I remember, after my brother died in 1990, everyone told me, “You’ve been taking care of everyone else. Now take care of yourself.” I had no idea what that meant.
A well meaning friend gave me a certificate for a free manicure. As I sat there with wet nails, tears streaming down my face, unable to wipe my dripping nose, I thought, “This ain’t it.”
I consulted a pastoral counselor who advised, “Taking care of yourself is about doing something you love.” At the time, I had given up all hobbies to work full time and care for my husband and kids. A respite for me was an hour at the grocery store all by myself.
But this weekend, Mom’s memorial service behind me, I decided to take care of me. So I got out my paints and a bunch of 4x6-inch watercolor cards and painted my heart out. As I painted, I thought about Momma and Poppa. I thought about the cruelty of Mom’s cancer and Dad’s dementia. But I also thought about happy memories. I painted abstract shapes and patterns, layering colors and shapes until I had something interesting. Hmmmm….interesting to the painter, but….
After a good night’s sleep, I looked for subjects in the abstract paintings. Two emerged. One painting shows Momma running in the rain with hair straight as a board. It’s called, “It had no sense of curl,” quoting my father’s explanation of Mom’s nickname, Curly.
The second shows Momma with a bird on her head. It’s tentatively titled, “Kill it, clean it, cook it,” a reminder of what may be a misremembered story from Mom’s childhood. So far, I’m the only one who recalls it.
I still have at least a month of tense moments ahead, including the tasks of moving Dad and closing the apartment. I also have new ideas for more therapeutic paintings.
Sue
Monday, July 30, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
No sense of curl
We held a memorial service for Momma on Friday in the dining/living room of the skilled nursing unit where she spent the last two months of her life. It was a time filled with love, memories, and the assurance of God’s grace. Friends, family, and nursing staff packed the small room.
Led by the chaplain from our hospice company, who had prayed with Momma and the family on several occasions in the last few weeks, the service was sweet and simple. I hope Mom liked it. Since I couldn’t find a pianist, we played music from my own church choir on CD, and, at the end, we sang Amazing Grace a cappella with Sis and me trying to keep everyone on key.
There was a time for remembrances during which Sis and I spoke about Momma. Though we had not compared notes ahead of time, our talks were complementary, not repetitive. Between the two of us, I think we painted a wonderful picture of our wonderful mother – beautiful, funny, kind, sweet, sarcastic, organized, perfectionist, loving, caring, entertaining, and a great cook!
My father’s Parkinsons disease has limited his ability to speak above a whisper and to find the words he needs to express himself. We did not encourage him to even attempt to talk at the service. However, when he and the rest of us met with the chaplain several days before the service, he shared a story about how Momma came to be nicknamed “Curly.”
“It was on our first date,” Dad explains. Long pause…we all wait patiently… “It was raining,” he continues. Long pause…we’re becoming impatient…
“Did her hair get frizzy?” one of us suggests.
“Or did it fall flat?” another of us prompts.
Another long pause as Dad searches for just the right words. Finally, he explains, “It had no sense of curl.”
Sue
Led by the chaplain from our hospice company, who had prayed with Momma and the family on several occasions in the last few weeks, the service was sweet and simple. I hope Mom liked it. Since I couldn’t find a pianist, we played music from my own church choir on CD, and, at the end, we sang Amazing Grace a cappella with Sis and me trying to keep everyone on key.
There was a time for remembrances during which Sis and I spoke about Momma. Though we had not compared notes ahead of time, our talks were complementary, not repetitive. Between the two of us, I think we painted a wonderful picture of our wonderful mother – beautiful, funny, kind, sweet, sarcastic, organized, perfectionist, loving, caring, entertaining, and a great cook!
My father’s Parkinsons disease has limited his ability to speak above a whisper and to find the words he needs to express himself. We did not encourage him to even attempt to talk at the service. However, when he and the rest of us met with the chaplain several days before the service, he shared a story about how Momma came to be nicknamed “Curly.”
“It was on our first date,” Dad explains. Long pause…we all wait patiently… “It was raining,” he continues. Long pause…we’re becoming impatient…
“Did her hair get frizzy?” one of us suggests.
“Or did it fall flat?” another of us prompts.
Another long pause as Dad searches for just the right words. Finally, he explains, “It had no sense of curl.”
