I'm not Lion

but I am a Lion's fan. For my entire life I've loved those Deeeetroit Lions. In their good years (few), their great years (far between) and their bad years (all the rest). But I wasn't born a Lions fan. I wasn't raised in a house decorated in that pretty shade of blue. I am a Lions fan because of Uncle Phil. Every year we'd make the drive from Rochester to a small town a few hours away. We'd get up early and load up the zucchini breads and cookies. We'd drive off in a station wagon filled with a cloud of Chanel No 5, Mom's special event perfume. We'd arrive and go up the side steps, past my Uncle's office, and into a kitchen full of bustling women and plenty of chatter. My Aunt was a bundle of energy, only 4' 9", the Mother of seven, a nurse who ran my Uncle's practice and ran her house both at the same time. She's hug us, comment on my height, and push us off into the dining room and sitting room. I'd be sent up the stairs with a pile of coats on my arm and directions to go into the first door on my left and place them on the bed. My cousins would call out to me as I went past. All but one would usually return for Thanksgiving. I was the youngest by two years and that was my brother. Next was a boy cousin 5 years older than me. So I'd go back down stairs and into the kitchen. We'd eat and then it began, an afternoon of football. I'd camp out in the sitting room once the tables were cleared and dishes all done. I'd listen to the "men" talk about work and trains and whatever men talk about and I'd listen to my Uncle talk about how much he hated the Detroit Lions. 

Soooo.... I am a Lions fan. Thanks to Uncle Phil for that. I'd cheer and whoop and carry on whenever we scored or gained a first down. I'd groan when we got on the wrong side of the foul. And one by one my cousins would wander off, my Dad would doze off, and I'd watch football with Uncle Phil. My Uncle was my Dad's brother. He was a stern man, a disciplined Father, and a man not given to warm and fuzzy moments. But during the football games he was different, kinder and for me a man I truly respected. He was a small town doctor. He was a devout Methodist. He was a good man. You just had to get past his surface to see it and the only time I saw it was during those football games. My Uncle passed away a bit after my Dad did. He had been here near us, we visited him a few times. He had Alzheimers. One of the last times I saw him, when his memory was still working a bit, we visited him and his cat in the facility he was in, we talked of all those Thanksgivings and how much the car ride had changed. And I mentioned my beloved Lions and on cue he went off into a tirade about those horrible Lions. And we smiled. He lived a lot longer but he lived inside his head. When he passed it was a blessing for him, and I know my Dad and Aunt were up there waiting for him and tomorrow when I face my first Thanksgiving with no parents, I won't just think of them but also of Uncle Phil who gave me my love of football and my Lions. 

Happy Thanksgiving, I hope everyone who reads this can think o one blessing to count because if you can count one then you are indeed blessed. Be safe on the roads. 

just hand over the money and no one gets hurt

don't worry, not another ramble about my war with NY State for Mom's extra money. They want it, I'm not giving it up. I don't particularly want the money and will donate it to the activity dept. at Mom's nursing home. It's that the money grubbing State had it's greedy little hand out before we could think. 

This is about deciding who to buy from, who to disappoint, and trying to figure out where you'll put thirty boxes of Girl Scout cookies, tins of Boy Scout popcorn and all the coupon books you've been buying. This is soon to be followed by magazines out the ears. Yup, it's buying season. And all those people who once bought my boys crap now have little ones or first grandkids selling crap. Pay back is a true bitch. 

We only sold cookies and wreaths as kids. Cookies from my Girl Scouts and wreaths by my brother's Boy Scout troop. No big deal, Mom and Dad bought an equal total of each. One wreath equaled appx. 4 boxes of thin mints and short breads. At Halloween-eve we'd go house to house with our UNICEF boxes. The honor system still lived back then. And we did it because we really believed our little orange boxes of loose change made a huge difference. I still choose to believe it. 

Now, they start selling in pre-school: wreaths, Kindergarten: magazines, and soon the onslaught hits. Every year, several times a year. Coupon books, car washes, bottle drives, chocolate, popcorn, cooking  kits, pizzas, Christmas paper, gift cards, more than you can imagine. And every hand is out. 

Now, I was once guilty. I pimped stuff in my time. I was the winner of the 'Parent who bought the most' three years straight. I bought the hell out of that wrapping paper. Wrapping paper isn't the devil (chocolate, I'm allergic), it doesn't spoil, expire or start to smell after a while. Everyone needs wrapping paper (or bags, which isn't a bad idea. I'd buy gift bags. Save me trips to the dollar store. ) Unfortunately my prize was a basket of wrapping paper. I only recently ran out. 

I get e-mails from people's kids. I get phone calls from parents. I even got a postcard in the mail. When did pimping stuff get to high tech? We had to go door to door, every door. We had to trudge back out and deliver it all weeks later. And we only did it once a year each. Now it's school, sports, activities, clubs, you name it ..they fund raise. And we are reduced to avoiding calls, pretending we didn't see e-mails, and hiding behind the couch with the dog whenever the doorbell rings. I can only buy so much and I'm at my limit.

Unless my granddaughter is selling. I can always use more of whatever she's selling. And I'm sure who ever is reading this would like to buy some too..... I'll have her give you a call. 

Jack Frost was a pervert with a nasal fetish

that got your attention, didn't it?

The wind is blowing through my house. It comes in the back windows and goes out the front. The dog is hiding from the curtains, they keep chasing him. It smells like Autumn. On Friday and Saturday nights I can sit outside and listen to the HS footballs games. The noise carries in the air from the local school. I can tell by the roars if we're winning  and the quiet when we aren't. 

This is sleeping weather. Cold at night, chilly in the morning but sunny all day long. The grass isn't growing so fast but we trade our mower for rakes and fight Mother Nature (and lose). The apple orchards are in a full out frenzy as couples and kids pick their own. And it's pumpkin time, every grower has something to entice us. Hayrides, petting zoos, crafts, pony rides, corn mazes and haunted houses. Anything to get us in and before you know it you're headed home with a trunk full of doughnuts, pumpkins, cider and apples. 

I love this time of year. NY gets real pretty in October and the colors are already beginning to pop. My Mom's favorite bushes go all red, Burning Bushes, she loved them and planted several at the lake. The Golden Rod's faded but the bright trees make up for it. 

Life is rolling on. We got past Mom's birthday and my birthday. Next is my brother's. Then just a few more firsts. I'm not sure why they are sad days but they are. I'm hoping time eases that. Every two weeks I go up to the nursing home and visit Mom's friends, my friends now. I count faces when I walk down the hall. I need to know they're all there. Sometimes one's missing. After all they don't go there to get younger. All my faces accounted for I visit with Mom's roommate Doris and my adopted person Jean. I decorate their doors with Mom's decorations. Much better than boxing them up throwing them away. It's healing to go up, and now it's already Fall.

Halloween is everywhere, a little early but who cares, it's not s-wording yet. Cross your fingers. According to my caterpillars, it's going to be a cold cold winter. It's the perfect time to walk Watkin's Glen or Letchworth or to go to  Butter Milk Falls. I'm a creepy cemetery walker. I think the headstones are beautiful pieces of artwork. The history is fascinating to me and the trees and the leaves set the scene. 

