Dear Children
I went to see your Grandmother today. I might encourage you to visit her, but truthfully I'd rather you didn't.
I would rather you remember Grandma as the woman who could pack a picnic lunch on a moment's notice, would take you down to the beach, feed you lunch on a blanket spread on the sand and watch you play all afternoon. I would rather you remember her as the woman who would walk you down to the tennis/basketball court and run after your missed shots for hours on end. I would rather you remember her as the woman who always had the cookie jar filled with your favorite cookies, the woman who served you hot chocolate after a day of sledding on their hill and the woman who attended all your high school sports events. Please remember her as she stood, camera in hand, taking years to get the shot, shaking the camera between shots because she believed it made the flash recharge more quickly. Remember the yearly photo albums she put together that contained all those moments she caught on film. Remember that woman.
Today I had to change your Grandmother's soiled underclothing. Today I had to take an ice cream cone away from her as she tried to eat the napkin wrapped around the cone. Today we sat in silence as she stared vacantly off into space with no words forming in her mind. If her thoughts were trapped inside her head she gave up trying to make them come out long ago. I love this woman, she is my mother, but she is not the woman I want to remember.
And I would rather you remember her not as she is, but as she was.
There are so many things I remember about
her: I remember her infuriating words, "Yours will be the moral
victory." I remember her having a snack waiting for me after school. I
remember her sitting at her sewing machine at the kitchen table and
making dresses, pants, tops and even winter coats. I remember her
campaigning for Barry Goldwater and Richard Nixon (we all make
mistakes). I remember her organizing the local 4H club. I remember her
getting dressed up simply to go to the local grocery store. I remember
all the things that made my childhood good, and fun and safe. All those
and more are things I want to remember. I do not believe, if she were
able to put a coherent thought together, she would want us to remember
her as she is now. I know she would be mortified if she knew what she
was doing.
And I would ask the same for me if my time comes. Remember the fun times. Remember the good times. Do not try to have me come live with you. I will be demanding. I will be confused. I will panic when left alone. I will disrupt your life in ways you can not imagine. And you WILL resent me.
I am asking you now. If the time comes, put me in a nursing home. And don't feel guilty about it. And don't come to visit me. I really won't be aware that it is Christmas or a grandchild's birthday. And it will break your heart to know I don't know who you are.
So, dear children, I am letting you off the hook now. If I should fall victim to dementia as your grandmother has, please do this one thing for me. I will bear you no ill will. I won't even know who you are.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Mom likes pancakes
The nursing home called my sister earlier this week with a report on Mom. Seems she is becoming more withdrawn and more incontinent. It is a difficult process to watch. But all we can do is deal with it. Ringing one's hands and worrying only causes callouses and frown lines.
So we continue with our usual routine as much as possible.
On Saturday we had our weekly meet-up breakfast with Mom. I arrived at the nursing home first. Mom was sleeping in her chair when I walked into her room. I let her sleep, deciding it was easier to let her continue to doze rather than wake and try to explain to her there were more people coming and we had to wait for them.
It is fairly evident Mom doesn't really know who I am. When my sisters arrived she hugged each one of them and then turned to me and wrapped her arms around me, but the look was: "I don't know who you are, but you are here and you are going to take me somewhere so I will hug you too."
It's okay. I can deal with it.
We always go to the same restaurant and I think we have become "one of the Saturday regulars." Before Dad died, my older sister took my parents out for breakfast every Saturday. They became such "regulars" at the restaurant in Ferrysburg that the staff reserved a table for them each Saturday morning. We have not yet met that status at this particular restaurant.
Mom likes our outings, although I'm not entirely certain she is always aware of her surroundings, simply getting out makes her very happy.
When the nursing home told us Mom was having difficulty swallowing we followed their instructions and eliminated bread from her diet when we went out to eat. We generally ordered something easy to swallow -- usually yogurt parfaits. That gets old. So now we have taken the attitude of "She'll be 92 in November, let her eat what she wants," and we order pancakes for her. She eats them all and hasn't choked or died yet.
