For those who have never lived it . . .

Few things are as hurtful as those well-meaning (and I use the term loosely) people who will say things like, "We kept Mom with us to the very end. I would never put her in a home," or "I don't think I would have been much of a child had I sent Dad to a nursing home."

Really? Is that what you think? We don't love Mom enough to keep her with us? To them all I can say is: "If you haven't lived it, please don't say anything.You have no clue." And if I were to wish to be as hurtful as they are I would add: "And you are the meanest jerk on the face of the earth." I might even add some expletives, but I'm trying to cut down on my swearing. Mom always said: Swearing is the sign of a weak mind.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than having to visit Mom in the nursing home. My heart aches every time I walk into the building and search for her (she likes to wander) only to find her sitting in her wheelchair staring absently at a television screen. She has learned how to scoot around the building (in her wheelchair) and one evening my sister found her in a lounge area staring at a wall. Apparently she could not figure out how to move backwards.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could bring Mom home and assimilate her into the household once again. But Mom isn't Mom any longer. She can't do simple things like bathe herself, brush her teeth, use the toilet or get in and out of bed. Mom can't even communicate with us. We have no way of knowing what she is thinking. What she wants, or what she would like to do. We sit and hold her hands. That is it.

Mom needs round-the-clock care. She needs things one family can't provide for her.We know. We tried. It is exhausting. It is a strain on marriages.

Mom could not be alone. Ever. She panicked when we went into the bathroom. She panicked when meals were not on time. She couldn't sit through grandchildrens' sporting events. Someone had to stay home with her. And guess what? Babysitters for an adult are impossible to find. So your Mom/Dad stayed with you for a month? How nice for you. Did you have to bathe him/her? Did you have to change his/her diaper? Could you still go to a grandchild's sporting event? Did you and your husband/wife have the opportunity to have dinner out? Did you give up a paying job to care for her/him? I thought not.

I don't write this as a means for alleviating the guilt we feel for not being able to care for Mom. It is a cold, hard reality. We could not do it.

I've heard people suggest hiring in home care. If Mom and Dad or my sisters and I were rich, maybe that would have been an option. But at $112 a day (average cost) and the care not covered by insurance -- who would shoulder that responsibility?

I wish there were easy answers. I wish our Mother did not have dementia. I wish our Father were still here to help take care of her. I wish "well-meaning" people would just keep their mouths shut.

P.S. I should mention I do know a family that opted to hire in-home care. I admire them. I envy their resources. And am impressed by their tenacity and dedication. Kudos to them.

When does one know when they are a grownup

While visiting Mom at the nursing home the other day I ran into one of my former high school teachers. I've been out of high school forty years. The teacher, I am sure, has been retired for quite some time.

Our exchange was brief and I avoided calling him by name. I didn't know whether to call him Mr. or by his first name. The lessons Mom and Dad taught about respecting our elders is forever ingrained in my physche.

But the person who was my elder when I was in high school is closer in age to me than my parents' friend and our neighbors were as I was growing up. When one thinks about it, that 15 to 20 year age difference when I was in high school was much greater than the 15 to 20 year age difference today.

A few of Mom and Dad's friends often told us we could call them by their first  names. It never flew with our parents.

"No, you will refer to them as Mr. or Mrs," Mom would say. A Mom saying "no" always trumped a friend saying "yes."

I was not so insistent on proper titles when our own children were young. Instead I insisted their friends call me by my first name. To me Mrs. McCrossin was a a little old lady who lived on the east side of the state. I am, and always have been, Phyllis. Those who were uncomfortable with calling me by my first name usually referred to me as "Momma Phyllis." It worked for me. However, young visitors  always referred to King as Mr. McCrossin. I'm guessing they have the same problem deciding what to call their former principal as I do deciding what to call a former teacher.

And I still don't know what to call a former teacher.

The delicate art of saying "no"

Mom doesn't talk much now when we visit. There is an occasional "Don't leave me!" Which is heart-breaking. Or an occasional, "This is hot," when her hot chocolate has not stood long enough to be tepid.

Today our oldest sister flew in from out of state. Mom was the most talkative she's been in a long, long time. None of what she said made sense, but we filled in the blanks and answered her as best we could. It was good to see her so animated even if we could not follow what she was saying. Much the same as she can not follow what we say.

But otherwise our visits are met with long periods of silence. I will chatter on about finding a letter from Mom's brother -- written to her on her 18th birthday. The letter admonishes her to be "happy and virtuous." (Although my uncle was a college professor and had seen much of the world, I think he feared that at 18 Mom would never leave the farm and never marry. Evidently he wanted her to be a happy spinster). I also will talk ad nauseam about how our granddaughter is doing in school or about watching our grandson's latest basketball game.

