I am like my mother in more ways than people realize.
This past week I discovered Mom is claustrophobic. They were stitching her forehead closed after her Mohs surgery. The doctor draped her face with a cloth while she stitched the wound and Mom panicked. Oh how I can relate. The doctor kept asking, "Can you feel this? Just a little pressure. It will be over."
Ok. One: She CAN NOT HEAR YOU. Two: Even if she could hear you, she can't comprehend what you are staying. Three: She is panicking because her face is covered.
I have yet to be able to make it through a sleep study. I can not tolerate a mask over my face. I mentioned this to my new doctor. I get the same response I get from every other doctor: "Did you try different kinds of masks?" Ummm, yes. Do you really think I'm that stupid? I didn't spend a million years in medical school, but I do have some modicum of intelligence. Study up on it. True claustrophobia is very real and the panic is very real.
There are those who insist it's just a matter of mind over matter. Really? When the walls are closing in, your heart is racing, your face gets flushed and the air seems to be sucked from your lungs, it's simply mind over matter? Ok. I hope it works for someone.
I read an online article edited by some doctor somewhere on how to overcome claustrophobia. In order to test to see if you have true claustrophobia it was suggested to have an MRI. Seriously? Get into a small, enclosed container to see if your brain waves register you have claustrophobia? What kind of stupid is that? More proof that if you read it on the internet is probably is NOT true.
However, once again I've gone off on a seemingly non-related tangent.
Mom and I have something else in common. We both despise tattletales. (Truthfully, I'm guessing everyone does).
But Mom's way of handling is was probably unique.
Run to Mom with tales of some perceived injustice committed by either a sibling or friend and she more often than not would say something like, "I think maybe you need a break from (whomever). Why don't you go to your room (clean the barn, sweep the garage, do the dishes etc). It was effective.
But some tattletales never grew up.
Ever get copied in on an e-mail where your supervisor, your supervisor's supervisor, the president of the company and your spouses supervisor were copied in as well? Guess what? That's just an "adult" version of being a tattle-tale. What about all the outing on Facebook and Twitter? They are just a new version of the age-old tattling.
Perhaps we all need to spend some time in our rooms or cleaning the garage.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Gave Chris a sparkler
Mom had a cancer spot on her forehead and for some reason my sisters and I decided to have it removed. I'm not really certain why we did it. It was a basal cell carcinoma, which means it would not metastasize to other parts of her body. At 91 . . . well, I'm just not certain what we were thinking. I suppose one always wants the best for their parent, but I'm not totally convinced this was the best for Mom. In retrospect, I believe my sisters are of the same opinion.
Mom really can't understand what is happening. Thinking she can't hear us, we have started writing her notes, but she really can't understand the written word any longer either. She can still read them, but they are simply words on paper.
So today King and I took her to have Mohs surgery.
The surgery can be a long process. They cut out the cancer, cauterize the wound while they send the patient out to a waiting room while they study the removed cells under a microscope to determine if there is still cancer. It can take anywhere from an hour to two hours to study the cells. If they still find cancer cells, they call the patient back in and remove some more. The entire procedure can take several hours -- to almost a full day. Fortunately for us they were able to remove all the cancer on the first try. I don't think Mom could have gone through round two or three or four.
I sat with Mom through the procedure and held her hands. The hands that cooked our meals, sewed our clothes, brushed our hair and even held the end of a lead line for the horses. (Although Mom was not the bravest of women when it came to the horses). I would know those hands anywhere -- despite the gnarled joints and countless age spots. I studied her wedding ring for the first time in years (mostly to keep from passing out while they sutured her forehead closed). Her wedding band and engagement ring are close to 70 years old and still beautiful.
Mom showed me Dad's journal from WWII once. Dad was not a wordsmith. Sometimes the entries said simply, "We marched today," or, "Swam in the ocean." The one I remember the most was, "Gave Chris a sparkler." I remember asking Mom why Dad gave her a sparkler when it wasn't anywhere near the Fourth of July.
"He gave me an engagement ring," Mom told me. I was a very young child at the time. "But why did he call it a sparkler?"
"That's just your father," was all Mom said.
Looking back, and having spent the past 37 years with one of the most unromantic men in the world, I guess I can forgive my father for his lack of details. Dad always was a man of few words.
Mom really can't understand what is happening. Thinking she can't hear us, we have started writing her notes, but she really can't understand the written word any longer either. She can still read them, but they are simply words on paper.
So today King and I took her to have Mohs surgery.
The surgery can be a long process. They cut out the cancer, cauterize the wound while they send the patient out to a waiting room while they study the removed cells under a microscope to determine if there is still cancer. It can take anywhere from an hour to two hours to study the cells. If they still find cancer cells, they call the patient back in and remove some more. The entire procedure can take several hours -- to almost a full day. Fortunately for us they were able to remove all the cancer on the first try. I don't think Mom could have gone through round two or three or four.