Sue
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Family Ties
Some years back, when my husband and I became interested in genealogy and began tracing our family histories, I was amazed at how little my parents knew about their own families. They couldn’t remember names of aunts or uncles. They knew little about their grandparents. And, there were certain “black sheep” about whom they knew next to nothing.
Now, here I am, writing my mother’s obituary, and without my genealogy notes, I have trouble recalling my grandparents’ real names! Is it my aging brain or aging-brain-under- extraordinary-stress that causes such a lapse? Whatever it is, it helps explain why family history research can be so frustrating. A stressed out daughter gets a name wrong in the obituary and future generations wonder whether their ancestor was married twice, or if that wife was really named Millie, Mildred, or Millicent.
I regret that my extended family has become so disconnected over the years. I’ve lost touch with cousins I was close to growing up. My mother had even lost touch with her brother and didn’t find out about his death until some months afterward. I made the effort, before Momma died, to tap into her cousin network. Though they were sorry to hear about Mom’s condition, they were delighted to reconnect with us, to pray with us, and to spread the news to other cousins. From these connections I learned about other cousins who had died as well as new cousins (grandbabies) born.
I won’t be disconnected again, I promise myself. I’ll update my address book and at least send Christmas letters to the cousins, I vow. And before I lose my mind completely, I’ll update my family history files so that my kids and grandkids can find our cousins for important family announcements, including my own passing.
And perhaps while I’m still healthy, active, and mobile, I’ll organize a grand reunion to get reacquainted with the cousins. It seems such a shame to let those old relationships simply die of neglect.
Sue
Now, here I am, writing my mother’s obituary, and without my genealogy notes, I have trouble recalling my grandparents’ real names! Is it my aging brain or aging-brain-under- extraordinary-stress that causes such a lapse? Whatever it is, it helps explain why family history research can be so frustrating. A stressed out daughter gets a name wrong in the obituary and future generations wonder whether their ancestor was married twice, or if that wife was really named Millie, Mildred, or Millicent.
I regret that my extended family has become so disconnected over the years. I’ve lost touch with cousins I was close to growing up. My mother had even lost touch with her brother and didn’t find out about his death until some months afterward. I made the effort, before Momma died, to tap into her cousin network. Though they were sorry to hear about Mom’s condition, they were delighted to reconnect with us, to pray with us, and to spread the news to other cousins. From these connections I learned about other cousins who had died as well as new cousins (grandbabies) born.
I won’t be disconnected again, I promise myself. I’ll update my address book and at least send Christmas letters to the cousins, I vow. And before I lose my mind completely, I’ll update my family history files so that my kids and grandkids can find our cousins for important family announcements, including my own passing.
And perhaps while I’m still healthy, active, and mobile, I’ll organize a grand reunion to get reacquainted with the cousins. It seems such a shame to let those old relationships simply die of neglect.
Sue
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
De-stressing
Unlike some people whose bodies immediately register stress in the form of specific aches and pains, I’m usually oblivious to the ravages of stress on my mind and body. This is not a good thing. Symptoms like pain I can deal with, but the stress lurking below physical thresholds and consciousness is sort of like passive-aggressive behaviour; you think you’re safe and then it bites you.
On the other hand, with all we’ve been going through in the last several weeks, leading up to Mom’s death, how could I not be stressed? And last week, I didn’t even have time for my Curves workout. So today, I employed a pre-emptive strategy to deal with the stress that I know must be ready to attack. I went to Curves, worked extra hard, and then stretch for a luxurious amount of time.
I’ve learned how to give myself a back massage: Laying on my back with knees bent and feet flat on the floor, I raise your butt and then my back so that my weight is on my shoulders and feet. Then I rotate my shoulders and arms forward and backward to work out the kinks in my upper back. Exquisite agony! Then I roll down my spine until my back is again flat on the floor. Do this a few times and you’ll feel almost like you’ve had a massage.
Then, after picking up Mom’s ashes at the funeral home, I parked the car in a nearby village and explored the local art shops and galleries. Although I saw nothing very inspiring on this jaunt, just walking around and not feeling rushed was relaxing.
Finally, I took myself to lunch – soup and salad at our favorite diner – and lingered over my iced tea listening to oldies from the ‘50s and ‘60s in the background.
