Tag Archives: Mom

If My Mother Was My Boss…

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The holidays had brought forth what felt like the Twelve Days of Mom.

In that approximate time, Mom experienced two ER runs, one in which I drove her, the other in which I didn’t dare. She was diagnosed with three infections, multiple scab wounds, pain and discomfort from shingles, a disease for which most folks are given chicken pox vaccinations, or don’t live long enough to experience the adult onset of chicken pox. And a week of the runs caused another ER run.

And this was AFTER Mom’s trifecta of seizures, soap swallowing and sun exposure earlier in the year. (See soap blog, part 1 and part 2).

By the end of the year, I was tired. I pondered a change.

Back in my corporate days, New Year’s had signaled job change. Or at least, looking for a new one. The rush of the holidays always led to a significant energy drain. Like any good employee, I directly attributed the drain to my job or boss, but never myself.

As 2017 approached, I had found myself in the same mode. Tired. The kind of tiredness that comes from knowing what comes next in my mother’s moment, and also, not knowing.

At month’s end, when I spoke to her house doctor, he flipped through her bulging chart. After five minutes or so, he looked up at me. “She’s one tough lady and you have one tough boss.”

Yes, in what job could I be employed by a boss who forgot all the good years I had put in, for the sake of one awful moment in which I accidentally bumped Mom while trying to hold down her arm so the nurse could get the blood pressure cuff around her triceps long enough for Mom to yell, “Oh, no, oh wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute?”

In what job could I work for a boss who voices a long stretch of No’s when she doesn’t like something? Remember what Ralphie said about his dad in A Christmas Story? “In the heat of battle my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.” If Mom were still in northern Ohio, she would have blanketed all five Great Lakes with her words.

Where else could I find work where I will never get a promotion? In fact, I’m not sure I would want a promotion, because that would mean the woman I worked for is no longer in need of me. In essence, downsizing of the most tragic kind.

Where else could I be chastised by the boss for what I was wearing, as if there was a dress code for visitors at the care home? “What the hell are those things on your feet?” “Umm, boots?”

In what job could I endure my boss’s harassment for which there is no name? Its not ageist, nor sexist. The closest approximation I can come is reverse genetic harassment, in that my boss only harasses those to whom she gave birth to and is directly related.

Where else could I work where there is no strategic planning by the boss? When I plan to visit for the Christmas show, my boss takes a snooze. When I hope to bring the boss home, my boss bawls loudly and sometimes growls.

Where else could I sit at a job, thinking about all the other things I could be doing while my boss is fast asleep, but holding me in place by the death grip? If she couldn’t leave, neither could I.

In the end, the calendar turned over. My tiredness waned.

Lucky for Mom – and me – she was not my boss. But if the years with Mom taught me anything, my most important job was to sit in her quiet space and make room to meet her where she was, ER or not, furniture mover and all, and hope to one day receive a raise in hugs.

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Filed under alzheimer's, arden courts, care partner, dementia, summer, Uncategorized

Still Saving Seats in Old Age

FullSizeRender-28Big, burly Jack moved closer to the adjacent chair.  Jack was saving that seat in the activities’ room for Emma. But Emma was already gone.

With youthful-bobbed white hair, Emma had been a resident at Mom’s care home. Always upbeat, Emma never stopped smiling, could still stroll the path at the former Blue Ash airport, and waxed poetically about times when she was little.

Emma’s husband had passed away, prior to her entering Arden Courts. Rumor was, Emma also had a boyfriend named “Jack” before her family had admitted her to the care home. When Emma arrived at Arden, she was soon found seated in the westside parlor with another resident, Big Jack. The two could be seen finding humor in themselves (see Vignettes from a Care Home), gazing out the window, or interacting with visitors and staff.

The parlor faced the secure door. Oftentimes, upon my entry, I gravitated towards Emma and Jack first, before seeing my Mom, and offered a hug, a laugh, a where have you been sort of joke to turn the tables on their lives and mine. Their presence, an unusual lightness in their togetherness as Jack was always seated on the chair and Emma on the love seat, lifted and warmed me before I would learn what condition or mood I might find Mom in for the day.

It was as if the two had already shared lifetime together.

Both residents possessed moderate cognitive impairment. For caregivers and staff, who care for more difficult cases and love each person for who they are, residents like Emma and Jack were subtle reminders of the lives residents used to lead, the persons they used to be before they slipped out of those skins. Emma and Jack were also tokens of how sneaky and impactful love can be.

Their joy in each other’s company was evident, palpable, such that I often sat with Mom in their company to relish in that bliss. Theirs was the purest form of love.

Emma had found joy in someone who she didn’t know where he had worked. Jack had discovered delight without knowing how many children Emma had birthed. Neither had known where the other one lived or was born or what was important to them, though I suspect some topics might have risen to the surface and then soon were let go. The only thing each of them remembered was love.

One morning, I arrived to learn Emma’s son had moved her to another care home. That event occurred often, when the money ran out, when the siblings fought, when the individual progressed into a new phase of the disease.

There was never a guarantee that the first place or the best place would be the last place.