I raked my first leaves yesterday. The first on the block! And this morning the first leaf removal trucks came by. Beats the heck out of bagging them. Every Fall my Dad bought  apples and turned the kitchen into an apple sauce factory. He froze it and all year round we had fresh applesauce at hand. When he retired and spent winters in Florida, he always bought a bushel to take back. Those NY apples were a prized commodity in Sunny Florida. I might try my hand at applesauce this weekend, or maybe make pies. Just so I can smell Autumn in my house and savor it while it's here. 

Winter isn't too far away...

Happy birthday to Mom, happy birthday (almost) to me

Yesterday was Mom's birthday. She'd have been 90. A lot of things happen in 90 years and she lived through most of them. That's pretty amazing, even if she almost made it to her day.

I always hated Mom's birthday. Not because of her, that was a separate issue. I hated her birthday because I never got my own birthday. Those few days in between our's  were ignored in my house. Her birthday was mine, even though it wasn't. Sure, I got the usual kids sleepover with three of my friends. We'd take over the trailer in the driveway for a sleepover and we'd stay up way too late and giggle about the silliest, stupidest things.
But when it came to family celebrations, her's and mine were always the same day, the same meal, the same cake. I never understood why. There were three days in between us and those three days seemed pretty big to a kiddo.
I get my own day now. This year I do.
For the years I was more Mom to my boys and less daughter to my Mom, I'd have my own day too. But when she came to us, it reverted back. I reverted it, out of habit I'm sure. Last year it was too sad of a day and Mom was to sick so I skipped over the 50th birthday willingly. I didn't need Nifty Fifty gifts to remind me I was older, being a grandma hits that home. My friends didn't notice my day and my Mom wasn't able to. I was okay with that.
Not that I mind being older. As I've said before, I like me now. I know who I am, I fit in my skin and I like me better now than I did at twenty or thirty. I'm okay with who I've become, even through others might not be.
In two days I get older, officially. Some friends will notice, a couple probablywon't. I'll be happy to know what I've done with my life, I'll be sad not to have Mom to share my day with and I'll be grateful for all the times that she did share it. Who I am at almost fiftyone can see the memories a little clearer than who I used to be.
This year, yesterday, I celebrated Mom's birthday. Some drinks and some toasts, some conversation and tears with my brother. A long long walk with my camera and a lot of memories in my head. I think Mom would have had a nice birthday.

Happy birthday to Mom, she lived a long life.
Happy birthday to me, I know that I won't and I'm okay with that too.

Happy birthday to us Mom,
I'd gladly share our cake this year and when I blow out the candles my wish will be that you are wishing me a happy birthday too.

Phonies, dead guys, and stuff.

My goal for this morning is to get the house cleaned while on the phone with Florida. I figure it will take me at least three rooms of dusting and sweeping to get the bank to agree to close Mom's last account. They are holding a hostage I'm willing to slay. $4.45. Yup, for $4.45 they will not close my Mother's account and I don't want the damn money. It would cost me more to send certified copies of the death certificate to them. Today we will do the word dance that seems to be banker foreplay.

My version may have additional words, that went unsaid, added to tell the real story.

Me: Hi I'd like to close Shirley McMyMom's account because she has passed away. 

Them: We are sorry for your loss. Can you verify the death?

Me: You're not sorry. Yes I can. 

Them: Oh you're still there? <whispers to coworker "I got  live one here" they cackle> 

Them: Is there a balance on the account?

Me: Yes, you blood sucking ...I mean yes there is. 

Them: <I'll teach this one to sass me> Can you verify the balance please?

Me: yes I can.

Them: well?? 

Me: you asked if I can, I can. You didn't ask me to do it. Sheesh. Way to go public school edumacation. 

Me: since you said please... it's four, count them one-two-three-four dollars and forty-frikkin-five stinking cents.

Me: And I do not want it.

Them: <to coworker> this will piss her off cackle cackle ... 

Them: Ma'am. Ma'am that money is legally owed to the estate. 

Me: You keep it, buy yourself a new outfit. 

Them: it is so on now MA'AM!

Them: WE cannot release this money without proper paperwork. You need xxx and vvv and ooo and we will require notarization <picks nails and smirks> and it will need to be sent registered mail. 

Me: BUT I DO NOT WANT IT, just close the account paaaleazzzzeeeee.

Them: Ma'am, we cannot close an account with an active balance. 

Me: thinking it's time to try a new approach. 

Me: With the fees you take out this account will overdraw on September the first. Then it will be an overdraw fee which will not be paid. Then that will add up, some genius in your legal dept. will get himself a stiffy for the money owed, he will sue my dead Mother and when it goes to court I will show up and point out that you cannot get blood from a rock, or from a box of ashes that hangs out in my hall next to Dad and a stuffed lamb. The judge will  ask your legal eagle why this dead thing wasn't noticed before now and he will slink back to the office. Dead Mom win!

Me: or... you could close the damn account. BECAUSE SHE'S DEAD

Them: Ma'am, we cannot close an account with an active balance. WE cannot release this money without proper paperwork. Ma'am, you need xxx and vvv and ooo and we will require notarization <picks nails and smirks> and it will need to be sent registered mail. 

Them: Ma'am

Game. Set. Match.

In the way back of my fridge, surrounded by

In the way back of my fridge, surrounded by half empty salad dressings and marinates that sounded good in the store but tasted bad on the grill is a small can of ginger ale. I keep it so I can let other things go. I took a picture of it to show my brother. As soon as I prep a crock pot cobbler I'll explain it.

My Mom was a lot of things but I'm finally letting it go. Why carry grudges that no longer matter. My Mother was my worst enemy growing up, a sad kind of ghost in my mid years, and a human being at her end. I'm a grudge holder. If someone hurt me I never forget. I've just learned to stop picking scabs. I had to to find my own balance. Sometimes bad parents aren't bad parents by choice. Any child of a mentally ill parents can tell you that. I just had to learn how to let go of what she was as a child and learn to love the wounded person she was now. I fought it tooth and nail. The whole time I was fighting it I was saving everything of theirs. I couldn't give away Mom's things with Mom still alive. That just isn't right. So I kept it all in tubs under the pinballs against the wall. Out of sight out of mind.

