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