It wasn’t the spa vacation I really need, but, hey, it’s a start.
Sue
On the other hand, with all we’ve been going through in the last several weeks, leading up to Mom’s death, how could I not be stressed? And last week, I didn’t even have time for my Curves workout. So today, I employed a pre-emptive strategy to deal with the stress that I know must be ready to attack. I went to Curves, worked extra hard, and then stretch for a luxurious amount of time.
I’ve learned how to give myself a back massage: Laying on my back with knees bent and feet flat on the floor, I raise your butt and then my back so that my weight is on my shoulders and feet. Then I rotate my shoulders and arms forward and backward to work out the kinks in my upper back. Exquisite agony! Then I roll down my spine until my back is again flat on the floor. Do this a few times and you’ll feel almost like you’ve had a massage.
Then, after picking up Mom’s ashes at the funeral home, I parked the car in a nearby village and explored the local art shops and galleries. Although I saw nothing very inspiring on this jaunt, just walking around and not feeling rushed was relaxing.
Finally, I took myself to lunch – soup and salad at our favorite diner – and lingered over my iced tea listening to oldies from the ‘50s and ‘60s in the background.
It wasn’t the spa vacation I really need, but, hey, it’s a start.
Sue
Monday, July 23, 2007
Momma and the birds
I don’t think I really believe in reincarnation. However, I do believe in the interconnectedness of the universe. Therefore, it’s not too much of a stretch for me to see signs of Momma all around me – in the bird flying by during my morning prayer, in the pigeon cooing outside the sun porch.
There was a special place in Mom’s heart for birds. She collected little birds and ducks. She loved watching humming birds in the garden and the ducks on the pond. She delighted in the birth of the baby ducks and their nurture by the momma duck.
Thinking about Momma and the birds reminded me of an old story she once told me. She and her cousins once caught pigeons in their aunt’s attic, killed and cleaned them, and then roasted them. Now, this may strike some as a horror worthy of PETA’s attention. However, in the context of country life and raising chickens, Mom and her cousins were simply doing what they had seen their parents do over and over again.
As Mom is reunited with the souls of those cousins, aunts, parents, and, I would imagine, the pigeons, I hope there are no hard feelings.
Sue
There was a special place in Mom’s heart for birds. She collected little birds and ducks. She loved watching humming birds in the garden and the ducks on the pond. She delighted in the birth of the baby ducks and their nurture by the momma duck.
Thinking about Momma and the birds reminded me of an old story she once told me. She and her cousins once caught pigeons in their aunt’s attic, killed and cleaned them, and then roasted them. Now, this may strike some as a horror worthy of PETA’s attention. However, in the context of country life and raising chickens, Mom and her cousins were simply doing what they had seen their parents do over and over again.
As Mom is reunited with the souls of those cousins, aunts, parents, and, I would imagine, the pigeons, I hope there are no hard feelings.
Sue
Compassion capacity
It has seemed throughout this long, five-month ordeal of my mother’s illness and caring for my father that my physical limits (just plain tiredness) limited my capacity for compassion as well. I’d find myself getting impatient, even angry, with Dad when his slowness, due to the Parkinsons, kept us from spending time with Mom. My daily prayer was for an extra dose of patience and compassion.
Now that Mom has passed, my patience and compassion for Dad are back to adequate levels. I can give him extra time for naps, bathing, eating, and other activities without feeling torn apart by the need to spend time with Mom. Dad is so vulnerable right now, having lost his wife of 61 years, his caregiver, the one he trusted to take care of his banking and bill paying (though Mom was barely capable of doing that before her illness). His dementia may protect him, in a sense, from the devastation of the loss, but I can already see physical signs of stress.
As we gathered around Mom’s bed on Friday evening, just after we watched her last breath, Dad turned to me and asked, “What’s my first name?”
Sue
Now that Mom has passed, my patience and compassion for Dad are back to adequate levels. I can give him extra time for naps, bathing, eating, and other activities without feeling torn apart by the need to spend time with Mom. Dad is so vulnerable right now, having lost his wife of 61 years, his caregiver, the one he trusted to take care of his banking and bill paying (though Mom was barely capable of doing that before her illness). His dementia may protect him, in a sense, from the devastation of the loss, but I can already see physical signs of stress.
