We learn a new word

Sometimes you have to wonder if there isn't just a little bit of over-kill in Mom's care. Oh, don't get me wrong, I think the staff at the nursing home takes very good care of her. And I'm sure in this age of lawsuits and litigation it is always safe to err on the side of caution. But sometimes you have to wonder if the fear of being sued makes for many cases of overkill.

That said, King and I have been on the giving end of a lawsuit. I have little use or tolerance for people who sue. Don't even joke about it around me.

But I digress.

Mom has Dysphagia -- a fancy name for difficulty swallowing. Apparently it is common in people who have had strokes or who have dementia. Mom falls into both categories. This isn't just a problem with swallowing foods, Mom can choke and sputter while drinking a glass of water.  I believe the staff at the nursing home has had to use the Heimlich maneuver on Mom twice when she has choked on food. That can be a scary thing.

So Mom has joined the ranks of those who "enjoy" the benefits of having a thickening agent added to her beverages. There is a name for this stuff, but at the risk of being sued I will not mention it here.

Suffice it to say, it's gross. Her chocolate milk becomes pudding, her water becomes something that looks like gelatin. You can actually turn her glass over and the stuff inside plops out. I can understand how this prevents her from choking on liquids --after her first sip (or whatever it is one does to ingest this stuff) Mom doesn't finish it. Perhaps that is the reason she is hoarding drinking glasses.

I have a cousin who had a stroke many, many years ago. His wife related a story of how he was in a rehab facility and the occupational therapist came into the room and suggested he use a thickening agent for a while. His 95-year-old roommate sat up in bed and shouted, "Don't do it!"

I guess it's pretty obvious my sisters and I aren't big fans of this stuff. And therein lies the rub. . . do you take it away from her and run the risk of her choking on her water, or do you make her eat/drink this stuff knowing she doesn't like it? Where does one draw the line with a 91 year old?

My sisters and I take Mom out for breakfast every Saturday. Mom can no longer order from a menu -- she can read the words, but they have no meaning -- so we order for her. It's her one day a week to eat what she likes (or what she used to like, who knows if she still does) and drink coffee. We will take full responsibility for her. She loves the coffee. She will empty her cup while ours are still half full. She will tip her empty cup forward and peer into it, a look of disappointment on her face. But when the waitress comes around for refills Mom almost always puts her hand over her cup. . . she doesn't want more.

There is no way of knowing what she is thinking. I suspect, however, she is obsessing about whether we are taking her someplace different to live and if not, how she will be able to find he way  to her room. I think she is convinced we will drop her off at the door and wave goodbye, leaving her to her own devices to find her way.

Or maybe she's just anxious to get back and drink her chocolate milk with a spoon.

The grass is always greener when you have hindsight

It's a beautiful day. Just a hint of a warm up and blue skies to come. . . and the lilacs . . . they smell heavenly. I think, maybe, if I don't say it too loudly, spring is finally here.

It is difficult to believe it was just a year ago Mom was still living with us. And it's funny how one can look back and forget the unpleasant parts and remember only the good. I suppose that is as it should be.

When Mom first moved in with us, I had this dreadful, sinking feeling of being trapped. And lets be honest. I was. If Mom was in her bedroom putting pin curls in her hair and I slipped into the bathroom she would have a panic attack. I would hear Mom calling out, "Where is she? Where is she?" It would do no good to yell after her as she could not hear a thing. It also did no good to tell her where I was going before hand as she would forget as soon as she got busy with something else. I would hear the front door slam and I knew she was heading out in the yard to look for me. And I would run out of the bathroom pulling my my pants as I ran, yelling, "I'm here Mom. I'm right here."

I would find Mom in the driveway, spinning around looking for me, a look of shear terror in her eyes.

"Mom, I've told you I will never go anywhere without you. Remember?" Of course she didn't remember. Why did I bother asking? It was a scene that played over and over again.

But we had a routine. And I kind of miss that.

