evening and she is still there. Thankfully all of the tests, including an MRI of her head, have come back negative. The Dizziness is starting to abate, but still there to some degree. Her appetite is not that great, according to Betty. Then again, hospital food isn’t exactly fine cuisine.

What now???? After ruling out blocked carotids, infections, strokes and a myriad of other causes, Diagnosis B is the only possibility. Anyone who has dealt with this type of illness knows that TIA, Transient Ischemic Attack, is the fallback diagnosis.

As I stated earlier, none of us know what tomorrow will bring. Hopefully, Mom will be discharged tomorrow. I can’t imagine why not. I will be back home in the late afternoon, so I can help her at home. I have to believe that the household routine and familiarity will invaluable healing powers.

As for if or when the next TIA happens, well only God knows. I wonder if this is part of Alzheimer’s or some new twist. I don’t know. The weird thing is that I am not freaking out about the not knowing.. Surprisingly, I have not thought of a dozen contingency plans for all the “what ifs” that may happen.

Maybe I am just too tired to think past tomorrow. Between my own girls, my work (which has ramped up my travel and extra pressure) and caring for my parents, I can only focus on the here and now.

I am hoping that my prayers to God during my long drive on Monday, gave me the peace of mind I need to face all the tomorrows that lie ahead. I prayed that the Holy Spirit be with Mom so she would not be confused in the hospital. I asked God to guide the docs, giving them wisdom and patience. And I asked Him to walk with all of us, giving each of us whatever we need. I prayed for him to help Mom, knowing that whatever His will is, He will be with us, and me, through everything.

I don’t know what will happen. What I did learn is that my convictions about the power of prayer have grown stronger. Prayer sustains me. Prayer gives me peace. Prayer gives me strength. Prayer comforts me. Prayer allows be to live in the presence. Prayer lets me question everything without fear. Through prayer, I have a deep seated knowledge that I will not be alone. For it is not prayer that does all this, it is God that sustains me, guides me, gives me peace and grants me grace while loving me.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Shake It Off

I am not a sports person. I don’t play any sports, nor do I watch any sports on television. The exception to that is the Olympics. In watching individual athletes compete, I see them falter at the starting block, fall off the balance beam, foul on a crucial play. Each time they are told to “shake it off”. Well that is what I am learning to do – shake it off.

It is not that I am faltering or falling down or missing any crucial plays. I just get frustrated at living with Mom. I have no time for me. My down time, is exercising at the YMCA. And I hate exercising. My body revs up, endorphins pump through me, heart rate rises, breathing becomes heavy and my throat is parched. Yet, this is my personal time to let my mind wind down. This is the only time I can slow down all my thoughts as they bump into one another. My time for brain renewal. It is a juxtaposition of my body and my mind that leaves me somewhere between physically tired and emotionally numb. Neither result is satisfactory.

Somehow I have to learn how to “shake it off:”. Shake it off when Mom accuses me of rearranging all the dishes in the cupboard. Shake it off when I tell her I have to pick up one more item for dinner and then find her cooking something entirely different and yucky when I return home. Shake it off when Mom vehemently denies throwing my clothes in the dryer, knowing that my favorite pants will now look like flood pants and my shirts are now mid-drifts. Shake it off when I discover that she has driven the car to the liquor store to buy two bottles of wine. Shake it off when I tell her that she can not drive or drink alcohol and she spits back at me that she is now a prisoner in her own house. Shake it off when I feel like the warden.

I am not good at shaking it off. I haven’t had years of working with a personal trainer advising how to do this. There is no learning curve for this one. I have to acquire this skill, this stress reducing tactic, this new strategy, overnight. I am a quick study on many things, but this is not one of them.

I am good at exposing my feelings through writing. You, the reader, will have to suffer through my cathartic moments. This is when you get to see me, warts and all. I am not the loving daughter who patiently, saintly, deals with all that life throws at me. Hell no. Instead you get glimpses of my vulnerable self, who has pity-parties from time to time. This is my way of shaking it off. That and tears. One good thing about being Irish is that the tears flow easily.