As we gathered around Mom’s bed on Friday evening, just after we watched her last breath, Dad turned to me and asked, “What’s my first name?”
Sue
Saturday, July 21, 2007
End of the vigil
After our three-day vigil, Mom finally stopped breathing on Friday evening at 7:11 p.m. We were all there, placing carryout orders for dinner, when Sis’s partner said something like, “This is it…gather around.”
We made sure Dad was standing by the bed. All the rest of us, including my older son and his fiancé, were there, too. Mom’s chest, which had been heaving with the effort to breathe, became still. Moments like that should be silent, reverent. But I’ll always remember the sound of rushing water – the toilet that wouldn’t stop running in the adjacent bathroom. Sis noted that Mom had always loved the ocean; maybe this ocean-like sound effect was especially for her.
I had made prior arrangements with a local funeral home for Mom’s cremation. The on-call hospice nurse was to come and prepare the death certificate, then call the funeral home representative, who, I was told, could be there in 10-15 minutes. However, due to traffic, the whole process, took about three hours. Finally, we said our last good-byes to Mom, draped in red velvet. Mom’s face was relaxed; death had removed all wrinkles and worry lines. I had always thought that was a trick performed by funeral directors.
At about 11 p.m., we all arrived at the nearby all-night diner, where we nourished our bodies and souls. There were many laughs over family memories and other stories, all part of the grieving and healing process.
When I finally got to bed at about 12:30 a.m., I thanked God for the blessings of family; for the many caring people who surrounded us all day; for Mom’s life and her care for all of us; for music and laughter in the midst of sadness; and, most of all, for the hope and assurance of life eternal.
Sue
We made sure Dad was standing by the bed. All the rest of us, including my older son and his fiancé, were there, too. Mom’s chest, which had been heaving with the effort to breathe, became still. Moments like that should be silent, reverent. But I’ll always remember the sound of rushing water – the toilet that wouldn’t stop running in the adjacent bathroom. Sis noted that Mom had always loved the ocean; maybe this ocean-like sound effect was especially for her.
I had made prior arrangements with a local funeral home for Mom’s cremation. The on-call hospice nurse was to come and prepare the death certificate, then call the funeral home representative, who, I was told, could be there in 10-15 minutes. However, due to traffic, the whole process, took about three hours. Finally, we said our last good-byes to Mom, draped in red velvet. Mom’s face was relaxed; death had removed all wrinkles and worry lines. I had always thought that was a trick performed by funeral directors.
At about 11 p.m., we all arrived at the nearby all-night diner, where we nourished our bodies and souls. There were many laughs over family memories and other stories, all part of the grieving and healing process.
When I finally got to bed at about 12:30 a.m., I thanked God for the blessings of family; for the many caring people who surrounded us all day; for Mom’s life and her care for all of us; for music and laughter in the midst of sadness; and, most of all, for the hope and assurance of life eternal.
Sue
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Powerful spirit
This is the first time I’ve been this close to someone who is about to die. I’ve wondered if and how I would know when Momma’s spirit makes the transition. If I were sitting and watching, I’d surely know; I’d see her breathing stop.
Perhaps there would be other signs. Like a few days ago, when Sis and her partner were in Mom’s room and the TV turned on every time Mom tried to speak. The first time it happened, they turned the TV off, but then Mom spoke again, and the TV turned back on. Both times it was not on a channel, just gray fuzz.
The next day when I was with Mom, she raised her arms toward the TV on the wall and tried to sit up. She said, “I’ve got to go up there.” I said, “Don’t worry, Mom. You’ll be going up there soon.” But it was only later that I connected “up there” with the TV and the gray fuzz.
At this moment I’m in Dad’s apartment in the building next to Mom’s nursing center. It’s about 1:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I got up to empty my bladder, and when I went back to bed, I had a pain in my back, between my shoulder blades, so intense I thought I was having a heart attack.
I don’t really believe it’s a heart attack. But I won’t be surprised to soon hear that Momma has passed. I can believe that she’s grabbing me, holding on for dear life, as her own heart races and then stops. Sis and her partner are with Mom, to assure her that it’s OK to go when it’s time. I’d be there, too, but I’m afraid to leave Dad alone. Perhaps I’m imagining all of this, but when I listen to him breathing, I’m hearing an unusual restlessness, some undecipherable talking in his sleep, and I wonder if Mom is grabbing at him, too.