I've finally started throwing it out. I have to let things go. I went to two garage sales this weekend. Both were children selling off Mom and Dad's stuff. We're becoming an epidemic. Adult children selling the folks stuff for a buck. I will not do that to my kids. They'd toss it before the ambulance door shut.. Unless they piss me off,I'm sorting it for them. I'm starting by liberating mom and dads stuff. It's time. I'm parting with the tea cups I really don't like. A couple for the sons girls, a couple for tea parties with my granddaughter.  The rest need to go. And lots of things do/did. Last week I let go. Then went away for a couple days. This week the rest goes. I'm keeping the photos but not much else. A pretty glass item here and there, my great grandpas rocking chair. Some family things. The rest is gone. I gave old photos to people who were in them. Gave my cousin letters his dad wrote as he traveled the world at eighteen. Letters his grandmother wrote to her sister. Mom had them. We figure Dad collecting stamps comes into play. My Dad's Army things to a son. Some china to the other. The rest recycled or donated.
It feels good. I needed to do it before my kids got it some day. I needed to cut the emotional ties. Get rid of the emotional clutter. I'm keeping things that make me smile, like Mom's weird JELLO book of recipes. I'd like to meet the person who wrote that. Maybe they can make me understand why anyone in the right mind puts celery in JELLO. Geh!
And I'm also keeping one tiny can of ginger ale.
The last one in Mom's ginger ale stash in her room. She almost ran out. We kept her hooked into the ginger ale back streets, she never ran out. She loved her ginger ale and they'd give us five or six extra to hide in case they ran low. Shirley wanted ginger ale and by God she would get it. All it took to keep her happy was a little can of ginger ale with a bendy straw and the straw was optional.  A little can just like this

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

A couple things have me thoughtful today. The death of a friend’s step-dad, the (soon) scattering of the ashes of a man I wish I’d have had as my own Dad, or a neighbor, or as a friend for a whole lot longer.

I used to mark my days by the important things like how many days until the last day of school, how many days of summer vacation, how many days until my birthday, how many days until Christmas. Then I grew up a bit and it became how long until the baby’s born, how many months/years of age is he, how many days until he goes off to college. Now it’s who died, when, and what will I do, how many days until the funeral/service/burial, how many days until Grandma Tia’s Monday.

This is a weekend of ashes. Scattering some, making plans to have others interred, sending condolences to those whose loved one(s) have died. The goodbye part of life.

I’ve been dreaming weird dreams. Bits and pieces of my childhood that weren’t scary, sad, or bad. Things like trips to Wyanoco Lake every summer. I have no idea why we started going but you know the place in Dirty Dancing? kind of like that. Group activities, meals, water, classes, games. The whole thing minus the grinding and back music. I can’t allow my brain to picture Mom and Dad with ‘hungry eyes’ playing in the distance. GEH! We went every year, met up with friends of Moms and Dads.

As childhood travels went, it was good. Every year another road trip in the disfunction mobile, every year another state. And somehow they always knew someone somewhere where we were going and we’d park a night or two in their driveways. Or we’d stay in a State park or KOA campground. We weren’t really safe as kids back then but we thought we were. My brother and I would explore until bedtime and then make a campfire to hand out by. If Mom was still good we’d play Triaminoes or UNO before bed. It was nice. And Mom and Dad never met a museum they didn’t need to tour. I’m pretty sure my love of roadside oddities is ingrained since them. We went where ever the wind or AAA maps would take us.

And even though my inner child is having a fit over my memories, I remember them trying their best at home too. In between Mom’s ‘episodes aka ‘real life Twilight Zone’, there were the good days. That trailer we traveled in was rented out to a family who skiied at Swain. They’d rent it for the ski season so they could have a place to sleep, etc. during the season. This meant it was in our driveway from September – November.

So my birthday, which I hated and my birthday sleepover party, which I loved.. were both at home. I hated the day because it was three days from Mom’s and they were always celebrated together. I call foul on anyone who denies a kid their own special day! My party was always the same, three friends sleeping over. We got the trailer for the night. That’s independent in those days. And as a girl… it wasn’t a tent. Tents would be uncivilized. We’d do the cake thing after dinner and then we were on our own. I can’t remember what we’d do but it probably doesn’t matter “what”, it only mattered “that”. I remember counting down those late-summer days until the first day of school and then my birthday.

This year is a whole different count down, more of a count up. And the trips I’m taking are first and foremost down memory lane. More often when I sleep. Today a friend says goodbye to a man who loved not only this friend’s mom but the whole family. Friday a little bit of one of the greatest men I’ve know returns to a place he loved and shared with his own sons. And every day is another day I count, it’s been eighty one days since my Mom died but my memories are shifting and the clouds that have skewed my view of the past have left me as well. My good memories are surfacing and that makes me lucky.

and it is only forty one days until my birthday. sweet!

In the grander scheme of things

I am my Mother now. But only in the generational scheme. I am the oldest tier of relatives, I am the oldest generation in my little family. Before me came my parents and before them, their parents. Now I am the one who pulls the fabric of our family together and keeps us from fraying. I never wanted the job and this morning when it hit me, it hit me hard. I'm too young to be the elder. I'm too young to wear that crown, although I do love shiny objects and who doesn't look good on a throne?
I miss my Mom. I never thought I'd feel that, I never thought I'd love her.
My Mom was many things. To most she was seen all put together, matching outfits, hair done, lipstick on. But inside our doors she was my greatest fear. When a person is manic you never know what each moment brings. I've hinted at my childhood. It wasn't great but it was, to quote every idiot out there, what it was. My brother and I learned to tend to ourselves when Mom was in a downward spiral. We tentatively smiled when all was up and happy. And we survived and surviving made us who we are. It made him emotional and afraid of upset. It made me strong but a little too hard when people need me to be soft. And as I aged I turned my back on my parents. I had to for my own mental stability. All was well until the call. I've talked about the call before so bear with me, I have a need to retell the story.
The call. The call came in on a Wednesday. No feeling of doom as my phone rang, no black cloud overhead. Just a call from my parents neighbor. She was worried about them. Life changed quickly. For Mom, for me, for my brother and it ended for Dad. I arrived in Florida on a Thursday, the next day. Dad died a few days later, Mom died almost two months ago. Somewhere in between Dad and Mom, I found myself. I've never been a big fan of people claiming to "find themselves" and I certainly never set out to do it. Three years of Mom solidified Tia. I love my Mom. Another thing I never thought I'd say. Somewhere in between touching down in Florida and today, I learned to love her.
I know now that her mental illness shaped her. It made her weak. It made her strong. It made her a fighter. I don't think my inner strength is half as strong as her's was. Even when we reached NY, even on hospice the first time, even as cancer found her twice, even as wave after wave of manic depression hit her, she fought back. When my brother and I made that decision to let her go, her body kept on fighting until she ran out of strength and quietly left us.I miss her, I'm lost without her. She made me strong but losing her made me weak.
People tell me things like "she's in a better place", "she's with your Dad", "it was her time" and my personal favorite "she's happy now". She might be happy, she might be with my Dad in a better place, and yes it was her time but I miss her. I'm grateful that I got a chance to be with her. I learned to be compassionate, I learned to forgive and forget. I got to know who she was.
I've started to heal. The holes of the loss are filled with my granddaughter. The other end of the family scale. I heal with every moment I spend with her, she brings me joy.
Someone at the home used to call Mom 'The Matriarch'. I guess that's my job now.

cryin’ and cybers and cares

I'm still finding my way through losing Mom. For all my complaining and whining about dealing with her issues and taking care of  her, I find that I cannot cope as well as I thought I would. Bear with me please, I have many stories and many memories waiting to find words but it's coming in spurts now and I'm trying to find my way. 

Reeling, feeling, dealing, and hopefully someday even keeling.