Bolstered by our success with the pancakes, we then made the bold step of telling the nursing home no more "thicket" in her beverages and no more mush for meals. They were not very happy with us, but we are paying the bills. Mom now drinks regular liquids and eats regular food. I think meal time has become pleasurable for her once again. If she chokes we can always write on her headstone, "She died with her bib on."
So we continue with our usual routine as much as possible.
On Saturday we had our weekly meet-up breakfast with Mom. I arrived at the nursing home first. Mom was sleeping in her chair when I walked into her room. I let her sleep, deciding it was easier to let her continue to doze rather than wake and try to explain to her there were more people coming and we had to wait for them.
It is fairly evident Mom doesn't really know who I am. When my sisters arrived she hugged each one of them and then turned to me and wrapped her arms around me, but the look was: "I don't know who you are, but you are here and you are going to take me somewhere so I will hug you too."
It's okay. I can deal with it.
We always go to the same restaurant and I think we have become "one of the Saturday regulars." Before Dad died, my older sister took my parents out for breakfast every Saturday. They became such "regulars" at the restaurant in Ferrysburg that the staff reserved a table for them each Saturday morning. We have not yet met that status at this particular restaurant.
Mom likes our outings, although I'm not entirely certain she is always aware of her surroundings, simply getting out makes her very happy.
When the nursing home told us Mom was having difficulty swallowing we followed their instructions and eliminated bread from her diet when we went out to eat. We generally ordered something easy to swallow -- usually yogurt parfaits. That gets old. So now we have taken the attitude of "She'll be 92 in November, let her eat what she wants," and we order pancakes for her. She eats them all and hasn't choked or died yet.
Bolstered by our success with the pancakes, we then made the bold step of telling the nursing home no more "thicket" in her beverages and no more mush for meals. They were not very happy with us, but we are paying the bills. Mom now drinks regular liquids and eats regular food. I think meal time has become pleasurable for her once again. If she chokes we can always write on her headstone, "She died with her bib on."
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The dog days of summer
I took Mom out for breakfast yesterday. I had to work Saturday so I missed the traditional weekly family outing -- work is such an inconvenience.
Mom and I sat and ate our breakfast in companionable silence. If she was deep in thought those thoughts were trapped inside her mind. My mind was racing. I kept looking at her trying to decide if her appearance had truly changed or if it was her diminished mental capacity that simply made her seem different. In the end I decided I didn't know as I had never really paid that close attention to Mom's appearance. It's one of those things you never really notice until it's too late.
After breakfast I took her for a ride to Hamilton, where my sisters and I grew up.
We drove past the church we attended and I slowed down as we drove past the sledding hill that spilled out onto a pond. All the neighborhood kids would go sledding or skating on that hill/pond. But I'm told the new owner isn't inclined to let people use it. I can understand. In this days of liability and lawsuits, who wants that responsibility?
Mom stared out the window. If she knew where we were she didn't let on -- until we came to the house. She still didn't speak, but pointed to the house and tried to say something. "Yes, Mom. That's our house. I'll drive past it again." I turned the corner and turned around at the dahlia farm (so glad to see that's still there) and drove past again -- slowly. Mom looked a long time.
The first couple who bought the house after Mom and Dad sold it thought the pool Dad built in the backyard would be perfect for therapeutic use. I think they kept the pool for about a year and then realized how much work it was and filled it in. I can understand -- a little. Dad was handy and could fix almost anything so when the filter (another homemade invention by Dad) clogged Dad could tinker and it would be fixed in an hour. Mom's daily routine included skimming the bugs and leaves floating on top and then attaching a vacuum to a filter hose and cleaning the bottom of the pool. It was a tremendous amount of work.
When we first built the pool there wasn't a lot of information out there on pool maintenance. And there weren't pool stores or local stores that carried pool supplies. We had a test kit and tested ph balances and purchased chemicals for this and chemicals for that. I'm sure it was expensive and we often had pool water that varied from dirty brown to green to clear. By the time I was in high school Mom was buying a few bottles of bleach at the grocery store and dumping a bottle in every two days. The water was always crystal clear. No more testing. No more fancy chemicals. Just Mom, a vacuum and and a bottle of Clorox.