Sue
Perhaps there would be other signs. Like a few days ago, when Sis and her partner were in Mom’s room and the TV turned on every time Mom tried to speak. The first time it happened, they turned the TV off, but then Mom spoke again, and the TV turned back on. Both times it was not on a channel, just gray fuzz.
The next day when I was with Mom, she raised her arms toward the TV on the wall and tried to sit up. She said, “I’ve got to go up there.” I said, “Don’t worry, Mom. You’ll be going up there soon.” But it was only later that I connected “up there” with the TV and the gray fuzz.
At this moment I’m in Dad’s apartment in the building next to Mom’s nursing center. It’s about 1:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I got up to empty my bladder, and when I went back to bed, I had a pain in my back, between my shoulder blades, so intense I thought I was having a heart attack.
I don’t really believe it’s a heart attack. But I won’t be surprised to soon hear that Momma has passed. I can believe that she’s grabbing me, holding on for dear life, as her own heart races and then stops. Sis and her partner are with Mom, to assure her that it’s OK to go when it’s time. I’d be there, too, but I’m afraid to leave Dad alone. Perhaps I’m imagining all of this, but when I listen to him breathing, I’m hearing an unusual restlessness, some undecipherable talking in his sleep, and I wonder if Mom is grabbing at him, too.
Sue
"I'm pulling for her"
People ask me every day, “How much does your father understand about your mother’s condition?” Then, they’ll say something like, “He’s going to be lost without her.”
Truth is, it’s hard to know how much he understands. He sees what we see. He hears most of what we hear, including the very open discussion with the palliative care team, in which we were told, “three to eight weeks.” That was three weeks ago.”
Last night as we stopped by Mom’s room after dinner to say goodnight, she was sleeping peacefully. Dad asked quietly, “Is she deceased yet?” I said, “No, Dad, can’t you see her breathing?”
“Well, I’m pulling for her,” he said firmly.
He’s pulling for her to get well and the rest of us are praying that she’ll pass quickly and without pain. We’re pulling for her, too, but I don’t think Dad would agree that we’re pulling in the same direction.
After Mom dies, Dad’s life will be very different and I have no idea how to prepare him for that. We just have to take one day at a time and treat him gently.
Sue
Truth is, it’s hard to know how much he understands. He sees what we see. He hears most of what we hear, including the very open discussion with the palliative care team, in which we were told, “three to eight weeks.” That was three weeks ago.”
Last night as we stopped by Mom’s room after dinner to say goodnight, she was sleeping peacefully. Dad asked quietly, “Is she deceased yet?” I said, “No, Dad, can’t you see her breathing?”
“Well, I’m pulling for her,” he said firmly.
He’s pulling for her to get well and the rest of us are praying that she’ll pass quickly and without pain. We’re pulling for her, too, but I don’t think Dad would agree that we’re pulling in the same direction.
After Mom dies, Dad’s life will be very different and I have no idea how to prepare him for that. We just have to take one day at a time and treat him gently.
Sue
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Smiley Face
If I had a gun right now,
I’d shoot the smiley face balloon
Bobbing over my mother’s bed.
With a grotesque grin it watches
Puffy, shallow breaths proving
Life still beats in a chest
Riddled with veins feeding the
Demon cells marching relentlessly
Toward their own demise.
Mother will soon be grinning, too,
The last laugh as she flies away
Leaving death behind.
Sue
I’d shoot the smiley face balloon
Bobbing over my mother’s bed.
With a grotesque grin it watches
Puffy, shallow breaths proving
Life still beats in a chest
Riddled with veins feeding the
Demon cells marching relentlessly
Toward their own demise.
Mother will soon be grinning, too,
The last laugh as she flies away
Leaving death behind.
Sue
Saturday, July 14, 2007
A foot in each world
A hospice agency gave us a little booklet on what to expect as Mom nears death. It’s been extremely helpful to recognize and accept her lessening appetite and her varying states of consciousness and drowsiness (mostly the latter).
The booklet says that the person is going back and forth between life and death in a sense, already seeing people she hasn’t seen for a long time, and recalling things from the past. Mom also talks to herself but we have a hard time hearing the words, let alone understanding them.