Tears and prayers cleanse my spirit. I am no stranger to asking the Holy Spirit to walk with me on this journey, for I can not do it alone. Despite prayers, there are times when it still feels like a lonely stroll.

Tomorrow is a doc appointment. I am dreading it because it will be one more confrontation when Mom will be told unequivocally that she can not drive and can not drink. It is a tearing off of the bandage, one more time. I hate it. So I have prayed for God to send a legion of angels to soften the blow that Mom will feel. Oh Lord, give me the patience and the right words to help her get through tomorrow.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Sparkling Crystal

I have been traveling all week. As always my mind drifts back to 1019, wondering how Mom and Dad are faring without me. Wow, that sounds like they are totally lost without my guiding hand. Or maybe it is a controlling hand. Or maybe it is a caring heart that is all too familiar with the daily pitfalls, hiding in the corners of their routine. I best knock myself off the saint-pedestal before I ask for Papal sanctification.

On Tuesday, my girls were treated to dinner at their favorite restaurant. The pitfalls that lie in wait of every restaurant outing is alcohol. I have never spoke of Mom’s taste for wine. At home, she starts with one glass and then continues to pour ½ a glass of wine until it is all gone. At a restaurant she continually orders one glass after another. Dad, on the other hand, has a penchant for martini’s when dining out. He finally, finally, finally realized that it is all alcohol and at his age, combined with his zillion meds, he can no longer handle an 8 ounce glass of pure alcohol. So he switched to gin and tonics. He stops at one and then switches to wine.

Grandparents and granddaughters were off to a night of who knows what. I sat in my hotel room Tuesday evening, watching the clock, wondering how it was going. It is very difficult for my girls to limit my folks. They love their mémère and pépère, but don’t feel comfortable taking the glasses out of their hands. I don’t expect them to be the alcohol-police.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I texted Adrienne and asked how everything was going. She called ten minutes later to tell me that it was a great dinner. Yea! Thank you God! Mom had only a half glass of wine. Dad didn’t even finish is g&t and took only a few sips of his wine. Adrienne said they chatted about Emily’s upcoming trip to Europe, Adrienne’s school activities with Dad, of course, filling in the gaps with stories.

I am so thrilled that they had a great time. I am so proud of my girls. And I am happy that Mom and Dad had a chance to make a special memory with their beloved granddaughters. They have eight other grandchildren, who are all loved. But since I am writing this piece, I can claim my girls as their beloveds.

Through the daily confusion and repetitive questions, this memory is a piece of fine cut crystal, sparkling so brightly, it illuminates the dark moments.

Peace,

JaneEllen

Mixing It Up

Mom is beginning to get a her words mixed up. For awhile she would forget names of grandkids and other people. We all do that from time to time, but self-correct. The difference is that Mom doesn’t know the difference.

Recently, I went to the doc’s with Mom and Dad. I dropped them off and went run a quick errand. They both were there for basic monitoring. By the time I was ushered back to the exam room, the doc was asking Mom how she was doing. Mom gave the usual answer, “Fine”. He looked right at me and asked how things were going. I hate that! I felt like I was betraying her, I was being disloyal. My head knew I had to report accurately, but my heart hated doing it with her right there. It sucked!

I reported that her memory was not better and that she was having difficulty with organization and complex thinking. Mom just sat there with a blank stare on her face. I don’t even know if she understood what I was saying. Anyway, she was put on additional memory medicine, Nemenda. That just means that she is entering into another phase of Alzheimer’s. As if I didn’t know that already.

As I said in the beginning, she is now mixing up her words. One evening I was cooking dinner (Isn’t this ironic – I hate to cook and here I am cooking most nights – what is God thinking??? He must have a twisted sense of humor and getting a laugh out of this one; I guess I will have to ask Him that one over a cup of hot chocolate when we meet – sorry I digress).