I sat with Mom through the procedure and held her hands. The hands that cooked our meals, sewed our clothes, brushed our hair and even held the end of a lead line for the horses. (Although Mom was not the bravest of women when it came to the horses). I would know those hands anywhere -- despite the gnarled joints and countless age spots. I studied her wedding ring for the first time in years (mostly to keep from passing out while they sutured her forehead closed). Her wedding band and engagement ring are close to 70 years old and still beautiful.
Mom showed me Dad's journal from WWII once. Dad was not a wordsmith. Sometimes the entries said simply, "We marched today," or, "Swam in the ocean." The one I remember the most was, "Gave Chris a sparkler." I remember asking Mom why Dad gave her a sparkler when it wasn't anywhere near the Fourth of July.
"He gave me an engagement ring," Mom told me. I was a very young child at the time. "But why did he call it a sparkler?"
"That's just your father," was all Mom said.
Looking back, and having spent the past 37 years with one of the most unromantic men in the world, I guess I can forgive my father for his lack of details. Dad always was a man of few words.
Friday, January 10, 2014
A new twist
My sister received a call today from the nursing home. Mom choked on a cookie and they had to do the Heimlich maneuver on her. Mom has had a choking problem a few times before so they have her on a soft food diet.
I didn't get the text message from my sister about the incident until late tonight so I didn't make the trip to Holland to visit Mom. I talked to my sister as soon as I read the text and she said Mom is fine. In fact, Mom didn't mention it to either of my sisters when they visited today. I doubt she remembered, or perhaps she didn't know how to put it into words. The other residents, however, were quite excited and talkative, so my sisters got all the details.
I did a little internet research and choking common for people with dementia.
I kind of feel numb. It's not like it's "Oh my God what are we going to do now?" It's more of a big sigh and a "Guess this is one more thing poor Mom has to deal with, except she has no idea what is happening." And there is no way to explain it to her.
Sometimes during the day I find myself thinking about Mom and wonder what she is doing. I know in years past she used to do the same with me as occasionally she would call for no particular reason just to ask how I was doing.
"It's snowing today and I was thinking about you and your sisters and remembering how you would go sledding at the hill," Mom would say. "I was wondering what you were doing." And we would chat for a while. I would fill her in on what the kids were doing and tell her about projects I was working on at home, or gripe about the latest travesty at work. She liked to touch base and I enjoyed talking to her.
But now I wonder if she is sitting in her chair, looking out the window at the storm and if she can remember any of the past snow storms we had.
The staff at the home tells us she participates in all the activities they offer. Her room is filled with the simple crafts they do. On some level, it must remind Mom of her sewing projects she did throughout her life. How I wish I could show the staff the clothes she used to make: my sister's wedding dress, all my maternity clothes, a red wool coat with embroidered hearts when I was in the third grade. . . I remember coming home from school and Mom would be sitting at the sewing machine at the kitchen table, finishing the last seam before putting everything away so she could start dinner. (Or waiting for us to come home so she could pin a hem for hand stitching in the evening).
Mom loved to sew and I hated it. In fact, Mom, I have a confession to make. I am the one who carved "I hate sewing" in your sewing machine case.
But I think you knew that.
I didn't get the text message from my sister about the incident until late tonight so I didn't make the trip to Holland to visit Mom. I talked to my sister as soon as I read the text and she said Mom is fine. In fact, Mom didn't mention it to either of my sisters when they visited today. I doubt she remembered, or perhaps she didn't know how to put it into words. The other residents, however, were quite excited and talkative, so my sisters got all the details.
I did a little internet research and choking common for people with dementia.
I kind of feel numb. It's not like it's "Oh my God what are we going to do now?" It's more of a big sigh and a "Guess this is one more thing poor Mom has to deal with, except she has no idea what is happening." And there is no way to explain it to her.
Sometimes during the day I find myself thinking about Mom and wonder what she is doing. I know in years past she used to do the same with me as occasionally she would call for no particular reason just to ask how I was doing.
"It's snowing today and I was thinking about you and your sisters and remembering how you would go sledding at the hill," Mom would say. "I was wondering what you were doing." And we would chat for a while. I would fill her in on what the kids were doing and tell her about projects I was working on at home, or gripe about the latest travesty at work. She liked to touch base and I enjoyed talking to her.
But now I wonder if she is sitting in her chair, looking out the window at the storm and if she can remember any of the past snow storms we had.
The staff at the home tells us she participates in all the activities they offer. Her room is filled with the simple crafts they do. On some level, it must remind Mom of her sewing projects she did throughout her life. How I wish I could show the staff the clothes she used to make: my sister's wedding dress, all my maternity clothes, a red wool coat with embroidered hearts when I was in the third grade. . . I remember coming home from school and Mom would be sitting at the sewing machine at the kitchen table, finishing the last seam before putting everything away so she could start dinner. (Or waiting for us to come home so she could pin a hem for hand stitching in the evening).
Mom loved to sew and I hated it. In fact, Mom, I have a confession to make. I am the one who carved "I hate sewing" in your sewing machine case.
But I think you knew that.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Search and destroy missions
King has a propensity for misplacing his keys, my keys and the keys of others. Some might think it is an act of forgetfulness, but I truly believe he does it on purpose because he enjoys watching me come unglued.