Yesterday, she told me clearly that a woman came to see her, and I asked her who it was. She couldn’t tell me but said, “We’ll have to find out.” I wanted to ask, “Was it your mother? Was it your best friend, MJ?” I can’t help but wonder what her reunion with those and other dear long-passed people will be like.
Sue
The booklet says that the person is going back and forth between life and death in a sense, already seeing people she hasn’t seen for a long time, and recalling things from the past. Mom also talks to herself but we have a hard time hearing the words, let alone understanding them.
Yesterday, she told me clearly that a woman came to see her, and I asked her who it was. She couldn’t tell me but said, “We’ll have to find out.” I wanted to ask, “Was it your mother? Was it your best friend, MJ?” I can’t help but wonder what her reunion with those and other dear long-passed people will be like.
Sue
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Shift the pain
If you’ve ever watched someone die of cancer you know that it’s a horrible way to go. Sometimes I wonder if it would be any different if Mom’s cancer were in some unseen internal organ, rather than hanging around her neck like a gigantic goiter on a tree trunk.
Thanks to pain medications, Mom doesn’t have to feel the relentless march of the cancer around her neck, her carotid, and into her lungs. With increased pain meds this week, she’s living in a zombie-like state, waking and smiling when someone speaks to her, then dozing off again, perhaps after a nonsensical effort to talk. When meals are served, she’ll eat a few bites with help, but quickly loses interest.
This morning when I first went to her room, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” What could I say?
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, and dozed off.
My sister, who has been hospitalized all week, first with gallbladder surgery, then pneumonia, saw Mom today for the first time in a week. Though I’ve been keeping her informed of Mom’s decline, she still was not prepared.
I’ve found myself wondering if they’re giving Mom too much pain medication. Would she be a bit more awake and communicative with less medication? Then I realized how selfish I am to want Mom to be able to keep her eyes open and speak to us. The pain is now ours. She deserves a rest.
Sue
Thanks to pain medications, Mom doesn’t have to feel the relentless march of the cancer around her neck, her carotid, and into her lungs. With increased pain meds this week, she’s living in a zombie-like state, waking and smiling when someone speaks to her, then dozing off again, perhaps after a nonsensical effort to talk. When meals are served, she’ll eat a few bites with help, but quickly loses interest.
This morning when I first went to her room, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” What could I say?
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, and dozed off.
My sister, who has been hospitalized all week, first with gallbladder surgery, then pneumonia, saw Mom today for the first time in a week. Though I’ve been keeping her informed of Mom’s decline, she still was not prepared.
I’ve found myself wondering if they’re giving Mom too much pain medication. Would she be a bit more awake and communicative with less medication? Then I realized how selfish I am to want Mom to be able to keep her eyes open and speak to us. The pain is now ours. She deserves a rest.
Sue
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Charm and Sex Appeal
I read my horoscope in the newspaper every day. I’m amused when there is some congruence with the reality of my life. But I’m even more amused at the incongruities.
Take the last few days, for example. On Saturday, horoscope writer Jeraldine Saunders told me, “Your need to indulge in sensual animal pleasures and expensive playthings can be a focus point but might be a point of contention, too.”
Somehow sensual animal pleasures and expensive playthings don’t seem to fit my current lifestyle, living, as I am, among nursing home patients and others with dementia. My husband who is far away and slaves away to support me should be relieved.
Then, today, Jeraldine told me, “Charm and sex appeal are your calling cards today, and you may even be a bit embarrassed by the stir you create. Beneath that, however, you offer solid friendship and loyalty.” So far (but the day’s not over), none of the nursing home residents has seemed to notice my charm and sex appeal. But if anyone did, I guess I would be embarrassed.
Guess I’d better behave myself.
Sue
Take the last few days, for example. On Saturday, horoscope writer Jeraldine Saunders told me, “Your need to indulge in sensual animal pleasures and expensive playthings can be a focus point but might be a point of contention, too.”
Somehow sensual animal pleasures and expensive playthings don’t seem to fit my current lifestyle, living, as I am, among nursing home patients and others with dementia. My husband who is far away and slaves away to support me should be relieved.
Then, today, Jeraldine told me, “Charm and sex appeal are your calling cards today, and you may even be a bit embarrassed by the stir you create. Beneath that, however, you offer solid friendship and loyalty.” So far (but the day’s not over), none of the nursing home residents has seemed to notice my charm and sex appeal. But if anyone did, I guess I would be embarrassed.