Back to dinner….spinach was cooking on the stove. Mom takes a peek and says, “Oh the lettuce is cooking”. Another time she was looking for her ceramic bunny for our Easter basket in the front hall. I suggested that she look in the secretary. She looked in the dining room corner hutch. This scene repeated itself the next night. I wanted to see if she knew where to look. She went right to the hutch, again. I suggested she look in the secretary in the living room. Then she found the bunny. The other night I was thawing chicken in the microwave. Each time Mom went to check on the thawing, she would look in the oven, even though I said it was in the microwave. I would then redirect her to the microwave. What is weird is that she doesn’t seem to react to the redirecting. She just says, “Oh yea”. Maybe this is the silver lining. Mom doesn’t know that she is slipping down the slope a little bit at a time. Then again, I don’t know if somewhere in all of the tangled fibers of her brain, she knows she is slipping, but can’t articulate it. I pray for the former; the latter is more painful for her. And for me.

As for the new med, I figure the meds are really for the family of the one with Alzheimer’s. It helps the family feel like they are doing something to combat this disease. Not even close.

We just keep moving through our days. I am learning to truly appreciate her moments of clarity. And I pray for patience when those moments evaporate like sunbeams slicing through the morning mist.

Peace,

JaneEllen

My Twisted Humor

Whenever I am travelling and sitting up late at night in my hotel room, my thoughts drift back to home. First, my heart first is pulled in the direction of my girls. Oh how lucky I am. They are my jewels and I am blessed to have them in my life. They are my light.

Then I wonder how my parents are doing. I live with them to help them navigate through the daily activities that they use to traverse with ease. Now the smallest bend in the road can easily throw them off course. Between Mom’s memory loss and Dad’s failing eyesight, life has become a challenge. I worry about them.

There are days when you just have to laugh. Other times the internal scream goes off in my head, because Mom has asked me for the umpteenth time if I ate lunch. It is the light moments that keep my going, even those with fringed with sad reality.

Last week we got about ten inches of snow. Despite the weather, Mom had an appointment with her ear doctor. Her ears were blocked and she couldn’t hear without us shouting to her. She had to go that day or wait till the following week to see the doc. On our way, she asks me when my vacation was over. Huh???? I told her I wasn’t on vacation. She said, “Well you are always home”. I replied that I work from home (I have worked from since 2002) and that I work at my desk in the office. “Oh, did that start already?”. The way she said it made me chuckle. And it made my heart sink, a little. I know this is the course of this ugly disease, but at times it just smacks me in the head. Still, with time, it is funny – in a twisted humorous way.

I go home tomorrow and don’t know what I will find. The house will be there, but the TV won’t be “working” because neither one of them can figure out how to use the TV/cable combination. The dog will have peed on the living room rug, because they don’t walk the dog when he whines to go out and Mom forgets to close the kitchen gate. And who knows what else. Despite all of this, I miss them. They won’t always be there, so at the end of the day, I am lucky to still have them with me.

Maybe that is why God gave me the ability to see the twisted humor in this journey. It is my built-in defense against the insanity that could set in, if I let it.


JaneEllen

Ramblings or Ravings of a Daughter - You Decide

I haven’t written anything in a while for several reasons: too busy – holidays and all that, work/travel, setting up my own clinical practice, getting my house ready to sell – Mike has been doing the lion’s share of that, for which I am forever in his debt and forever guilty.

Now for the real reason for this lack of writing – I just wasn’t putting myself into it. I was playing it safe by just documenting observations and lightly touching on what is going on behind the scenes – i.e. my heart ramblings. I have been told that my writing is compelling. Well this has certainly not hit that mark, up to now.

My defense wall has been up and it is fairly thick. Trying to look at myself more truthfully is tough. Exposing myself to the nether world of internet blogging scares the shit out of me.

Oh yea, I have a tendency to let curse words fly out of my mouth, brain, fingers, etc…. so beware. I don’t do it for shock value or to offend anyone. I just express myself in colorful ways, at times. I will try to hold back on the f-bomb, as I know that really is offensive for some folks. Personally, I find that word covers so many grammatical functions, that I have a hard time not letting loose with it whenever it pops into my head. Luckily for me, I have a strong f-bomb filter in place, so you will be spared – I hope.

Back to the defenses…

My silence has allowed me to distance myself from this blog. I look at this blog as a testimonial to Mom and life with her. I need to amend this to: testimonial of Mom and Dad. After 50+ years of marriage, it is difficult to separate one from the other. While they are not co-dependant, they certainly are intertwined with each other.