I remember those long hot dog days of summer: The sound of the water running into the pool. Mom in the kitchen, usually at the ironing board with "Talk of the Town" blaring on the radio, an industrial-sized fan sitting on the floor keeping the kitchen cool, the curtains closed to keep the afternoon sun out. We would invite neighborhood kids over to swim in the afternoon. Sometimes Mom would join us for a quick dip. She would climb down the ladder, stand on the bottom step for a minute. We would quit splashing and diving long enough for her to dog-paddle across the pool once or twice. She would get out, dry off, go back inside to change her clothes and get back to her ironing.
Around 4 every afternoon she would bring a tray of cookies and lemonade out to our screened porch and we would take a break. It was our signal that we had time for one last swim and then it was time for friends to go home.
It was a routine that was repeated week after week, year after year. One of those simple memories one tucks away and pulls out to examine and recall with fondness. I just wish I could remember Mom's face.
Mom and I sat and ate our breakfast in companionable silence. If she was deep in thought those thoughts were trapped inside her mind. My mind was racing. I kept looking at her trying to decide if her appearance had truly changed or if it was her diminished mental capacity that simply made her seem different. In the end I decided I didn't know as I had never really paid that close attention to Mom's appearance. It's one of those things you never really notice until it's too late.
After breakfast I took her for a ride to Hamilton, where my sisters and I grew up.
We drove past the church we attended and I slowed down as we drove past the sledding hill that spilled out onto a pond. All the neighborhood kids would go sledding or skating on that hill/pond. But I'm told the new owner isn't inclined to let people use it. I can understand. In this days of liability and lawsuits, who wants that responsibility?
Mom stared out the window. If she knew where we were she didn't let on -- until we came to the house. She still didn't speak, but pointed to the house and tried to say something. "Yes, Mom. That's our house. I'll drive past it again." I turned the corner and turned around at the dahlia farm (so glad to see that's still there) and drove past again -- slowly. Mom looked a long time.
The first couple who bought the house after Mom and Dad sold it thought the pool Dad built in the backyard would be perfect for therapeutic use. I think they kept the pool for about a year and then realized how much work it was and filled it in. I can understand -- a little. Dad was handy and could fix almost anything so when the filter (another homemade invention by Dad) clogged Dad could tinker and it would be fixed in an hour. Mom's daily routine included skimming the bugs and leaves floating on top and then attaching a vacuum to a filter hose and cleaning the bottom of the pool. It was a tremendous amount of work.
When we first built the pool there wasn't a lot of information out there on pool maintenance. And there weren't pool stores or local stores that carried pool supplies. We had a test kit and tested ph balances and purchased chemicals for this and chemicals for that. I'm sure it was expensive and we often had pool water that varied from dirty brown to green to clear. By the time I was in high school Mom was buying a few bottles of bleach at the grocery store and dumping a bottle in every two days. The water was always crystal clear. No more testing. No more fancy chemicals. Just Mom, a vacuum and and a bottle of Clorox.
I remember those long hot dog days of summer: The sound of the water running into the pool. Mom in the kitchen, usually at the ironing board with "Talk of the Town" blaring on the radio, an industrial-sized fan sitting on the floor keeping the kitchen cool, the curtains closed to keep the afternoon sun out. We would invite neighborhood kids over to swim in the afternoon. Sometimes Mom would join us for a quick dip. She would climb down the ladder, stand on the bottom step for a minute. We would quit splashing and diving long enough for her to dog-paddle across the pool once or twice. She would get out, dry off, go back inside to change her clothes and get back to her ironing.
Around 4 every afternoon she would bring a tray of cookies and lemonade out to our screened porch and we would take a break. It was our signal that we had time for one last swim and then it was time for friends to go home.
It was a routine that was repeated week after week, year after year. One of those simple memories one tucks away and pulls out to examine and recall with fondness. I just wish I could remember Mom's face.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Getting into the unpleasant stuff
Our older sister came from Florida to visit Mom last week. While she was here we decided to go through Mom's things and divide them.