My Mother passed away a week ago. Her last two days were quiet ones and she wasn't in that  state of  mental torment anymore. She hung on as long as she could. She is, was a tough old bird. But it was time and she had fought long enough. My brother and I spent most of her last week with her, talking, laughing, me singing songs I knew she loved and a few I knew she didn't just to see if there was any Shirley left in her. Thursday we thought we'd said our goodbyes but Shirley wasn't ready. Friday we cried with the weekday staff because we knew she'd be gone by the time they got back from the weekend. Saturday we were at peace with it and we told her we loved her and told her it was okay to let go, that her
mom and our Dad were waiting. At 10:30 pm on May 17th my Mother let go. It was her time, her turmoil was over. I froze when my phone rang at 10:55 pm that night, I knew who it was. I said "oh shit no" and answered it. It was her time, she was gone. I'm reeling still, a little lost. A little confused by the love I developed for her these past three years. I'm feeling it still, sadness, confusion, loss. I'm dealing with paperwork, cremation, phone calls, memorial plans, burial. And someday I will be back on my even keel. I hope. My Mother really wasn't much of a Mother to me but she was my Mom and recognizing who she was and what made her how she was gave me insight into myself and I love her. My Mom is dead now, I will miss her.

I am going to continue this blog. I will talk of my childhood, my life with and without Mom, and I will hopefully come to grips with this loss I feel right now. Shirley was a strong woman, a brave woman, a wounded woman, and a woman I am lucky to have loved.

last steps

My Mom is on hospice now. My brother and I made the decision last Friday. It is time. She has no real life quality left and she is in deep mental pain.  We've begun to just treat pain. It's difficult to watch and difficult to live. I will post more in a day or two. My mind is hurting right now.

let sleeping Shirleys lie

Growing up I always knew our home was different than the other homes in our average middle-class neighborhood. Sure, our lawn was trimmed and well maintained. Sure, we played the games all neighborhood children played, hot box, monkey in the middle, freeze tag and other fun games. We rode bikes, played t-ball, joined Boy and Girl scouts. We were clean, WelL dressed and from the outside all was well. But our house held secrets one of which was our mother's mental illness. Everyone in our neighborhood knew, they just never said anything out loud to us. When mom would have her bi-yearly breakdown they would look out for my brother and me, feed us, watch us, treat us just a little bit kinder. I think they figured we needed it but to us crazy was normal.
In the 80s mom got better. She really wasn't cured, it was medication related. I was a mom then and so busy that an almost normal mom was okay by me. And life marched on with mom having an occasional downward spiral. She'd go back in for treatment and we'd get her back, a little paler, a little calmer, a little more normal.
But now normal is a ghost, we think we see it and then it's gone leaving us to wonder if we just imagined it. Dementia + loopy = Shirley. She screams for Ray, there is no Ray. She talks to the corner of her room. She cries for her mother. She curses like a biker. She accuses me of stealing her pants, of killing the cat, of hiding her shoes. She thinks my brother is my dad, she says he took her food and won't let her eat. She tells random staff and visitors to shut the hell up. It hurts to see but a ranting and raving Shirley is better than a sleeping and out of it Shirley. Sounds good doesn't it? Truth is, a sleeping Shirley is a better Shirley.
Yesterday she looked up at me and said "I am dying. I am going to die." And then we both cried. Her because crying is her go to emotional outlet, me because I cry for who she was, the mother I had, and the mother I wish I'd had.

My Mother's hands

My mother's hands once made a cake,

Once rode a bike,

Once ironed a shirt.

My Mother's hands could sew a dress,

Could steer a car,

Could pet a cat.

My Mother's hands would knead bread dough,

Would wash the dishes,

Would address an envelope.

My Mother's hands wrote a newspaper column,

Typed quite fast,

Sent Christmas letters.

My Mother's hands would shuffle cards,

Would turn sheet music,

Would play the piano.

But now my Mother's hands have no more words,

Have no more music,

Have no purpose.

My Mother's hands are quiet now. 

dine and dash

My mom is sick, sick as in go towards the light sick. It’s been a long emotional week full of ups and downs and downs and downs. Lots of downs. That tummy bug we all had turned into a uti for my mom. One that has her hovering on the edge of here and heaven. For the last eleven days I have been sitting here watching her fade and wondering what we should be praying for. Alive, she’s here, I can see her and sit with her. But it’s not really her, it’s a frantic small person who screams until she’s hoarse and repeats a word or phrase over and over again until she falls asleep, exhausted from her confusion. She doesn’t eat, she barely drinks, this isn’t life. And then I head home at the end of the day, exhausted myself from doing nothing g myself. Nothing but watching and cajoling. Nothing but crying and praying. Praying for nothing, praying for something, praying for everything. Before bed I call and check on her. I go to sleep but not to rest. And then in the morning I return, hoping for  a miracle, expecting none. But she is better every morning. Little steps. Tiny changes and I smile with relief. Short lived relief. Maybe she turned the corner, maybe this is good. But my hopes are dashed, the progress is so small. One step forward, two steps back. And this is my new world, praying for something, hoping for everything, expecting nothing.

flu, you, who?

After all of us surviving a terrible stomach virus (two for some of us), I return again to write.

And I returned to a very confused Mother. Cantankerous is one of my favorite words and in this case it sums her up nicely. My Mother is a cranky two year old whose responses to everything are petulant and snappish. I try not to laugh when she announces that no one let her have breakfast and that should be illegal.. I smile instead as I pick the chunks of scrambled eggs off her shirt and wipe the oatmeal from her face. I tell her calmly that if she is in her wheelchair then, yes someone did get her out of bed today. I giggle inside my head when she informs the wonderful man from therapy that he reminds her of someone she hates. I remind myself to not get angry when she accuses me of hiding her things.
 But I cry in the hallway after she tells me I am not Tia but am instead a member of the staff pretending to be me to get her to do what she doesn't want to do. If it is hard on me to deal with her, imagine the inside of her head. I have a feeling she's got a UTI again and it's playing footsie with her already fragile brain cells.

I have an older brother, we were raised in the same home but by what seemed like different parents. He is the golden child, he can do no wrong. Me.. I am the opposite and I'm okay with that. So when she gets so upset we can't calm her, I dial my brother for her and he tells her everything I've already said three times and slowly she calms down. And things are good again for a few minutes. It's hard to be my Mother's child. Harder now at fifty than it was when I was twenty. Harder yesterday then it was a month ago. It's difficult to separate old emotions from compassion and not react with pent up anger. Hard to give kindness where none was ever found. Hard to have a conversation that makes no sense and never will and hard to find the right thing to say to reassure and appease her troubled mind. Hard to find the answer to a conversation that goes like this:
Mom: I lost my shoes
Me: you're wearing them see ..taps on her shoes
Mom: they aren't mine you put them there
Me: they are your's, they have you special laces
Mom: fine! If that's what you want to think then you won't listen to me.
Me: <nothing to say to that>
Mom: no one gives me food
Me: it's lunchtime in five minutes, you must be hungry
Mom: I ate three cars
Me: I wonder what's for lunch
Mom: who are you?
Me: it's Tia Mom
Me: I'm your daughter
Mom: I have a daughter???