Up in the morning, take our granddaughter to school, out for coffee at her favorite coffee spot -- Golden Brown Bakery. Home. Pretend to work in the garden. Mom could get on her knees and weed with the best of them, but at 90 she could not work more than 20 minutes at a stretch -- and  King and I tend 22 raised flower and herb beds in addition to three large vegetable gardens -- so weeding with Mom was slow going. I made her quit long before she would have given up. I did not want to be the one to have to tell my sisters I killed Mom by making her weed the garden.

After making an attempt at weeding we would head back into the house to fix lunch for "the man," (which is what she calls all of our husbands).

I suppose it is the promise of spring finally arriving that made me remember these little things. It was our routine. It's what we did.

We spent a lot of time riding through the woods in the golf cart. Afternoon would come and I'd try to get Mom to sit and relax a little. But she would get antsy so I'd load her back into the car and we'd drive past the lighthouse or get an ice cream cone.

It became difficult to watch Mom in the kitchen. Cooking -- something she had done all her life -- became foreign to her. Ask her to put 12 cups of water in a pot to make syrup for the humming bird feeders and she had no idea what you wanted. But give her a dust mop and she would clean the wooden floors all day. It hurt Mom's sense of sensibility and order to see dog hairs on the floor. Since we have a St. Bernard, there was plenty of opportunity for her to maintain her desire for cleanliness. I look at my floors now, sigh and break out the dust mop myself. But not daily.

I would give Mom simple tasks. "What to help me peel the potatoes Mom?" "How about setting the table?" It was a lesson in patience all over again. Her help was much like the help a four-year-old offers. I learned to slow down. I could peel five potatoes to her one. What was the hurry? The woman who used to host Republican Women teas could no longer remember where silverware went. But lets face it, food tastes the same whether  the fork is next to the knife, in the middle of the plate, or next to the water glass.Maybe a salad does taste good with grape jelly on it. "Go ahead and set the jelly next to the salad dressing, Mom. Maybe someone would like to try it."

Those were some of the most difficult times of my life and I miss them.


At the nursing home Mom continues to help set the table before meals. The staff looks on her as a hoarder but  I am certain when she takes water glasses to the table she has every intention of setting them at her table-mates' plates. But by the time she gets to the table she forgets why she has four extra glasses in her hands and places them all at her space. Sometimes she realizes her mistake and will take the glasses back to her room with her. An attempt, I am also certain,  to hide the fact she did something "wrong."

We can smile, nod and wink at her swiss cheese memory (as in it's full of holes). And we often do. It's not at her expense, believe me. It's simply coping mechanism. 

Happy Mother's Day

Both of my grandmothers passed away before I was old enough to realize who they were. So it was that Mother's Day was always spent at home with Mom rather than spending it visiting relatives. (Visiting relatives on Sunday was a common practice as we were growing up). But on Mother's Day we would go to church in the morning and fix lunch for Mom after Sunday School. In the afternoon we would sometimes take a ride through the country, ending up at the Saugatuck Drug Store for an ice cream soda.That was our tradition.

I also recall it being a tradition to get Mom a corsage each Mother's Day. She would proudly pin it to her dress and wear it to church on Sunday morning. At least for several years anyway. I know when my sisters were older they drove to Holland to pick up a corsage for Mom. I'm guessing Dad did it before they were old enough to drive. I don't ever remember driving to Holland myself. Was I a bad daughter? Am I still one today?

My first Mother's Day spent away from home was my freshman year in college. Exams were the following week so I stayed on campus to study. Sort of study anyway. Dad  let me take the car back to Mount Pleasant the weekend before so I could bring all the junk I had accumulated in my dorm room back home with me for the summer. I am certain I probably spent the weekend enjoying having a car on campus and enjoying my last bit of freedom before returning to Dad's ever watchful eye.

As I got older traditions slowly changed.