Since we have been married I have crawled through more windows, used more coat hangers to break into cars, and dismantled more car interiors than I care to remember.
There was the time when we were moving from Ohio back to Michigan when King lost his car keys while we were packing the moving van and loading cars. We unloaded everything, went through boxes and furniture and ended up dismantling the back seat of the car to get into the trunk -- only to find the keys on the roof of the small shed next to the driveway.
Or the time he picked up my sister's car from the repair shop and then left to play golf . . .with her keys tucked neatly into his golf bag.
And speaking of golf . . . he is forever misplacing his cell phone or wallet in his golf bag. A golf bag must have at least 100 little zippered compartments and bottomless side pockets where, despite my having been on a search and destroy mission 10 minutes previously, he seems to find the missing object. This is after I have dumped clubs, tees and golf balls all over the living room. He simply shakes his head and says, "See it is right here. Why didn't you check this pocket?" It has reduced me to tears on numerous occasions.
The keys are generally kept in one of about 50 places . . .the kitchen table, the dining room table, the book stand, the desk, his dresser, his coat pocket, in the car console, on the floor of the car, on the seat of the car. It is my daily mission to find the current location. I suspect he does this to watch me run from place to place and go in and out of the house looking for them.
I don't need things to be neat and orderly, I just want him to pick one place -- any place -- to leave the damn keys so I don't have to have frantic mornings looking for them.
Life used to be so much more simple. . . When I was growing up Dad had a simple place to keep the car keys (and I don't believe we even had house keys). The keys were kept in the ignition. His belief was if the car was in the driveway and no one had need of it, it was there for the taking.
But that freedom came with a caveat: Dad's rules were to be followed -- to the letter. And he had just two: 1) We were not to "ride the circuit" on Eighth Street in Holland, and 2) we were not to ride on motorcycles. (His belief was girls were not to "advertise" themselves as "available" by looking for boys on Eighth Street).
"I don't care if you want to hang out in the Blue Tempo in Saugatuck -- if that's what you want to do that's fine," he would say. "But if I ever hear of you riding on Eighth Street you are grounded for life." He meant it too. I don't know if he realized the Blue Tempo was one of the first openly gay bars in the state, so looking back, his point was rather moot, but we got the gist of it.. . stay off Eighth Street.
As an aside, I know a lot of young women from Hamilton who met their future husbands on Eighth Street. I met King at a bar in Mount Pleasant, although he claims he would have eventually introduced himself in the library.
Had I known at the time his propensity for lost keys . . . I probably would have married him anyway.
Since we have been married I have crawled through more windows, used more coat hangers to break into cars, and dismantled more car interiors than I care to remember.
There was the time when we were moving from Ohio back to Michigan when King lost his car keys while we were packing the moving van and loading cars. We unloaded everything, went through boxes and furniture and ended up dismantling the back seat of the car to get into the trunk -- only to find the keys on the roof of the small shed next to the driveway.
Or the time he picked up my sister's car from the repair shop and then left to play golf . . .with her keys tucked neatly into his golf bag.
And speaking of golf . . . he is forever misplacing his cell phone or wallet in his golf bag. A golf bag must have at least 100 little zippered compartments and bottomless side pockets where, despite my having been on a search and destroy mission 10 minutes previously, he seems to find the missing object. This is after I have dumped clubs, tees and golf balls all over the living room. He simply shakes his head and says, "See it is right here. Why didn't you check this pocket?" It has reduced me to tears on numerous occasions.
The keys are generally kept in one of about 50 places . . .the kitchen table, the dining room table, the book stand, the desk, his dresser, his coat pocket, in the car console, on the floor of the car, on the seat of the car. It is my daily mission to find the current location. I suspect he does this to watch me run from place to place and go in and out of the house looking for them.
I don't need things to be neat and orderly, I just want him to pick one place -- any place -- to leave the damn keys so I don't have to have frantic mornings looking for them.
Life used to be so much more simple. . . When I was growing up Dad had a simple place to keep the car keys (and I don't believe we even had house keys). The keys were kept in the ignition. His belief was if the car was in the driveway and no one had need of it, it was there for the taking.
But that freedom came with a caveat: Dad's rules were to be followed -- to the letter. And he had just two: 1) We were not to "ride the circuit" on Eighth Street in Holland, and 2) we were not to ride on motorcycles. (His belief was girls were not to "advertise" themselves as "available" by looking for boys on Eighth Street).
"I don't care if you want to hang out in the Blue Tempo in Saugatuck -- if that's what you want to do that's fine," he would say. "But if I ever hear of you riding on Eighth Street you are grounded for life." He meant it too. I don't know if he realized the Blue Tempo was one of the first openly gay bars in the state, so looking back, his point was rather moot, but we got the gist of it.. . stay off Eighth Street.
As an aside, I know a lot of young women from Hamilton who met their future husbands on Eighth Street. I met King at a bar in Mount Pleasant, although he claims he would have eventually introduced himself in the library.
Had I known at the time his propensity for lost keys . . . I probably would have married him anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)