Yes Mom, you have a daughter.

it ain't easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we've got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops.

dreaming of tomorrows, remembering yesterdays

I used to watch my children sleep and wonder what they dreamed about. They would twitch and move around as if their dreams were full of adventure and excitement. I’d lean against the wall or door frame and just memorize their faces and listen to their breathing. My oldest son, so full of energy and brimming with enthusiasm would run through his dreams the same way he ran through his days. The same way he still does. My younger son, precise and thoughtful, would dream the way he lives. And I would watch them sleep and savor the silence as I memorized their childhood. I knew one day those children would be replaced by adults and they’d move out and on with life. 

Today I spend my time watching my Mother sleep and I wonder what she dreams of. Does she dream of life with dad, does she dream of meeting up with him someday? Are her dreams just empty wishes for an end to the nightmare of her waking hours, or do the medications she takes give her the only happy moments to her days? Every so often she jerks awake and looks at me with tears and fear and asks where we are and what will happen to her. I answer in honesty”mom, we are in your room and whatever happens I will go through with you.” And she nods her head and closes her eyes and  drifts back off while I sit quietly and just watch her sleep.

sadness before knowledge..

I know I’m going to be sad today, I just can’t tell you the who part of it yet. It isn’t because Spring is playing hide and seek with us, it isn’t because my basketball brackets are half done before it’s half done, it isn’t even because my new bra is pushing the ladies back up to where God put them.. it’s because I know this will be a bad day. Not only dealing with the fall out from Mom’s bad week, but also because I know someone I love at the home has passed away but I’m not sure who it is yet.

The reason I know is because a friend on my FB page is sad. She works at the home, she’s already there. So I know someone’s passed away and I can probably guess who in less than five guesses but I don’t want to think it’s anyone there. I love these people, they matter to me. They’ve all gotten so dear to me that when one passes it reminds me of why they are there. It reminds me that the people who care about us matter and it reminds me that we (and me and you) are only human and humans make mistakes, hurt each other’s feeling, make each other cry, and sadly humans die.

I’m going to mourn a friend today, I don’t know who but I do know I will miss them.

it's my potty

This is a rant and a heads up I hope. A little lesson about dignity. Can you imagine waking up in the middle of the night and you feel that urge, you may be sleepy but your bladder isn’t. You know you won’t make it until morning, there’s no chance of falling back asleep. What do you do? You probably get up and stumble through your bedroom in the dark, feeling your way around your bed, across the floor and out into the hallway towards the potty. Ahhh! You head back to bed, crisis averted.

Now imagine this: you are elderly, in a bed that is yours but not your own. You can’t get up without help but you know you have to go. So you push your call button and no one come. You push it again, someone either comes in and turns it off or they tell you no. No, you can’t get up, no they won’t take you. So you push your button again and yell out for help and a person tells you to shut up or be quiet. They tell you to go in your brief and they leave you that way until your morning aide comes in and cleans you up. They leave you lying in it for hours,they rob you of your dignity and strip you of your pride.

Where is the dignity of growing old when the people taking care of you won’t allow you that tiny bit of decency.

Someone’s getting fired up here today. Someone who took my Mother’s  dignity away and robbed her of her pride.

when a bad day is a good day and a good day is a bad day

It’s all about perspective.

It’s music time at the nursing home today. They’re lining up in the halls to see the main event. There will be depends thrown and shrieking galore. Well maybe not for real but if they could, they would. How’s that for a mental moment?

They’re all here, my mom even gets her hair done because every other Wednesday is dick day. I kid you not. That’s his name. He looks a little like a human q-tip but he has a way about him that they love. As I sit back here and type this he is warming up. The air is thick with liniment and anticipation. “He`s here,he`s here”.  He sings the oldies they love. And they do love those so. Ladies who no longer can speak tap along on table tops, gentlemen who cannot remember their words sing the songs. I’m looking around the room and seeing the faces of the residents and even those who cannot feel sway in their chairs to the stylin’ sounds of Dick T. It takes a bad day and makes it good.

And there are bad days lately. Bad days that to you might seem very bad, to me seem almost good. Good days that seem great to the staff are bad to my Mom. It’s a confusing world for her. She hurts but she doesn’t want to sleep all day. She’s groggy but at least she doesn’t hurt. There is no happy medium. So she exists. Awake as pain pills wear off and sleeping when she hurts the least. Every other Wednesday is looked forward to and she gears up for it for days. It starts early, I go up at the break of her dawn. I take her to her hair appt. and help the hairdresser wash her hair. Then it’s set on tiny rollers and she’s placed under the dryer. This is where I really come into play. I hold the dryer at an angle with one hand and her head up with the other. If I don’t it takes forever to dry and Shirley girl gets cranky. I no likee cranky Shirley. Once she’s dry we comb and poof and spray and tah-dah! it’s done. Seems so easy but it drains me.

My Mom always had hair done and nails filed and polished. Her clothes always matched and were taken care of. I try to give her the same. She may not care much anymore but I do. If she had her dignity in life, I want her to have it as life ends. If  Shirley wants to pretty herself up for the world’s best nursing home singer then I will make it happen. I line her up with the other groupies and take myself to the back of the room where it’s safe. Why? because the aforementioned singer has a major thing for me, much to the amusement of the staff. He starts to sing and the room is transformed, a few sing along, some tap their tappable parts, even the men are enthralled. The songs are done with his own special style and I make sure to avoid all eye contact during the loves songs. I sit in the back with a friend’s Mother who is chattering away as if it’s silent. I’m not too sure what she’s talking about but she doesn’t usually come down so I’m happy to see her.

In front of us is Mom’s roommate Doris and her sister. Every Wednesday her sister comes up. Mom isn’t Shirley to Doris, Doris calls her Sadie. Mom hates it and no one knows why Doris does it but Sadie it is. In front of Doris is a new gentleman and a woman I assume is his wife. I’ve seen him at the end of the hallway, in front of the nurses desk. He doesn’t communicate well but today he’s clapping along and his wife is up dancing and holding his hand while he smiles.

My mom is in the front row, we go down early to get her spot. Next to Mom is Jean and another Jean. Both dear to me and both special in my heart. Delores is missing, she hasn’t been well. Then Rosie the former dancer whose legs don’t cooperate but her arms never stop moving to the music. We have Linda who can sing any Motown song and identify it’s singer, Sandra who sings in Italian, Pearl and Johanna, a new lady whose name I haven’t learned yet and behind all of them the rest of the crew. They look forward to this and they love it so much. And for most of them, like my Mom, this hour of music makes a bad day good. And to get a day that goes good is a blessing, one that we count.

emotional weight lifting

I'm not as strong as people think I am. I just fake it really well. Outside I'm calm and in control but inside I'm a Jello salad similar to the ones Mom used to torture us with. I wobble and shake but I can still hold the things that need holding.
I had a snow day yesterday, pretty much everyone in our area did. I won't lie, it was nice. I rambled around in my pjs, watched a couple movies, chatted up an old friend or two on the phone and skype. I did things that had nothing to do with Mom. She was in my head, she's been in my head my whole life. I just didn't focus on her because she's in my waking hours and in my sleep.