Guess I’d better behave myself.
Sue
Hospice
How do you know when it’s time to call in hospice services for someone nearing death? That’s the question we’ve asked ourselves and others for weeks without getting a clear answer; probably because there is no clear, “right” time. It’s not a one-size-fits-all kind of service or decision.
Nevertheless, we did our homework. I attended a presentation by one of three hospice agencies that have contracts to work inside Mom’s nursing center. Then, while Mom was in the hospital for a few days last week, Sis and I interviewed a second hospice representative. Then, after input from the nursing facility staff, we decided to be thorough and meet with the third hospice. We ended up deciding on the third hospice company, not because of any perceived difference in services, but because their representative made the best impression. Emotional times seem to call for gut decisions.
The hospice nurse came to assess Mom and review her chart. Mom seemed to like her but wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the whole situation. The next day a hospice social worker paid a visit when I wasn’t with Mom. When I asked Mom later about her visits from the nurse and the social worker, she didn’t say much but seemed to have a negative feeling about them.
Then, the following day I arrived at Mom’s room to find a smiley face balloon and smiley face decals on her windows, along with a little framed verse designed to be comforting or inspiring. When I commented on these additions to her room and asked who had brought them, Mom rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, you know.”
Well, I didn’t know, and began guessing all her friends who visit on a regular basis. All these guesses were met with a negative shake of the head. For a minute I wondered if Mom had simply forgotten where they came from. But then it occurred to me – hospice – and Mom is having a hard time even saying the word!
People have told me that there are no right or wrong decisions, that we have to do what we feel deep in our hearts is best for Mom, but I did have a twinge of guilt. When Mom looks at me, I can feel her thinking, “You traitor, you’ve given up on me!”
Sue
Nevertheless, we did our homework. I attended a presentation by one of three hospice agencies that have contracts to work inside Mom’s nursing center. Then, while Mom was in the hospital for a few days last week, Sis and I interviewed a second hospice representative. Then, after input from the nursing facility staff, we decided to be thorough and meet with the third hospice. We ended up deciding on the third hospice company, not because of any perceived difference in services, but because their representative made the best impression. Emotional times seem to call for gut decisions.
The hospice nurse came to assess Mom and review her chart. Mom seemed to like her but wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the whole situation. The next day a hospice social worker paid a visit when I wasn’t with Mom. When I asked Mom later about her visits from the nurse and the social worker, she didn’t say much but seemed to have a negative feeling about them.
Then, the following day I arrived at Mom’s room to find a smiley face balloon and smiley face decals on her windows, along with a little framed verse designed to be comforting or inspiring. When I commented on these additions to her room and asked who had brought them, Mom rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, you know.”
Well, I didn’t know, and began guessing all her friends who visit on a regular basis. All these guesses were met with a negative shake of the head. For a minute I wondered if Mom had simply forgotten where they came from. But then it occurred to me – hospice – and Mom is having a hard time even saying the word!
People have told me that there are no right or wrong decisions, that we have to do what we feel deep in our hearts is best for Mom, but I did have a twinge of guilt. When Mom looks at me, I can feel her thinking, “You traitor, you’ve given up on me!”
Sue
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The Most Wonderful Day
As my mother's cancer marches on toward the now-inevitable end, the family and friends are surrounding her with as much love as possible without smothering her or making her feel like her last gasp is near. My youngest son, Mom's second grandson, visited this week, along with former neighbors and a continuous stream of friends from the senior community where they live now.
At the end of one day filled with visitors and constant distractions, Mom said, "This has been the most wonderful day!" to which I responded, "Mom, we want every day to be wonderful for you."
On another afternoon this week, Sis and her partner, along with Dad and myself, were stuffed in Mom's little room. Mom said, "It feels so good to have all my family around."
Of course, we can't be there every minute. On two mornings this week, when I went to Mom's room around breakfast time, I found her in tears. "Oh, I thought I'd never see you again," she cried on one occasion. The next time I found her in tears she was frustrated because no one was around to help her eat breakfast. The aide hadn't propped her up enough for her to feed herself and swallow safely. Though she had tried to call for help, she felt like she had been abandoned.