Now, I see Jack sitting behind his walker in his usual chair near the exit door, as if ready to depart. The caregivers informed me he is still saving a seat for Emma, yet his disposition is as corny as ever. “Dad” jokes come to mind. Jack still returns hugs when I offer my arms. When I say, “I’m off to go see my mom,” Jack responds, “Tell her I said hello, would ya?”

As for Emma, love had left her time and again. But she didn’t act like a person who would ever lose the capacity to love. Emma will offer and find love at her next place, of that I am certain.

Perhaps Emma’s time with the residents was to give just that, the ability to love again.

And the empty seat next to Jack? The ratio of women to men in memory care centers is 3:1. Sadly, plenty of women will arrive to take Emma’s place. But I hope Jack stands (or sits) his ground, and doesn’t relinquish that chair, as a reminder of how fleeting and precarious unions can be, and yet still be profound.

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Filed under alois alzheimer center, alzheimer's, arden courts, best place, dementia, dementia in men, mom, Uncategorized

Hugs Not Hikes

Every year, I say, “I’m not gonna do it.”

Register for another walk, another march to “end” a disease. Another two-mile jaunt with balloons, strollers, drawn-out faces or heavy breaths. Another fundraiser where one can secure a FAST PASS, meant for the elders perhaps, to the front of the registration line or be handed a bag of goodies for sponsors or items not needed.

My mother’s condition was never diagnosed as Alzheimer’s, based on scientific testing, hers was of the slow-slide dementia variety. But there is no “walk for dementia awareness”, so naturally most efforts fall under the Alzheimer’s category, because its an identifiable name.

FullSizeRender copy 10“I’m not gonna walk, to end Alzheimer’s,” I say, as I sit with Mom these days, and wonder how she is still here, when her present lasts only seconds and her past does not exist. Then she glances at me, and smiles. Mom’s is a child-like smile, unlike any witnessed in younger, more somber photos of her, as if not wanting to participate in the ritual.

Mom’s smile causes me to gasp, especially when she says goodbye to my son, off to college. He won’t see her until Christmas. She is seated in the sunshine on a worn wooden bench in full view of the burnt orange mums recently planted, and the fountain which will be turned off soon, its gurgling gone away. My son leans his lithe body into her and gives one last squeeze. Mom receives the squeeze with grace.

She reaches up, beaming. “Goodbye, sweetie,” she says, brushing his cheeks with her still soft hands, as if years of Jergen’s lotion really did the job. I am near tears, remembering how she used to cradle a five-pounder in her arms. Nana’s little snuggler.

“I’m not gonna walk this year,” I think, noting her stature has shrunk now, following two seizures, which impacted her posture. She has a permanent “lean in” which would make Cheryl Sandberg jealous. As we stand and I try to straighten her, l lift her arms past the shoulders and tell her we are practicing sun salutations. Mom would kill me if she knew this was yoga.

She wobbles to keep her balance while I support her arms overhead. Then, she really leans in – to me – and nestles into the crook between my head and heart. She has become the snuggler now. Clutching, grasping, patting my back.

“I’m not gonna walk this year,” I tell myself, then encounter the brave caregivers who stroll corridors with or chase down Mom and respond to her every need. Or I am met with the real, live bodies of other residents in mother’s care home. With Jim and Ella, I am discussing the pope. “Well, I haven’t seen him in a while,” Jim says. And Ella says, “I really haven’t been watching television,” despite my last visit when Ella was in the room while we were watching news about the pope’s upcoming visit.

“I’m not gonna walk,” I say. Then Matty smiles at me while eating a late lunch or early dinner, as I spy her through the window of her dining space. She rarely is without grasping the arms of a male, whatever male is in her reach, to lead, coax, sit with or share. I wonder what her marriage must have been like.

Then I sit at lunch with Madge, and she says, “Everybody get out of my house.” And  I’m ready to high tail it out of there, given her mood shifts. But I don’t.

Or I place a red cowboy hat on Sue Ann’s head, for “cowboy day,” knowing she used to listen to Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton. She giggles and hums.

“I’m not gonna walk, “I say. Then, I’ll lead Mom around her hallways, occasionally attempting to move her outside because it’s warm. She is reluctant because if the sun is not out, she doesn’t consider the temperature warm.

To exit, we have to dance around Gerry, the caregiver, and another resident, Karen. Karen’s young life at age 60 was once full. It still is, only now her days are spent walking, walking, walking. She never sits long, not even to eat. She is thin, worrisome on her best day, agitated on her worst.

“I’m not gonna walk,” I think. Then Karen’s eyes light up when she spots me. I hold her in a long embrace. Karen has a grip on me and I am OK with that, despite Mom’s impatience. “C’mon, c’mon,” she chides, moving me out of her way.

I wish this walk wouldn’t use such an impractical phrase as, “Walk to End Alzheimer’s.” The writer in me believes the slogan feels more like a gimmick than goal. But what I really want is for walks to be replaced by hugs. Hugs to raise money. Hugs to end our fears. Hugs to “lean in” to the nakedness and vulnerability we have all felt at times. Hugs to remember the humans inside each of these creatures that look, sound and yes, even act like the rest of us.

Regardless, this year, I’ll walk.

But next year, I’m gonna hug my way through the day, knowing that fierce hugs ignite a brain in a way medicine and marches cannot.

 

 

 

*All names, with the exception of Mom’s, have been changed.

 

 

 

 

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