I am not ashamed of being weak, I don't know why I hide it. I hide it from Mom because somehow I've become the go-to person for our family. We're not a large family anymore. Just Mom, my brother, my kids, and myself. My kids are grown and off into the world, as it should be but my brother is a stranger now. When we lose Mom I will lose him. We'll talk once a year but the gap is there and he's the one who put it there. If I'm the go-to girl, he's the fall-apart fellow. When something needs doing, I do it. When a doctor needs speaking to, I do it. When there's a crisis, who you gonna call? me. He can't handle it and he's not able to face it. But like the old Smothers brothers routine... Mom loves him best.
It used to bother me badly but now I think I prefer it this way. I've stopped trying to get parental approval that will never come. I am proud of who I am, in spite of the mistakes I've made. In our family tree my brother was the branch they hung the star on but that branch can only hold a thin and fragile star and my branch bears the weight of many objects. My branch is hidden beneath those objects and isn't pretty and straight but his branch breaks easily and is just for looking at. He's the family show pony but I'm the jackass who carries all the burdens. Now there's a mental image to amuse us all.
I'd rather be me than be him. When life gets difficult, and it always does, he quickly buries his head in the sand and pretends things aren't so bad. I don't want to live that way because when you bury your head in the sand to avoid the big issues you miss out on those small happy things that buffer the bad. So I get the doctors, the bad news, and the paperwork and he gets Saturdays and Sundays to be there for an hour and be Mom's hero. I think I'd rather be me, childhood and all.

At the point when my parents neighbor summoned me to Florida, I had risen above my childhood and turned my back on my parents. It took me so many years to forget but I hadn't forgiven. After I got sucked back into the family disfunction I had to face those memories and forgive my parents. I had to accept and understand that I could not change the past, I could only change my own future. My brother, a child raised in the same house as I was, didn't get the same parents I did. His scars were so much lighter and less deep than my own but his are still with him and mine have faded into the past they belong in. You would have thought that the golden child would have grown into an adult with both feet on the ground and I would be a psychological mess but it's the opposite. We're both weak, we both cry, we're both soft in the middle but his is his lifestyle now. I am weak, I do cry, I accept that about myself. I just allow myself that time and move along with my life, he wallows.

Another lady I adore passed away yesterday. When I go up today I'll see the name tag missing from the door and I'll cry. I'll be sad because these elderly people, and the heroes who tend to them, are dear to me and I mourn the loss of each one. I'll have my few moments and not be ashamed and then I'll pull myself together and do what needs doing. I am strong but I am weak, weaker than people think.

life is a highway and I’m in the passing lane going 35 with my left blinker on

my Dad would be proud. His van is still on the road, driven by my brother’s whatever you call her. It’s still got it’s war wounds from the last year of Dad driving. He actually managed to hit the same pole in an empty bank parking lot … twice. He was telling us he wasn’t driving but the neighbor told me she’d hear him start the van up and go driving down the road and she’d keep her fingers crossed until he got home. I’m glad I didn’t have to have his license taken but I’m gladder still that he never hurt anyone. I don’t know if I could parent two of them, raising mom is my toughest challenge.

I’m going to post a lot about my mom, no avoiding it. I think I should introduce my Dad. Dad was a lot of things, some bad which I won’t discuss. He was a proud man who lost everything they had because he believed the shysty McShysters (yes, plural)  who kept sending him vague promises of riches soon to come… all for a price of course. So Dad would imagine those riches and write a check. The only ones getting rich were the aforementioned shysty McShyster s.  I cannot blame Dad for dreaming, I have dreams of my own. Mine are “what ifs” his turned into financial nightmares. His became mine when he died and I sat in their place alone,  surrounded by ghosts and memories and a forrest worth of papers, bills and letter piles all promising riches for the price of an entry fee. My dad was so smart but yet so very dumb.

And he was a smart man who made a career of engineering. Not choo choo chugga chugga engineering, although he did work at a railroad company. He probably would have loved being a train conductor. I can’t count the times he pulled off the road to watch a train pass by. It was a love his sister and brother shared. When at my Uncle’s house for Thanksgiving dinner only two things would stop a meal; a patient in need of care knocking on my doctor uncle’s home office door or the faint sound of a train approaching. Both Dad and my Uncle would place their napkins on their chairs and rush as one out the door to see the train and count it’s cars. Annoying at the time but a heartwarming memory now.

My dad was the family fixer, builder, and disciplinarian. I will leave his sins for another entry, some memories do no good when remembered. He and my mother were married 63 years. He was her pillar. The role I had thrust upon  me was one he signed up for.  And for all his faults he never ran when it got tough to tend to her. He signed up for the long haul and got one. I do not admire all about him but I admire that. He was a good neighbor, a good father to my brother, a hard worker and above all else, he was a husband to the mother he left to me to take care of. If I can give her even half the care he did, she will be well taken care of..

Driving Ms Shirley

Today was a big day in the life of Mom. A trip outside the nursing home walls. A trip approximately a mile away. So why did I over-think it and get up early to make sure I had everything ready? For the same reason you pack a suitcase to take a toddler to the park. If you think you don't need it, you will. If you forgot it, you'll regret it. Rain hat...check, extra coat...check, kleenex...check, ginger ale...check, package of cookies...check.
See, Mom has, well had..a growth on her thumb. We didn't know what it was but it was icky and hurt her and grew and grew. After a mishap last month where it was partially torn off and bled like a geyser then promptly grew back, the doctor and I decided the best thing would be for her to see a dermatologist. And today was the day. After an early lunch and early meds the nice gentleman arrived to take us in the medi-van. We hooked her in and off we went. Mom was not happy and didn't really enjoy the whole three minute ride.
 It's hard to take her out because she's afraid of riding in vehicles, she can't see so the motion makes  her queasy and because she doesn't look out the windows she doesn't understand where she is. But we got there, her complaining and making dry eyed crying noises.
Then they gave me forms to fill in. Medical history and details. Any cancers, yes. Any surgeries, too many to list. Any medication allergies, yup. I gave up halfway down the last sheet. I had to, I had started to giggle and was concerned I'd be laughing so hard I'd start tears flowing. Why? I ame to this question:

is the patient pregnant or planning to become pregnant?

Even now I'm snickering. I wanted to answer "no but who knows what can happen". I didn't. I wanted to answer "she's eighty frikkin nine years old, chances of being with child are mighty slim". I didn't. I wanted to write "if she is you'd better look for the three wise men and a handful of camels" but I didn't.
Not everyone has my sense of humor. Especially Mom. Filling out forms is not a participation sport for Shirley. Every question I asked her she couldn't answer and it was making us both sad especially when I asked her "Mom, when was your mastectomy (or boobage removal procedure) and she said "ask Tia, Tia knows". Tia didn't know but Tia had had enough. So Tia handed back the forms and fed her a graham cracker and ginger-ale. And Tia hates people who talk in the third person so Tia will stop.