All my chatter is met with the same smile and the same vacant stare. So one has to wonder if she heard, didn't hear, comprehends but can't find the words to respond, or is simply so mad at us she doesn't want to respond.

The staff at the home seem to genuinely like her. They tell us what a "sweet lady" she is and how she always has a smile and will hold their hand when they talk to her. Mom receives excellent care. They are very caring and compassionate.

But I imagine she misses her other home. It was smaller, more intimate and she had more one-on-one time with the staff. But life is what it is and we all have to make the best of situations we don't necessarily like.

During a visit earlier this week we sat in the lounge next to the fireplace.  It was a silent visit but Mom kept looking at a small bag I had made -- I've been sewing a lot lately.

Mom inspected the seams, the lining, the stitching on the decorative button, the stitching on the snap . . . She didn't say anything but kept picking it up and looking at it. I guess it was given her seal of approval as she smiled and said, "Nice."

Mom, as I have often mentioned, was the one who taught me to sew. She was a 4H sewing leader and taught first-year sewing to many young women in Hamilton.

The first-year 4H project was generally an apron. One that tied around the back and had a small pocket in front.  Years ago while going through Mom's cedar chest I found an apron one of my sisters made. It was so tiny it may have tied around my left thigh. I can't believe any of us were ever that small.

I have never found my apron, but I distinctly remember it.

Mom took me to the Variety Store in Hamilton to purchase the material for it. She led me to the table with the bolts of daintily colored calico and told me to choose the one I wanted. What I wanted was a solid purple apron.

"I don't think a purple apron is a good choice," Mom said.

It was as good as saying, "No. I will not purchase purple material for your apron."

So I chose a dainty green and yellow calico print. Mom purchased some additional dainty green and yellow calico print to make a blouse for me and also bought solid mint green material to make a jumper to go with the blouse.

And I made an apron made of daintily colored green and yellow floral calico print and earned a blue ribbon at the fair.

I sill would have rather had a purple apron.

Anger management

"You musn't be angry."

I can still hear those words from my father.

It was one of his favorite lines for us when we took issue with something. It was his way of telling us to stay calm and carry on because to do otherwise was not considered "lady-like." (I believe that may be the first time in my adult life I've ever used the term "lady-like. It's not generally a part of my vocabulary).

While Mom might tell us ours would be the moral victory, Dad would tell us (in his own way)  it wasn't cool to loose your cool. Especially in public.

I know my father got angry. It was easy to tell when he was mad. His eyebrows would kind of  knit together and I swear they actually grew.

Most of the time Dad's "tells" were the only time you knew he was mad. And being the good daughter's we learned to back off. Not that he was a violent man, Dad never, ever was. But is was not expected or allowed to test his limits. It's a generational thing I guess.

There were also a few times when we witnessed his full wrath. Like the time a drunk crossed the center line and sideswiped our convertible. He chased him down the highway (at 110 mph) and when he caught up with him Dad had him pull over and told him to follow him to the sheriff's department. Dad was quite dumbfounded when the drunk took off again. He was even more angry when he drove to the county sheriff's depatment and reported the accident. Dad gave the deputy the license plate number and apparently  he felt the deputy showed a lack of concern. He was pretty hot. Weeks later when no charges were brought against the driver because -- as the prosecuting attorney put it, "You can't arrest a license plate" -- Dad was ummmm, very, very angry and the county prosecutor was forever on Dad's "Shit list."

Dad had two "shit lists." The short-term one and the forever one. I believe my sisters and I all made  it to Dad's short-term list at one time or another.

But Dad's admonitions for not getting angry were geared to help us. Because because lets face it . . . displays of anger only serve to make one look like an ass. And that type of reputation is hard to live down.

I actually witnessed a co-worker punch a computer monitor this week. Yes. He punched a computer monitor. This same gentleman has thrown pens that have bounced off equipment and pelted another co-worker in the head. He's pounded himself in the head and he's kicked wastebaskets.When we talk about this person at work it is always with a smirk. Few people mention what a good copy editor he is.

It is only now I realize how right Dad was. You mustn't get angry. And I'd like to add to it . . . It only serves to make you look stupid. . . or worse.

Mom update: Mom is walking more every day. I make an effort to drive to Holland to visit her every day. She still isn't talking, but she has won the hearts of the staff who always make it a point to tell us what a warm, caring person she is. But then we all knew that.