It may sound cold and hard, but the reality is Mom will be 92 in November. We know she will not live forever. It seemed easier to do it now rather than during the emotional time following a funeral.
There was another reason we decided to divide and conquer now rather than later. After Dad died we tried having Mom live alone in their apartment for a while. It was a dismal failure. My son would often stop by to visit Mom only to find her sitting in the dark. She could not handle the loss of the man she had been with for more than 65 years. So she moved in with my sister and her husband for a while and later she came to live with King and I. During this transition period all her worldly possession had to be consolidated into the basements of two homes. My basement floods regularly and my younger sister wanted to reclaim the space my mother's possessions had taken over. One can wind ones way through boxes and boxes of "stuff" just to get to the laundry room for so long.
Mom is long past the time when she can tell us who she wants to have what, so it was left up to us to decide. And fortunately, although we may bicker occasionally, my sisters and I get along well enough that we didn't fight over possession. They are, after all, only "things."
So last weekend we went through a lifetime of fine china, sterling silver, a variety of collections and photographs. We spread them out in my younger sister's living room and spent an afternoon remembering. . . "Those were the Christmas dishes she bought in Plainwell." "That Christmas punch bowl set was unclaimed freight that they sold at the IGA." "One of Mom's sisters gave her that egg plate as a wedding gift. She couldn't remember who it was when she told me about it." "Look at this photo album I found with pictures of Dad in the army."
It was a bittersweet day. We tried to remember Mom as she was rather than the Mom she is now. Still our Mother, but not.
Meanwhile Mom is beginning to make those tentative steps toward total oblivion to her life as it once was. This past week she slipped a little further away from reality. We observe, take note and discuss, but there is little we can do but wait to see what happens next.
We take pleasure in the simple things like taking her for rides in the country and going out for coffee where we feed her pancakes and sausage, taking pleasure in thumbing our noses at the dietary restrictions she is on at the nursing home.
Sometimes it's the simple pleasures that make it easier.
It may sound cold and hard, but the reality is Mom will be 92 in November. We know she will not live forever. It seemed easier to do it now rather than during the emotional time following a funeral.
There was another reason we decided to divide and conquer now rather than later. After Dad died we tried having Mom live alone in their apartment for a while. It was a dismal failure. My son would often stop by to visit Mom only to find her sitting in the dark. She could not handle the loss of the man she had been with for more than 65 years. So she moved in with my sister and her husband for a while and later she came to live with King and I. During this transition period all her worldly possession had to be consolidated into the basements of two homes. My basement floods regularly and my younger sister wanted to reclaim the space my mother's possessions had taken over. One can wind ones way through boxes and boxes of "stuff" just to get to the laundry room for so long.
Mom is long past the time when she can tell us who she wants to have what, so it was left up to us to decide. And fortunately, although we may bicker occasionally, my sisters and I get along well enough that we didn't fight over possession. They are, after all, only "things."
So last weekend we went through a lifetime of fine china, sterling silver, a variety of collections and photographs. We spread them out in my younger sister's living room and spent an afternoon remembering. . . "Those were the Christmas dishes she bought in Plainwell." "That Christmas punch bowl set was unclaimed freight that they sold at the IGA." "One of Mom's sisters gave her that egg plate as a wedding gift. She couldn't remember who it was when she told me about it." "Look at this photo album I found with pictures of Dad in the army."
It was a bittersweet day. We tried to remember Mom as she was rather than the Mom she is now. Still our Mother, but not.
Meanwhile Mom is beginning to make those tentative steps toward total oblivion to her life as it once was. This past week she slipped a little further away from reality. We observe, take note and discuss, but there is little we can do but wait to see what happens next.
We take pleasure in the simple things like taking her for rides in the country and going out for coffee where we feed her pancakes and sausage, taking pleasure in thumbing our noses at the dietary restrictions she is on at the nursing home.
Sometimes it's the simple pleasures that make it easier.
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