Fast forward to today, the day after. Mom's thumb doohickey was removed, we waited 45 minutes for the less than 5 minute ride back. I met a lovely lady in the waiting room and we had a nice chat about dogs and the elderly. Mom had a possible pyogenic granuloma on her thumb. That's fancy talk for what the dr thinks, pending the biopsy, was a blood blister that overgrew to heal itself. The Dr. removed it with a scapel and a laser and Mom did great. I was thrown back in time to when the boys were young and I'd be more nervous than they were when they were hurt or ill. Other than the injection for the numbing meds, Mom sat quietly and from time to time asked me where we were and would we miss the cake. I would tell her and ask her if she wanted some of the cake and she'd say no but she knew she'd miss it.

It's scary when my youngest child is my oldest family member. Now we will wait for the biopsy results but when they said we could discuss treatments if the results showed cancer I kept thinking "no we won't". We wouldn't treat it, we couldn't. Just as we cannot treat or diagnose the mass in her colon. We can just keep her comfy and hope for the best, whatever that is.

This post has no conclusion or drawn up lesson on life. It was just a day in my life with Mom. Her pain, her fears, and her boo boo. It isn't always funny and it isn't always meaningful. Sometimes it's just a break in the every day routine and arriving back to her room safe and as sound as she can be. Today will be a new day and at the end of it I'll arrive home safe and sound to my own life. Wondering what the best part of the day with Mom was. Yesterday it was twofold, her thumb is repairs and........ hey, she's not pregnant.

Imagine a world

Imagine a world where you wake up and don't know your own name. Imagine a day when you sit by the window waiting for your children to come. Imagine the end of that day going back to your room only to sit by that window tomorrow waiting for the family who never comes to see you.

Imagine sitting in your room alone, without your belongings, without your friends or family. Depending on a stranger to answer your bell and put you into the bathroom if you are able to do even that. Your home is gone, your spouse has died, your children rarely call. You wake up in pain, go to bed in pain. The memories you have are skewed, what was real and what was a show on your tv last night? You live to eat but don't eat enough to live. Your eyes are failing and your mind plays tricks on you. You cannot even tell who the photos on your wall are. You nap between sleeps, you sleep between naps.

Imagine that man or woman who shares your room is a stranger to you. No one asked you if you wanted them, no one cares if you don't. Other people touch your things, other people brush your teeth and comb your hair.

Imagine being reduced to crying alone in your room because you need something and don't know what the word is for it. Imagine knowing you are fading and knowing you cannot stop it. Your mind is going blank and you can feel the words being erased inside your head.

Imagine being told when to get up, what to wear, when to eat and what to eat.
Imagine sitting at the end of the hall, people passing by but no one stopping to talk to you, to say your name, to listen to you.

Imagine wheeling yourself through the halls all day long, hall by hall in a circle, looking for your sister, mother, father. Imagine talking to a picture on your wall because you think your beloved husband is there.

Imagine living in a world of memories because there is no dignity in reality.
Imagine wishing you were done, that life was over.

Imagine being old.

It smells just like Sunday

The less my Mother remembers, the more I do. And the memories that were so painful yesterday aren’t so bad today. It’s a good thing or I’d be a basket case. It’s hard to stop the flow of memories once they start.  I know this is true because no matter how hard I try I cannot do it. Little things set them off, a word, a smell, a sound and off my minds goes on a vacation down memory lane. These memories  spark in the oddest places, today in the grocery store it was the smell of perfume. Chanel No. 5 to be exact. Just a lingering smell left in an aisle by a wandering customer who will never know that her perfume took me back to Sunday mornings of my childhood. Waiting to go to church, everyone’s ready. My brother and father in their matching powder blue leisure suits, me in my over ruffled dress, hair in thick sausage curls, toes pinched by black patent leather shoes with stupid bows and buckles. We’d gather by the door to the garage and wait …and wait … and wait and finally Mom would come down in a cloud of Aqua Net  thick enough to make our noses plug, with an underlying smell so familiar to me that I can imagine it right now. Mom’s perfume, special for Sundays and other important occasions.  Then before my mind and nose could process it she’d rush us out the door and into the station wagon and off we’d go. Late for church as always.

We’d drive up Wood Road, onto the Ridge and arrive just as the opening processional started. The Robinsons, late as usual. Arriving in a sea of blue and pink, all of us smelling like Mom’s Chanel No. 5 as we snuck down the aisle behind the choir.

In HS my brother got the station wagon and he’d load it up with all of us and off we’d go to basketball games, United Skates of America, midnight movies, and other teen activities.  The wagon full of teenagers, rock music blaring on the 8 Track, perhaps a warm beer or twelve stolen from someone’s Dad’s garage. Old Spice, Love’s Baby Soft, hair spray and other teenage smells clogging the air. After we’d drop everyone off and head home the car would be empty except for my brother and me and the lingering light smell of Mom’s Sunday perfume. No matter how long we drove or what we did that scent always remained like a ghost just hovering and doomed to be there forever.

I have a few of Mom’s things in my bedroom. A jewelry box, a memory box and an empty bottle of Chanel No. 5. Sometimes when I’m dusting or cleaning or just feeling little I open the bottle and sniff and am instantly back in my god awful black patent leather shoes, hair in thick curls, frills out the wazoo, sitting on the bottom step in our old house waiting for Mom to hurry the hell up so we won’t be late for church again. A second sniff and in my mind she rushes past in her Sunday best, smelling just like Sundays should always smell. Smelling just like today smells.

if you don't eat your vegetables you can't have dessert (11/14/12)

and when it’s broken glass… who wouldn’t eat their green beans.

I get to play mom to my mom now-a-days. I go up three days a week and try to get the right before lunch.That way the staff gets one less person to deal with. My mother is one of the better ones but she still needs the help occasionally. They give her meals fancy names but chicken is chicken and they grind up all her meats anyway. I’m not sure why but it comes out all ground up. Usually she gets three bowls of food. Meat, starch, veggie. We put the bowls in certain spots, her cranberry juice always on one side, her veggies on the other, her meat at her left hand and her potatoes or rice at the other. She won’t eat the vegetables. No matter how many times I ask her to, she refuses to eat them. Today I tried to switch her bowls but for a blind old bat she sure does know when I move something. Good thing she can’t ground me because I racked up the dirty looks today.

We have a routine. Mom likes routines. I get there, she complains for 20 minutes, lunch is served and the whining stops. Usually. She always has it in for one of the staff. I think it gives her a sense of power to complain. She has no real control over anything in her life. I never knew why the elderly always seemed so unhappy. Now I get it. I can’t blame them. I’d be unhappy if I didn’t get to control anything any more and people were telling me what to do. To go from bossing your kids around to being treated like a child. No thank you.

Today I tried to get her to eat a few green beans. She refused. I was about to bribe her when it occurred to me that it really doesn’t matter if she eats her damn beans. She’s eighty frikkin seven. If we were in Alaska she’d be in the ‘board big ice cubes here’ line.