Into this mix of wonderful days and those filled with panic and fear, we have introduced a hospice team to help us provide Mom the comfort she needs. We were concerned that the word "hospice" would set off a panic attack, but Mom has seemed grateful for the extra attention and care. And we are hoping the hospice team will be able to help us prepare Dad for Mom's death and all the changes that will follow.
Sue
At the end of one day filled with visitors and constant distractions, Mom said, "This has been the most wonderful day!" to which I responded, "Mom, we want every day to be wonderful for you."
On another afternoon this week, Sis and her partner, along with Dad and myself, were stuffed in Mom's little room. Mom said, "It feels so good to have all my family around."
Of course, we can't be there every minute. On two mornings this week, when I went to Mom's room around breakfast time, I found her in tears. "Oh, I thought I'd never see you again," she cried on one occasion. The next time I found her in tears she was frustrated because no one was around to help her eat breakfast. The aide hadn't propped her up enough for her to feed herself and swallow safely. Though she had tried to call for help, she felt like she had been abandoned.
Into this mix of wonderful days and those filled with panic and fear, we have introduced a hospice team to help us provide Mom the comfort she needs. We were concerned that the word "hospice" would set off a panic attack, but Mom has seemed grateful for the extra attention and care. And we are hoping the hospice team will be able to help us prepare Dad for Mom's death and all the changes that will follow.
Sue
M'iTunes
I first became aware of the emotional impact music has on me when that Bobby McFerrin song, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” was popular. If I heard it on the radio on my way to work, I’d walk into the office with a bounce in my step, a smile on my face, and the song humming through my head.
Music connects me with times and places. For Mothers’ Day, my son sent me a special CD mix of songs that includes the closest thing we have to a “family theme song” – “New Attitude” from the Beverly Hills Cops soundtrack. That song takes us back to a summer when the boys and I drove from Maryland to Atlanta to visit my folks. While there, Dad recorded the Beverly Hills Cops soundtrack to a cassette for us to listen to on the long drive home. I think it might have saved my sanity and our lives. When the boys got restless and began annoying each other (“Stop touching me….Mom, he’s getting on my side…Mom, he took my…” and so on), I’d put on that song and crank up the volume. I’d warn the boys that if they didn’t get a “new attitude” right quick, Mom would turn into a monster (and they knew what that meant). Sometimes this was accompanied by a bribe – ice cream at the next McDonalds.
The new CD has an eclectic mix of other tunes that are less connected to the past but are quickly taking on meaning in the present. Some are sing-along – “Down to the River to Pray.” Some are dance-along – “If I had a Hammer.” Some are inspiring – “Take my Hand.” Some are just good listening, and I listen over and over in the car and on my iPod. This and other music CDs in my play list are comforting, invigorating, connect me to others, and keep me centered in my faith.
All this makes me wonder how music could enhance Mom’s life at this time. The music channels on her TV are limited. Perhaps it’s time to get a CD player and play some personal and meaningful selections.
Sue
Music connects me with times and places. For Mothers’ Day, my son sent me a special CD mix of songs that includes the closest thing we have to a “family theme song” – “New Attitude” from the Beverly Hills Cops soundtrack. That song takes us back to a summer when the boys and I drove from Maryland to Atlanta to visit my folks. While there, Dad recorded the Beverly Hills Cops soundtrack to a cassette for us to listen to on the long drive home. I think it might have saved my sanity and our lives. When the boys got restless and began annoying each other (“Stop touching me….Mom, he’s getting on my side…Mom, he took my…” and so on), I’d put on that song and crank up the volume. I’d warn the boys that if they didn’t get a “new attitude” right quick, Mom would turn into a monster (and they knew what that meant). Sometimes this was accompanied by a bribe – ice cream at the next McDonalds.
The new CD has an eclectic mix of other tunes that are less connected to the past but are quickly taking on meaning in the present. Some are sing-along – “Down to the River to Pray.” Some are dance-along – “If I had a Hammer.” Some are inspiring – “Take my Hand.” Some are just good listening, and I listen over and over in the car and on my iPod. This and other music CDs in my play list are comforting, invigorating, connect me to others, and keep me centered in my faith.
All this makes me wonder how music could enhance Mom’s life at this time. The music channels on her TV are limited. Perhaps it’s time to get a CD player and play some personal and meaningful selections.
Sue
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