Over the years we had Mother's Day cookouts at Mom and Dad's house in Glenn. We went to Mother's Day brunches in Grand Haven. We spent one Mother's Day planting flowers in Mom's backyard. We had cookouts at our home in Alma . . . the location wasn't a tradition. Getting together generally was.

Last year, Mom was living with us on Mother's Day. My sister came, we went to church and had lunch at home. Who would have known it was probably the last Mother's Day Mom would actually celebrate?

This year the nursing home had a Mother's Day brunch on Saturday. A staff member told us they scheduled the brunch on Saturday so families could still get together to do their own thing on Sunday. Sad? Yes. True? Very.

Two of my sisters, our granddaughter and my niece attended the brunch. My niece had been away at college this past year. I think it broke her heart when Mom kept asking who she was. And it's frustrating because none of us are sure when we answer whether Mom can't hear us or can't comprehend what we are telling her. But the recognition is gone. Also gone is the realization it was Mother's Day and the memory of what the day is.

So this year was a very different Mother's Day. We went to our son's home in Grand Haven. We walked on the pier, had burritos and ice cream along the way and enjoyed being with family. The day was perfect. We played with grandchildren, had adult conversations, sat barefoot in the grass and simply relaxed.

Our son asked why we didn't bring Grandma with us. I don't think he fully understands. Mom would last maybe 45 minutes and then be ready to go home. Not just a desire, but a frantic insistence we take her back. Not even borderline panic, but full-out panic. And the questions would begin: Would we take her back home or to someplace new?  Would we just drop her off? She is never sure she can find her room on her own. Could we help her find her room?

And although just a year ago, Mom was kneeling in the garden with me pulling weeds, she could never have walked down the boardwalk.

It's funny how things change. In two years a newborn will go from being a helpless creature to a will-full child eager to explore and test his/her limits. In two years Mom has gone from a woman who was mourning the loss of her beloved spouse to a woman who no longer recognizes his photo.

I look at posts on Facebook from friends who have lost their Mothers. They post about how they are thinking of them and remembering the good times shared. I realize I am fortunate and can still sit with my Mom, hold her hand, and share a cup of coffee. In that respect I am still very, very, lucky. But I have to confess. I do miss my Mother.

Lessons learned at my Mother's knee

Did you ever notice how everyone seems to be peeking over the fence making certain no one has it better than they do? Or if someone is commenting (ok, complaining) about something in their life that they don’t like, another person will chime in and tell their story of woe which tops the original story?

It’s all called one-up-man-ship.

I’m not certain why it is, but it seems quite prevalent throughout society today. One-up-man-ship and religion are probably the two biggest reasons for war. It’s no wonder countries can’t get along when neighbors and friends can’t get along.

Then there’s the “But s/he started it,” tale of placing the blame.

I pulled that one on Mom . . . once.  It went over like a cement duck.

I don’t recall the circumstances, but I do remember there was a regular neighborhood war between several kids. Back then most parents were smart enough to stay out of childhood spats knowing children would fight and quarrel and make up the next day. Older more mature adults were wise enough to know it was best not to get involved.

It was a rude awakening for me when our children were small and I found parents would become involved in their children’s battles.  I watched many adult friendships fall by the wayside because children would fight and parents would join the fray.  What great lessons for children. 

However, I digress.

I remember coming into the house full of indignation about some travesty that had occurred. Mom informed me I needed to apologize.  I didn’t see the need for an apology.

“But she started it,” I wailed.

“And you are going to be the bigger person and finish it,” was Mom's reply. At least she didn’t tell me "Yours will be the moral victory."  We often heard those words from Mom.

In my years as a reporter I watched with bemused detachment as one faction argued with another.

Bitter angry words would be exchanged and it seldom lead to resolution.  

King, before he retired, probably had to deal with more than his share of teen battles, retaliations and the like.  Teen angst can be difficult. Parental involvement can be devastating. 

The lesson learned from Mom could go a long way for everyone. For the little spats in life, for the small disagreements, for the peeking over the fence and trying for one-up-man-ship, being the bigger person can go a long way.