Still, the stubborn in me came out and I went with one last threat..

“Mom if you do not eat your beans you will not get dessert.”

if you ever have kids and need a threat, keep one thing in mind … do not make a threat unless you think the other party actually wants what you’re holding over their head. Know the enemy. I failed to do that. Apparently today’s dessert was broken glass. The woman who tried to kill us with JELLO now won’t eat disgusting JELLO concoctions. Broken glass is red, green, and orange JELLO chunks folded into vanilla pudding.. Geh.

Our biggest problem is the Alzheimer’s. She is not able to discern when things happen. She can’t remember what she had for dinner the night before, hell..sometimes not even 5 minutes after eating it but she sure can remember everything that ever went wrong for her up there. She just thinks it happened now. We’re muddling through this mess.

Today it was one thing and next time it will be something else and every time I go up a little bit more of her is missing. However, knowing her, she’ll remember and  end up grounding me for trying to make her eat her green beans. At least I really really hope so.

of boobs and bras (written 11/16/12)

with an assist to my friend Sus who sparked this memory (mammory??)

My Mom’s boob went missing a while back. Luckily she has old-timers so she forgot for the summer. Sadly, the staff did not and now Mom’s up to her neck in boob drama. My Mother is a Breast Cancer Survivor. Nothing could kill her, she’ll out live us all. I’m finding out I actually admire her. She may take the loopy road to get there but she is a fighter that’s for sure.  Because of her cancer, Mom is a boobclops.  Kind of. She’s has a mastectomy and a lumpectomy. Because of said chopping, she has a prosthesis (yes, I had to spell check it). All it was/is is a disc made of a jelly like substance that goes into a pocket on one cup of her bras. After she came to the nursing home her’s went missing. She mourned her lost boob and they search high and low for it but it never showed up. She treated it like Boobgate, a conspiracy of the worst kind. SHe ranted and raved and saw us all working together to keep her from having her boob. The nursing home offered to replace it and everyone kind of forgot. Every once in a while Mom would have a snit over her loss. But it passed and we rolled merrily along. Until the other day when the Social Worker came up to us at lunch and announced that she has a boob for Mom. Mom gave it her usual “why doesn’t anyone ever ask me what I want? maybe I don’t want it . They’re more trouble than they’re worth” and then was glad. I do think I agree with that last one.  So after lunch we go back to her room and do the popping in of the boob like substance. I really couldn’t see a difference but I’m really not one to notice boobs. coughmencough. She seemed okay with it so all was good.

Then I get up there Wednesday and Mom is all upset. Seems there are boob storage issues. No one knew where the other one put the boob. Luckily the social worker bought back up boob. I finally found it in her bed and was declared a hero. It has now been decided that after Mom gets undressed her aide will give the boob to the nurse who will then lock it up in the cart overnight. All this for something I could make with a balloon and some pudding. But the best part of this is this: Mom now refers to it as a boob and tells people that she has a new boob. My brother said he had tears from laughing the first time she said it. I’ve never felt so powerful or so amused with my Mom.  I am Super Tia, I can find lost boobs and warp elderly minds with ease!

today I saw my parents (written 4/16/13)

while at the eye specialist with my Mom. We were waiting for her appointment, it was a long wait. I’m not sure why we were there. Her new case supervisor requested it and I’m always up for a road trip. I think these occasional visits to the specialists are kind of mean. We know nothing can help her see. Her light bulb is flickering off and her world is mostly dark. I’m a reader, it would scare me half to death. It does scare me half to death. All things considered, she is an amazing little thing. Except when she has to wait more than five minutes for anything. Then she’s a screaming three year old I bribe with graham crackers and sips of juice. We waited over an hour in the waiting room, another hour in the exam room, and forty minutes for our medi-cab home. And it was during this time of pure boredom that I started watching the others who were waiting. A man in his twenties who was there to drive his Dad, a couple of business men, a lone woman reading and texting, another nursing home resident with an aide by her side, and us: my tiny grey haired Mother and me, her slightly pudgy (I’m working on that…really) almost 50 yr old daughter. People came in and out. The floor shook a little. They are removing a building in the area and you can feel it. Mom would complain now and then. She’d doze back off. And then I saw my Dad and Mom walk in. 

I know they weren’t my parents. I’m not there yet. But they were my parents at the same time. He came first. Aging, grey, stooped over. He looked tired. And he held the hand of a little old woman. She followed along, obviously unable to see well. He wasn’t mean, he’d wait a step or two for her to catch up. He’d tell her what they were passing and she’d look less scared. That was my parents. Before that call, before I showed up and altered everything. Before Dad died. That was my parents. Married 63 years and taking care of each other all that time. Toward the end, my Dad would lead Mom around, holding her hand. He’d reassure her when she was scared and help her find the way. They were a ‘them’ forever, they took that vow and stood by it. I never saw them like that. Just that hour or two before they were separated at the hospital. But today I saw them clearly. Those two people in the waiting room, walking together holding hands were my Parents. Even though they weren’t.

the long and twisted path to here

I guess it bears telling. Three hundred years ago, but really just shy of three years, the phone rang. It was my parents neighbor or in Florida and she was concerned about them. So off I went early the next morning, down to Florida with my brother`s so I thought girlfriend but she’s a whole different story for a whole different blog. We arrived and were picked up at the airport by a resident in my folks community. We knocked on their door unannounced and life as I knew it was done.

It’s not funny yet funny that I can pinpoint the very moment my life, and theirs changed. I knew in that tiny moment of time, as my Dad answered what he thought was a friend stopping over for a chat, that they would be going  home with me. Home to NY.  I just didn’t know how,when or why.

They did come home with me, Mom by air flight that led to this nursing  home. Dad in a box at my feet in a van filled with as much of their belongings as I could fit in.

By noon of that first day I had both parents in the emergency room of their local hospital. Soon Dad was moved to ICU with double pneumonia and Mom to another wing with a severe UTI. She never saw him again. Dad died four long days later. I signed the paperwork disconnecting his support and sat with him as he died. The monster of my childhood was gone and before he lost consciousness I promised I would become my Mother’s keeper. And so I am. My other monster is now my elderly child who looks to me for the simple things I can do and the impossible I cannot. These people who were so terrible had to be forgiven. I had to let go of anger and learn compassion. They could not change, I had to.

She is near me, I am here everyday. I reassure, cajole, comfort, defend, and tend to her. I clothe her, feed her, dry her tears and when she asks me over and over  ”Tia, what am I going to do, what will happen to me”, I tell her “I don’t know Mom but we are going to get through it together. I’m not going to let you face it alone”

I am indeed my Mother’s keeper, I am her daughter in spite of our past and no matter the future.

soothing the soul

This will not be a sweet and well written blog. This will not make you laugh and see only good things. This will be an honest account of life with a Mom who is learning to die and how I became a professional daughter. My path was never meant to stray to this, I was not raised by this woman I now reassure and tend to. The woman I knew as a child is not the woman I know now. I am alone facing her now and all thoughts, comments, and shared stories are welcome. Please join me in my tears, my humor, and my path as a professional daughter.