As for me…there are times when I just want to scream at them. Why can’t they figure stuff out for themselves?!?!? They use to do this. Now they just go along without really thinking through anything.

For instance, a week or so ago, I went into the backroom and couldn’t believe how cold it was. I commented and Dad said he noticed it was cold, but then again it was cold outside. This is illogical, since there is a wall unit heater that heats the room regardless of the exterior temperature. I look at the thermostat and it reads 65 degrees. What!!! I walk over to the heater and cold air is blowing out of it. Dad sits right next to it. Couldn’t he feel the cold air blowing on him???? I comment that the heater must be broken and we need to call the repairman. Mom volunteers to do this. I know, she usually gets mixed up, but it is the middle of the day and I need to get back to work. She calls and leaves a message. I know this only because I found a note that she wrote stating that she left a voicemail at 3:25pm. According to Dad, he thinks the repairman is coming at 2:30, but not sure what day. Crap! Of course I found the note at 10pm that evening – and found it accidently, too. I call the service the next morning, which is a Saturday to discover that they are only open Mon-Fri. I spend the next half hour tracking down someone who will come out first thing Mon morning. Here’s the thing: I am leaving that day to head down to Lynn’s for the Inauguration. Em and I won’t be back till Tues evening. I am trying to get the heater fixed before I come back.

And just for grins and giggles, the main TV is in the backroom, which is now functioning as a walk-in freezer. This means that Mom and Dad will watch TV in the basement or in their bedroom. Simple – right? Not quite. Due to the cable box configuration, they forget how to turn the TV on. They either turn off the cable box or the TV or switch the TV channel to one that doesn’t receive the cable signal. All of which means they get frustrated and can’t watch TV. Mike programmed the cable remote in the back room to make it easier for them, but they still get confused. The other TVs have not been programmed. It is a recipe for disaster, resulting in Dad claiming he is going to throw the remote through the TV and Mom stating that they need a new TV ‘cause the current one is always broken.

Are you following any of this? It is like a maze without a prize at the end. In fact, there is no end! It just keeps going. I guess a better metaphor is that life with them is like a pulling a loose thread on a sweater, only to realize that thread is connected to the entire sweater, which is now unraveling inch by inch. Holy Shit!

So my defenses are in place –or so I tell myself. But the truth is that this shit gets to me. I vacillate between wanting to yell at them, to trying to be patient and praying all the time. And then I feel guilty for not understanding that they are who they are – no more, no less. Well that just stinks! Getting old stinks. For those on the 95-year plan, you can have it. I have seen old age up close and personal and it sucks. You can’t remember anything. The pleasures you use to have are beyond your comprehension. In fact, everything is mostly beyond comprehension. You repeat actions/words/thoughts over and over till you can’t find your way out of your own thought process.

I do try to look at this from a different perspective. One where expectations are lowered. A world where simple pleasures give joy. A life where discussing the issues of the day don’t go much beyond the surface level. There are days when I can get into this slowed-down groove and share their space with them. Ok, let’s make that moments. For if I spent a day functioning at their level, I would never get anything done. I need to learn to leave my level behind and walk with them at their pace. This is not easy for me. I have a million things going on at once and usually can juggle everything. When I have to lay all that aside to sit with them, it is difficult for me.

There are times when this happens and I enjoy their company. I am thankful for the chance to spend time with them. I am their daughter, for that space of time. I am not their caregiver, shopper, chauffer, cook, organizer, medical consultant, advisor, etc… I relish the times when I drop all those roles off at the door and simply exist with them. It doesn’t’ happen often enough.

I have lost that part of me that could slip into daughter mode like slipping into a cool lake on a hot summer day, allowing the waters to flow over my weary body. I don’t get to do that anymore. It saddens me that I am too busy taking care of everything/everyone else that I have lost the role of the daughter. I have to fight the tears back, even as I write this. Shit! See what I mean about letting defenses down???? Once there is a crack in the wall, the floodwaters of emotions can’t be held back. Well that stinks.

I have rambled enough for now. I will try to be more open with what is really going on and not just the factual façade of observations and dry commentary of the past blogs.

JaneEllen